He sends Dark Angels…

I saw the Old Man once as I parked by a river at midnight. I sat there on the hood, as I do, with my boots on the bumper and leather keeping the chill at bay. It was quiet and so was He. I looked over and He was there, looking at me. His words came to me on a breeze in the fall leaves. An owl called on the ridge above.

You’ve done pretty good, kid. Better than you think. I know you’ve felt alone, but you weren’t. I’ve sent angels. They’ve had your back. To some I send bright envoys with golden wings and brilliant robes, but you don’t need those, do you? You wouldn’t trust them if I had. No. You get the dark ones with grim eyes and knowing grins. My best for dark nights and stayed dawns. Hands dirtied, like yours have been, on missions that don’t always turn out. I think that’s what you’ve needed. You’ve even seen them if you’ll think back. You’ve felt them pushing you.

“You’re going to be okay. And I’m going to keep sending them. It suits you.

And with that He slapped me on the back of the head, knocking my ratty old ball cap askew. When I looked up He was gone. That same owl sounded again, and the breeze was still.

[JK]

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Prompted Writing: A day in the life

It was Saturday on a weekend when he wouldn’t see his daughter. He rose as usual on such days, unable to sleep and tired of laying there in thought with his arm stretched across an otherwise empty king bed. His dog Gus, a German Wirehaired Pointer, was curled up and napping on his old leather moccasins beside the bed and rose with him. They both stretched, exhaled, growled, and padded through the house side by side. Sunlight crept in through the blinds, and in the low light he put water on for coffee, leashed his companion, and went outside to greet the cold.  Frost sparkled in the bright sun and the grass crunched under their feet.  Neither of them wore shoes.

He pressed a double espresso, added a bit of hot water, and settled in his chair.  He had cracked open a window and Gus was at his watch, keeping all safe from anyone who dared walk the sidewalk.  Bird songs came in through the window with the chill air.  Winter birds, gray and nondescript with unremarkable voices.  He liked unremarkable as much as the outstanding.  A journal laid open on the side table, with a fountain pen and a few scraps of paper inserted here and there.  Fragments of poetry and sentiments about love lost and found and lost again littered the pages.  As he sipped the syrupy black americano, he scratched his graying jawline and drifted in thought.  Preoccupied with the concept of stories, life as a story, and he settled in a paler shade of melancholy and smiled a bit.

Nausea from a bloodstream of little more than caffeine and last night’s antidepressants caught his attention.  It called for a breakfast with some substance to it.  Cohones.  After chilaquiles with salsa and more coffee he felt the rotten frailty of his humanity fade and normalcy return.

Sitting still was a skill he was working on and mostly failing at, so he dressed and went to the garage to look over the mess he had planned to clean up and reorganize that day.  When he raised the door and felt another draft of cold air and the warmth of sun on his face he knew that it wasn’t a day for cleaning.  He opened the gas cap on his motorcycle, a lean, black Triumph, and peered inside.  He turned the key, opened the fuel line, and thumbed the starter.  The British twin roared to life, settling quickly into a pounding lope as it warmed up.  He pulled on his jacket, a scarf, and a helmet, and sat on the saddle.  The scent of gasoline and leather were today’s aromatherapy.

He closed the garage, kicked it into gear and eased out onto the highway with no direction or plan. He’d bought the bike as a present to himself. Fly fishing gear and that motorcycle were the two things he’d allowed as bits of life that were just for him without practicality whatsoever and as an outlet after his separation and divorce.  It was supposed to be a diversion from thought, but as it turned out riding was more often than not the backbone of his best thinking.  He composed poetry and prose there, stopping at cafes to jot them into journals.  He worked through demons that had tortured him for years, doing his best to banish them with the exhaust fumes behind him on the road:  divorce, guilt of adopting his beloved daughter and light of his life though his marriage had failed, his inability to open up to others, brushes with darkness and near death.  Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not, but somehow punctuating thoughts and daydreams by hanging off the seat into a hard curve wasn’t a bad way to process life.

After a couple of hours of winding his way over rural highways he turned back towards town.  It had warmed up and turned into a beautiful afternoon.  He felt good.  On a whim he turned towards his favorite local craft brewery – a place he frequented to read and often write while soaking in the din of the crowd around him.  Their doors were open to let in fresh air and he ordered a stiff IPA, took out his journal and pen, and sat on a table outside.  He sipped his ale and scribbled a few starter verses of a poem about his season on a western wildfire crew while his motorcycle engine cooled nearby.  The tick of the engine and exhaust pipes after a ride always made him smile, and he found himself lost in no thought in particular.  He closed his journal, leaned back and let the sun shine on his face, and he knew in that moment, that he was going to be okay.

(Response to a daily writing prompt via WriteYourselfAlive:  Narrate a day in your life as part of an autobiographical novel.)