SEND A PRIVATE MESSAGE
HIRE THIS WRITER
there was a day
the sons of God
came to present
before the Lord,
Time: This afternoon,
about 4 o'clock.
Place: The Hallway going into
the Throne Room of the Lord.
Michael the Archangel,
and Braveheart, a very small angel
wearing a Spurs t-shirt* over his
gauzy cotton robe, and carrying a
cleaning bucket and mop.
Satan called loudly, as he stepped out of the smoking elevator. He paused for a minute to light a cigarette; the lighter was pure gold, and had a big 'S' scrolled across its mirrored side. Satan took a puff and then chuckled: a calm, wide smile across his handsome, shadowed face.
for a three-day.....CONFERENCE?"
Braveheart looked up. He was
in the middle of cleaning up after
one of the newly arrived Saint Bernard puppies; it often took several days for them to lose their
Braveheart's big round eyes
widened, and his small wings immediately stiffened.
What was.....SATAN.....doing here?
And......WHO.... was he talking to?
Suddenly, Braveheart's little cherub-shaped mouth formed a big
'O'; his big brown eyes darted upward toward the huge angel standing at the Archway of the Throne Room.
Michael, the Archangel, hardly ever said a word. Michael didn't have to; he was the biggest angel in the Realm, and had legions of Heavenly Warriors under his command.
Satan blew a long slow puff of
smoke out, and sauntered across
the Golden Tiles: his expensive-looking shoes making odd-
sounding noises in a Hallway where
all the Heavenly creatures were
humbly bare-toed. Satan chuckled
again, and then called in a deep throated, sultry, melodious voice. The barely perceptible fog about him smelled of cigarette smoke, and something dank....and rotting...despite all of his surreal beauty.
Satan halted suddenly, and placed both palms
over his silk-jacketed chest as if he were playing Act 2
in some Earthly play: the trail of smoke delicately burning from the tip of his long cigarette. Satan
threw his handsome head back in a melodramatic air
of supreme tragedy.
Not ONE...word....for an old FRIEND?"
Braveheart dragged his little metal
bucket, as quietly as he could, toward the tip of his plump bare toes. Really scared, Braveheart
stepped silently backwards and into a big pile of warm, fresh-smelling, Saint Bernard puppy-stuff. He chewed
on his plump, cherub-red lower lip.
Wasn't the Archangel going to
SAY......anything? What was the
Satan just laughed: standing there,
feet spread apart, and dark, handsome head slightly tilted to
one side, in a repose of intelligent consideration of his surroundings, Satan took the cigarette out of his smiling mouth and flicked it down, confidently, upon the Gold Tiles,
and stamped on it with a forceful pounding motion of
one elegantly fitted, expensive shoe.
The cigarette continued to burn. Its scent held
the oddly accompanying metallic stench of blood.
Satan cussed loudly to himself, and stamped again
with one slim, long foot.
The cigarette disappeared.
Satan let out another even more abusive curse, but
in far lower tones. A long plume of pungently scented
swirling smoke danced out of his beautifully shaped mouth.
After a moment, he seemed to recover himself:
staring arrogantly and humorously at the Archangel of the Lord. Then he straightened his impeccably tailored silk jacket, and began slowly walking again toward the Doorway
of the Throne Room: his stride casual and purposeful.
Satan paused for one moment again,
and smiled up at the Archangel's
lighted face. He laughed.
"MIKE! What's WRONG....with you,
my heavenly CHUM BUDDY? You
gettin' a little STAGE FRIGHT,
on me? Ha......HA!"
Satan laughed once more, and
continued walking. At the Door, he paused for a moment to
straighten his bright red tie, and pass one graceful hand
over the glossy wave of his thick, blue-black hair; then
he lifted the other hand up, making a slightly clenched fist and rapped on the multi-bejeweled Door. At the third knock,
Satan turned around and smiled up at Archangel Michael:
giving the Warrior a slow, humorous wink. Then he
turned around to face Guard Belizzario, who was standing
on the other side of the opened Door. Satan chuckled.
Long time.....no SEE!
You've put on...an extra..FEATHER...since
I've last seen YOU!"
Belizzario didn't smile. He never smiled. He
never frowned. As far as Braveheart knew, the
Guard Angel never spoke, either.
Satan laughed: standing on the Doorstep,
and putting his hands in the pockets of his
matching silk trousers.
You're gonna let me in......or, WHAT?
Where...in the hell....are your MANNERS?"
Belizzario stepped aside: eyes calmly stoic.
Satan confidently stepped forward.
But, he didn't pull out another cigarette.
The Door closed.
Braveheart let out a big breath. He dropped his mop and little metal bucket, with a noisy clang, and padded quickly, almost tipped-toed, over the polished golden tiles. He almost bumped headlong into the mighty Warrior of the Lord, and pulled on Michael's brightly lit robe like a tethered door bell.
Braveheart squinted up at the
Archangel's beautifully stern face;
its high cheekbones brillantly lit with the rainbow hue of his magnificent halo. Braveheart continued pulling
on the Warrior of the Angelic Host's
"How COME.....ya didn't SAY....
Michael gazed down at the little,
frightened angel; his huge tilted
eyes kind and gentle. Michael bent
down and caressed the plump, damp
cheek of the angelic floor mopper;
his voice lowered to a loving whisper.
"A warrior's strength......
is always meek....
before The Lord."
and his angels
*Braveheart is a fan.
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