Writing
The Angel, The Pen
Sadie felt her heart sink, or at least a sinking where her heart had been. “And diapers, teething, learning to walk, being a teenager, all over again? What’s the alternative, if I decide to stay unborn?”
The angel smiled happily. “Oh, that’s easy. Eternal bliss, just as you imagined when you used to pray at night.”
“Tell me, what exactly is eternal bliss like?”
“Eternal bliss is just that,” the angel said. “Happiness. Bliss. Day after day . . . happy . . .” Its voice trailed off.
Park Bench
When Celia first saw him, he was sitting on a park bench reading a newspaper by the light of a small lamp attached to the peak of his flat tweed cap.
He was bulkier than was her preference, but she thought, as one ages, standards are lowered, just a little, and she moved forward, and adjusted her long black cape.
The hair peeking from under the cap was grey and curly, she noted with satisfaction, medical opinion to the contrary, she was convinced hair and virility were connected, and virile men were so much more delicious.
She decided to use the lost bird approach.
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