Fiction: Angel? (Part 2 of 5)

Part Two of Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. A continuation of Matt Cash’s story: Angel?

I woke up the other morning with wings and thought,’what the fucking Hell am I supposed to do now?!’
Like many of the tales I’ve told this one begins with……Once when i was pissed….

Once, when I was pissed I decided to mix as many different spirits I had in my kitchen in a pint glass. Gin,vodka,rums of white and dark,some
weird dusty bottled supermarket liqueur and some bourbon.
And after a couple of glasses of foul tasting brown sewer water I fell asleep on my sofa watching a Freeview adult channel, failing to maintain an erection so settling with a ‘Come Dine With Me’ omnibus.
All that was my average Saturday night so nothing out of the ordinary there.

On the Sunday morning I woke up faced down on the hallway carpet,again this didn’t faze me as I’m not a stranger to intoxicated somnambulisms. The first thing I noticed when I got to my knees was that my flat had been trashed…..Again,nothing new there,I was a perfect candidate for ‘How Clean Is Your House?’.
But the first unusual thing was that there were white feathers everywhere,which was unusal as I have allergies to eiderdown pillows and feathery shit so try and stay away from that kind of thing.
The hallway looked more trashed than normal,like I’d chucked a mad ‘un. Everything had been upended,picture frames askew,pot plants unearthed, you get the idea.
My livingroom was in a similar state and as I stood in the centre of the room gazing in horror at my hifi system lying smashed in the fireplace my first thought was that i’d been burgled. Then when I looked in the mirror above my fireplace and saw great big fuck-off wings behind me I think was incapable of anything other than staring slack-jawed and making a ‘whaaaa’ noise.


Ok, I thought, after I finished whaaa-ing, this is obviously the DTs. What I need is more drink. I headed back to the kitchen for a hair of the god–dog! I meant hair of the dog.

The kitchen was, if possible, in worse shape than the living room. I closed my eyes and turned away. I would sleep it off and when I woke up the hallucinations would be gone. I hoped.

I stopped dead in the bedroom doorway.

The bed was a mess. The kind of mess that made me wish I could remember what happened there. But the figure sleeping on it was the most gorgeous one I could ever have imagined. No, infinitely better than any human imagination. A single leg of perfect proportions. A hand with long, tapered fingers. The profile of the face of an angel, half hidden by hair the color of wildflower honey. Just the hint of a swell of breast.

The rest of the figure was covered by wings of snow.

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