I still haven't tracked down the posts I wanted to refer back to as a reminder about this character, but when I do I shall link to them. I either wrote about them longer ago than I realise, or I'm looking in all the wrong months. But anyone, hopefully you remember the guy who was introduced by "I killed an angel in Rio."
The abnormality "You killed an angel." The voice was calm, emotionless, still as the sea in the eye of the tsunami. The face of the speaker was also calm and still, skin lambent and dusky, lips red and spread just enough to reveal white teeth that might just be pointed, and eyes... those eyes were like a snake's. A specific snake as well, one that I'd encountered in a rotting, half-drowned temple in Argentina, practically buried under the Martial mountain range just north of Ushuaia. Well, I say one, but there was actually about eighty of them. "I didn't mean to," I said. That sounded weak. "It was self-defense in a way. It was trying to kill me." "Angels do that," said the speaker. I forced myself to look away from her face. She was wearing a glittery, blue and red besequinned dress that dropped from her shoulders to her ankles and did nothing to unremind me of the snake. She was barefoot. "You sound like you've had experience," I said. Miss Sikh nodded, and her eyes closed briefly: too long to be a blink and too short for me to believe she was getting sleepy. Possibly a message, but if it was it was written in Sanskrit. Which I took one class of, mostly to get the pronunciation right. "Cherubim, Seraphim, and others of the Choirs," she said. "They are... predictable, orderly, and utterly convinced that they are right. They have their uses, but they are difficult to work with." Ah, that was written in English. Hard to manipulate she meant. "The timeless ones," she said, and I shivered. I was well-aware of them, as they seemed to have taken an interest in me. I had spent three weeks in a time bubble on Easter island living through one afternoon because of them. The look of their face when they released the bubble and all the birds had spontaneously combusted had been almost worth it. "They are opposite in many ways, but they are still willful." Ah, there was hard to manipulate again. In bigger letters this time, in case I missed it last time. "But they seem to like you." I vomited. It was entirely involuntary, and I managed to avoid Miss Sikh's dress and her feet, but the carpet in this room (a sort of institutional beige with names of demons woven into it in black) got a little more colourful. "There is an abnormality that needs attending to," said Miss Sikh. She looked at me. "Are you finished?" When I nodded she whistled, a piercing noise like an overenthusiastic kettle on its first day on the job. "I would do it myself but... I don't like getting my hands dirty." I looked at her hands: long fingers, delicate bones, short-trimmed nails and realised they reminded me of a surgeon's. That wasn't a happy realisation. While I stared a jackal came into the room, so thin that its ribs were countable, and started to eat my vomit. My stomach churned, but I fought to keep it from evacuating again. "You can start now," she said, placing her hands over mine. They were as cold as I imagined her soul to be.
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I still haven't tracked down the posts I wanted to refer back to as a reminder about this character, but when I do I shall link to them. I either wrote about them longer ago than I realise, or I'm looking in all the wrong months. But anyone, hopefully you remember the guy who was introduced by "I killed an angel in Rio."
The abnormality
"You killed an angel." The voice was calm, emotionless, still as the sea in the eye of the tsunami. The face of the speaker was also calm and still, skin lambent and dusky, lips red and spread just enough to reveal white teeth that might just be pointed, and eyes... those eyes were like a snake's. A specific snake as well, one that I'd encountered in a rotting, half-drowned temple in Argentina, practically buried under the Martial mountain range just north of Ushuaia. Well, I say one, but there was actually about eighty of them.
"I didn't mean to," I said. That sounded weak. "It was self-defense in a way. It was trying to kill me."
"Angels do that," said the speaker. I forced myself to look away from her face. She was wearing a glittery, blue and red besequinned dress that dropped from her shoulders to her ankles and did nothing to unremind me of the snake. She was barefoot.
"You sound like you've had experience," I said.
Miss Sikh nodded, and her eyes closed briefly: too long to be a blink and too short for me to believe she was getting sleepy. Possibly a message, but if it was it was written in Sanskrit. Which I took one class of, mostly to get the pronunciation right.
"Cherubim, Seraphim, and others of the Choirs," she said. "They are... predictable, orderly, and utterly convinced that they are right. They have their uses, but they are difficult to work with."
Ah, that was written in English. Hard to manipulate she meant.
"The timeless ones," she said, and I shivered. I was well-aware of them, as they seemed to have taken an interest in me. I had spent three weeks in a time bubble on Easter island living through one afternoon because of them. The look of their face when they released the bubble and all the birds had spontaneously combusted had been almost worth it. "They are opposite in many ways, but they are still willful."
Ah, there was hard to manipulate again. In bigger letters this time, in case I missed it last time.
"But they seem to like you."
I vomited. It was entirely involuntary, and I managed to avoid Miss Sikh's dress and her feet, but the carpet in this room (a sort of institutional beige with names of demons woven into it in black) got a little more colourful.
"There is an abnormality that needs attending to," said Miss Sikh. She looked at me. "Are you finished?" When I nodded she whistled, a piercing noise like an overenthusiastic kettle on its first day on the job. "I would do it myself but... I don't like getting my hands dirty."
I looked at her hands: long fingers, delicate bones, short-trimmed nails and realised they reminded me of a surgeon's. That wasn't a happy realisation. While I stared a jackal came into the room, so thin that its ribs were countable, and started to eat my vomit. My stomach churned, but I fought to keep it from evacuating again.
"You can start now," she said, placing her hands over mine. They were as cold as I imagined her soul to be.
I haven't read this yet, I just saw your comment and had to go looking. Amazingly I hit on the right month first try:
https://daily-writing.blogspot.com/2017/08/wednesday-august-23rd-2017.html
Greg - okay, now I've actually read it :P
While I don't recall all that happened with this guy, I have a strong feeling that things are continuing apace for him.
As in, not good and getting worse...
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