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“Get in there,” he growled, jabbing the angel in the soft spot where the wings meet near the small of the back. Each jab darkened the willowy purity, the shimmering, glowing garb that swaddled the creature.

The angel replied with the same incomprehensible bark, a high-pitched squawk that ended on a high note, as if it were a question, just like all the others he had kidnapped in the last year and kept in his basement.

“Marawww, Marawww….” over and over, like the mewling of a hungry cat anticipating its regular meal.

Angels were created before the fall of man, before language became sundered, before the signifier was rended from the signified. So they, the angels, had no “language” as we know it, no names for things. Instead they communicated through a staccato morse code – an incessant and interminable series of squeaky sounds honking out of their slight, pretty mouths. The sound increased in frequency when they got confused or scared. Like now.

This new one was really on a roll. As he shuffled in to the cage the others joined in the racket. Most of the angels no longer had the energy or enthusiasm they once had. Some were hoarse, others croaked. Disgusting things.

No. 1 didn’t look like it would survive much longer in captivity. The scabs on its back where he had sawed off the wings had grown discolored. They had been oozing a foul, viscous discharge since Thursday last.

He had already mounted the wings. They were in his shop. Now he was just looking for a good spot to hang them. The angles were all in various stages of disrepair. There was no. 3 standing in the corner slowly pounding its head against the bars at regular intervals, like a child who had been deprived of motherly affections. No. 7 scratched itself absently. No. 11 curled in to the fetal position. Some had begun to shed, their remiges curling and drying like Autumn leaves.

Most of the angles’ flowing robes had taken on the pallid color and threadbare consistency of a paper bag that has been dropped in the street and trampled by countless filthy feet. They hung loose and drab, like an old man’s skin. The luminescence that once radiated form their being had dimmed. They were pathetic, repulsive and beginning to smell.

“Marawww, Marawww….”

He pulled on the chain attathced to the bulb and left them to their macabre crooning in the dark. It was time for something new. He retired to his garage to fetch some tools. He wanted to see if he could get these things to make a different noise.

Date Written: July 05, 2004
Author: scoop
Average Vote: 4.5385

07/9/2004 Benny Maniacs (4): Aint we lucky we got 'em... good tiiiimes! I loved the idea of this one, but thought it could have been more concise with perhaps a reversal or two.
07/9/2004 John Slocum (4): You've crossed a line here. I cannot forgive this. And you never get anywhere with your new "drummer."
07/9/2004 qualcomm (5): i give it a five for idea
07/9/2004 Will Disney (4):
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko (4):
07/9/2004 Mr. Pony (5): I agree with the Lerpa. I also agree with Benny, but apparently I'm a nicer person than he is.
07/9/2004 qualcomm: i like how blatantly mean-spirited and provocatively intentioned this thing is. i want to print it out and tack it to the first secretary's cubicle i see with angel pictures adorning it.
07/9/2004 TheBuyer (5): Last last graph makes me grin. I knew he was keeping them around for a reason.
07/9/2004 Moe-Ron (5): I am impressed with the idea. I agree it coulda been shorter. But I like that we don't know how he catches angels. So how bout a fiver....?
07/9/2004 Litcube (5): Potent.
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko: This short is an answer to every annoying alt-country song.
07/9/2004 Ewan Snow (4): I hate the idea of angels (and that people believe in them) so much that I didn't think I'd like this when I saw it in the queue. Making fun of them seems beside the point, considering their nonexistence; even locking them up and cutting off their wings gives the idea of angels too much credit. But, as with Master and Margarita (whose characters debate this very point in the first pages in relation to a play about Jesus) this grimy fable works and is entertaining, despite the big lie on which it is founded. So feel free to enjoy this short with your family this summer as harmless entertainment, but just remember that THERE IS NO GOD AND THERE ARE NO FUCKING ANGELS!!!!
07/9/2004 qualcomm: i'm like ewan, only i hate the idea of angels just a bit more. just a skosh
07/9/2004 Ewan Snow: DUDE!!! I HATE IT THE MOST!!!!
07/9/2004 Moe-Ron: thanks, ewan, for allowing us to "feel free to enjoy this short."
07/9/2004 TheBuyer: Ewan; what if there IS a God, and she doesn't like swearing?
07/9/2004 qualcomm: look, it's just a skosh, guy, let's not argue. okay? good stuff.
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko: Douches
07/9/2004 Ewan Snow: FU, Dylan.
07/9/2004 Ewan Snow: Moe-ron, you're welcome. Buyer, FU.
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko: Ewan, I wanna come over and make candy tonight? Please?
07/9/2004 Ewan Snovv: oooo, i only have one "#1 Dad" apron, so i don't know, danko
07/9/2004 DyIan Danko: That is so gay, dude.
07/9/2004 Ewan Snow: Was that a Dylan imposter too, or just a Ewan imposter?
07/9/2004 TheBuyer: 4.5 Really. Smart move TheBuyer. Heh, at least you know who's boss around here :P
07/9/2004 Pix (4): Grrr TheBuyer why are you logged into my Browser? Grrr Snarl, stay in Netscape where you belong for christ sakes!
07/9/2004 DyIan Danko: No, it was really me. And you're gay. And this fucking public computer they installed at Mullen's has the slowest fucking Internet connection I've ever used.
07/9/2004 Jon Matza (5): remiges
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko: Yes, The Lerpa is at it again. If I beat him at this game again, he'll start throwing another sandbox tantrum. Also, i'm busy.
07/9/2004 Terrence: oh "the Lerpa", why don't you imitate ME also, as right now I am touching yr rock-hrd cock and dreaming of making such sex with "The Lerpa!" IT isnot fair to only imposter others and not Terrence honey, so cmon lets party sweety, its "SUMMER 2004!"
07/9/2004 qualcomm: krugmanlike, you claim victory, as if merely saying something makes it true
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko: Obviously you don't understand Krugman like I understand Krugman.
07/9/2004 Ewan Snow: Why do you keep using Krugman as your example? He's less guilty of what you describe than many op-ed fuckers.
07/9/2004 qualcomm: no, he's as guilty. he's george will of the left.
07/9/2004 qualcomm: also, dylan likes him
07/9/2004 Craig Lewis: Yeah, why don't you pick on fucking Safire or Brooks? Or even Maureen Dowd, who gives good politics but dreadful prose. It's an election year, Lerpa! What the fuck?
07/9/2004 Dylan Danko: Ther Lerpa is unfamiliar with those people.
07/9/2004 qualcomm: his question was already answered by my comment directly before it
07/10/2004 John Slocum: Just re-read my first comment on this one. Sorry Scoop, thought it was The Lerpa. You're pretty dark in there, arent't you?
07/10/2004 Mr. Pony: Ewan, why don't you believe in angels?
07/10/2004 Ferucio P. Chhretan (5): Such pretty, pretty imagery. Makes me want to believe, just so angels can be tortured like this.
07/12/2004 TheBuyer: scoop; I this weird dream last night that kind of a cross between this short and ... I don't know what. I had a flying bicycle that didn't really work but I managed to cripple an angel and force him to fly me around. There's more but it had nothing to do with this short. Anyhow, thanks. It was cool.
07/12/2004 scoop: Did it make the noise in your dream, TheBuyer?
07/12/2004 Mr. Pony: [censored] aren't real. Please stop talking about them.
07/12/2004 TheBuyer: Ya, that's what made me wake up thinking about this short. ick
07/12/2004 Pix: HA! You sure it wasn't just me talking in my sleep again?
07/14/2004 scoop: Snow: Prompted by your comments on this short, I began reading The Master And Margartia and finished it yesterday. I am better for it. It has quiclky climbed to one of my favorites. I particularly like his handling of the fantastic. So, thanks for that. PS -- you are still a retard, retard.
07/15/2004 Ewan Snow: No, you are!