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August 4, 2023


Ori Fienberg

They kept their angel chained to a post in the subdivision.  Its song was so beautiful, all the birds left town in shame.  The flowers first flourished, and then wilted in its radiance.  Even so, little leaguers rubbed its molting wing tips for good luck. If it really wanted to leave, it would. The others they'd chained had.

Some haunted tourist traps, attuned to the adulation of crowds on pilgrimages. The head of a pin was, in fact, too small a residence, but hundreds set themselves up in disused and rusted locks across the country, or drifted along ley lines during the day, and then dwindled, cocooned between the blossoms of morning glories for the night. Still more found comfort at the bottom of bottles of spirits and then were inadvertently poured as shots.

No one knew if they had plummeted to earth with purpose, to herald an end of times, or some new beginning.  They carried no papers, had no citizenship.  Sometimes they spoke in whispers, other times great horn blasts. Humanity having found no use for them, they glowed bright and brighter, till all was light.