Call to Action
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Shy Watson
I’VE STAYED SILENT LATELY about the angels, sick to death of idiots and their inquiries regarding haloes. Before you ask: no, they don’t. Angels are unlike their coloring book counterparts. To visibly manifest on our plane requires extraordinary effort. Their frequency, which is so much greater than ours, must first plummet. To see an angel is to see sparks. When I have been lucky enough to see rather than feel, hear, or, yes, smell one, they have appeared as a sort of spectral pulsing, massive as a room. Think summertime sparklers, jellyfish without jelly, an electrical outlet when prodded with a fork. The smell isn’t so much of fire as it is a terribly clean, kindling-less burn.
The angels, usually in pairs, precede tragedy. During my first encounter, I was a child. I awoke from the scent of their heat. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I was fearful. At the foot of my bed, wings wider than my dresser, the first one sparked and quivered. Go outside, it said without saying. The language of angels is an etching. The receiver’s mind tickles as if on the verge of a sneeze. Then the message transpires, soundless and indisputable as stone.
I was left without choice. I didn’t so much “go outside” as it did: my body, controlled at a distance, entirely independent of “me.” It—my child body—freed herself from the quilt, walked through the angel toward the dresser (in the mirror I could see my hair standing, from the electricity I suppose, on end), and proceeded to clothe. Within seconds, my body and I along with it were out back on my family’s sprawling lawn, the grass green as grass. And then, as if orchestrated, the earth trembled.
The first angel, now with its companion, hovered before me and above the roiling earth. My bones quaked; my mind jostled, the sonar field busied with the cracks and booms of falling and fallen trees. The angels, though faceless, smiled. Despite everything—the shock, the noise, the destruction of what I hitherto understood as a peaceful and unshakeable world—I was overcome by a sense of calm so powerful I could almost die. The angels, I swear, waved farewell with their wings, and then it was over. The earth was still, and all was quiet before the blaring doppler of sirens.
It doesn’t matter if you believe me. The angels don’t know, couldn’t care to. They are busy reducing their energy as to be of service. I imagine it’s excruciating, the corporeal equivalent being the removal of skin. To be of service and to sacrifice all else for the cause. But they do it anyway and—I’m beginning to sense an etching—they’d like to tell you you can too. •
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Shy Watson is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing & Literature at the University of Southern California. Her short stories can be found in places like Joyland, Southwest Review, Volume 0, and elsewhere. Monson Arts and the Lighthouse Works have been instrumental in their support. For updates on writing and more, find Shy online at @formermissNJ.
The angels, usually in pairs, precede tragedy. During my first encounter, I was a child. I awoke from the scent of their heat. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I was fearful. At the foot of my bed, wings wider than my dresser, the first one sparked and quivered. Go outside, it said without saying. The language of angels is an etching. The receiver’s mind tickles as if on the verge of a sneeze. Then the message transpires, soundless and indisputable as stone.
I was left without choice. I didn’t so much “go outside” as it did: my body, controlled at a distance, entirely independent of “me.” It—my child body—freed herself from the quilt, walked through the angel toward the dresser (in the mirror I could see my hair standing, from the electricity I suppose, on end), and proceeded to clothe. Within seconds, my body and I along with it were out back on my family’s sprawling lawn, the grass green as grass. And then, as if orchestrated, the earth trembled.
The first angel, now with its companion, hovered before me and above the roiling earth. My bones quaked; my mind jostled, the sonar field busied with the cracks and booms of falling and fallen trees. The angels, though faceless, smiled. Despite everything—the shock, the noise, the destruction of what I hitherto understood as a peaceful and unshakeable world—I was overcome by a sense of calm so powerful I could almost die. The angels, I swear, waved farewell with their wings, and then it was over. The earth was still, and all was quiet before the blaring doppler of sirens.
It doesn’t matter if you believe me. The angels don’t know, couldn’t care to. They are busy reducing their energy as to be of service. I imagine it’s excruciating, the corporeal equivalent being the removal of skin. To be of service and to sacrifice all else for the cause. But they do it anyway and—I’m beginning to sense an etching—they’d like to tell you you can too. •
Shy Watson is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing & Literature at the University of Southern California. Her short stories can be found in places like Joyland, Southwest Review, Volume 0, and elsewhere. Monson Arts and the Lighthouse Works have been instrumental in their support. For updates on writing and more, find Shy online at @formermissNJ.