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Eraydon
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Eraydon


Posts : 116
Join date : 2009-09-04
Age : 34
Location : Pillaging your kitchen

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PostSubject: Short Story   Short Story Icon_minitimeSat Sep 26, 2009 2:15 am

Hey, if you guys get a chance- I know you are all really busy so I doubt you will- but if you do, I had to write a short story for Creative Writing class and it's my first one and my teacher said that As are rare. He's a really tough grader, everyone says, and I really need an A.

So if you have time to read this, it equals 2 1/2 pages in WORD.

Jessica Peterson
September 28, 2009

The Guardian

Jack leaned back in his desk chair. He was impatient now. The time was three hours before he could truly say his shift was over, and yet, he had finished long ago. He had gone over the book twice, scanning every word and every punctuation mark, checking to see if there was the slightest error in anything. And there had been many. In fact, by the second time he was still not satisfied and had to give it a third read. He had found no errors that time, but he still half-heartedly picked it up once again. At least it would give him something to do. Fourth reading is a charm. Or at least, he tried to convince himself it was so.
Jack Robinson was a thin man, middle-aged with wispy brown hair parted with the finest care right down the middle of his oval-shaped head. His thin fingers, with their short, smooth nails, turned each page slowly.
And he did wish for a more entertaining story; this one hardly piqued his interest. It was short- 337 pages, to be exact- and drawled on and on about angels, and he had long since stopped believing in that nonsense.
The commencement of the novel had started out promising, though Jack knew little about the Fall or any of those Biblical sort of things, and there had been quite a stir between Michael and Lucifer. But as the novel continued, Lucifer was thrown out of the gates on earth and into hell, and began to plot his revenge. Other angels were described as well: Gabriel, Raphael, Lillith, and Azazel- all either for or against Lucifer. Humans came about, roaming and fighting, and angels began to be assigned to them: so now there were even more angels for Jack to remember. These “guardian” angel sorts took the spotlight as they began personal battles against the devils to protect their humans and the plot felt overly complicated, and, well, it seemed all too “religious” for Jack’s taste.
As he turned another page somewhere now in the middle, he had the uneasy sense that someone was watching him.

For 47 years Camael had followed Jack around- not counting Jack’s time in the womb, of course. He did not like to recall Jack’s mother, so robust that it took both Lawrence, her own guardian angel, and Camael to help her catch her balance when she had nearly fallen down the stairs with Jack, which had unfortunately happened quite a lot. And since his birth Camael had stuck to Jack like a tongue to a frozen winter pole- which Camael felt he could understand quite well since he had seen Jack do so when the man was five.
The relationship between the two was quite an unfortunate one. Jack Robinson no more believed Camael existed any more than he believed in a sanitary McDonald’s or a perfect piece of literature. And yet, Camael enjoyed Jack’s company, though he had to admit that there had been more than one time when he had jokingly asked God to assign him a new ward (perhaps not as jokingly as Jack would have liked had he known).
Jack’s current office was a small one, but Camael enjoyed his time there immensely. At 8 o’clock sharp Jack would arrive at the front doors of the building with his hair combed evenly, his tie straight, and his black leather shoes freshly polished with laces tied in the perfect bow. Camael would follow behind with his ruffled golden hair, gleaming white robe, and bare feet. Jack would pull open the door and walk in down a long hallway that turned left, straight into his little editor’s office. The walls were pale brown, the carpet purple and gray, and the desk a dark wood. Jack would seat himself down in his black spinning chair (sometimes Camael would do a quick spin when the man had his back turned while digging through a filing cabinet) and begin his work for the day.
While Jack read or typed, Camael would hover over his shoulder, pointing out mistakes with a long, fair finger and clicking his tongue when mistakes were just “too” obvious and yet Jack missed them. But, Jack was only human. He delighted when his ward paused to look back at something the angel had just pointed to or had just shook his head at in dismay, and Camael was certain the man had caught the error because of him.

This particular story that Jack was now editing intrigued the angel. Camael was certain that all of the other angels would have had just as much fun poking at some of the human’s imaginative ideas about his kind, but for the most part, the author was accurate. Of course, Gabriel did not have blond hair, but that seemed to be the current trend of the times. It no longer seemed proper to write or draw the arcangel with black hair, but then, Camael could not remember a time when they had drawn Gabriel with black hair. And this particular writer had made Michael a mere six and a half feet, which was certainly not right, as the archangel was well over nine.

Camael became so intrigued with the writing from the human perspective that he leaned forward too much and forgot to make sure that he stayed unnoticed. It was at that moment that Jack paused in his reading and turned his head warily to glance over his shoulder. But Camael had swiftly corrected his distraction and the feeling left Jack as quickly as it had come.
Jack turned back to his novel, shaking his head at the thought of supernatural beings watching him. But who could blame him? He had read the novel nearly four times and that was four times too many. The whole idea of being watched constantly was going to his head. He gave a yawn and dropped the stack of smooth, white paper back onto his desk. He suddenly felt very tired and when he looked at the clock ticking faithfully on his wall he was surprised to see that it was a mere five minutes until he left the office for the day. He closed his eyes.
Camael started. A sense of a possible incident to come. A vision. The scene unsettled him and the very hair along his neck prickled uncomfortably. Jack certainly could not leave on time. He had to be late. The angel scanned his eyes over the tidy room and finally slipped over to a pile of papers stacked neatly on top of the desk. He gave them a quick shove and they fluttered abruptly into the air and around the room and across the floor.
“Damn,” Jack swore, spinning around and trying to catch several of the escapees. He felt irritated, certain that he had balanced them carefully. He glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He half considered just leaving them scattered about the office, but the thought of a mess when he arrived the next morning was too unpleasant, so he began to gather them quickly, although out of order. “I’ll just… arrange them at home,” he grunted as he stacked them quickly together and laid them into his briefcase. He stood. 4:05. Five minutes more than he wanted to be at work. And he had places to be. Well, perhaps no place to be but home, but that hardly mattered.
He briskly left the office building, taking pace a little faster than usual to make up even the five minutes he had lost. Bus 69 was always on time. If he missed it, it was a long wait for the next one, and he had things to do.
Camael stepped beside him, vexed. He, on the other hand, could not be happier if his ward missed the bus.
He glanced at the other guardians passing by, hurrying alongside their human wards.
And then Camael saw him. The man was dark, bearded, and dressed in a fine black suit, carrying a thick, heavy briefcase. His guardian ran his hands desperately though his hair, shouting warning to the other angels, “Do not board the bus!”
But Camael knew they were already aware of what was going on. The dark man stopped at the bus stop, hand curling ever tighter around his briefcase. Bus 69 was now in sight.
Jack picked up his pace and grunted, swinging his briefcase alongside him. Bus 69 pulled up to the stop and Jack’s pace broke into a run. Camael glanced around desperately, for anything that could stop him. And then he looked down. The briefcase. Of course! The angel swept his hand out over the front and with a sudden click, the briefcase sprung open. A gust of wind sent the papers scattering along the sidewalk.
The doors of the bus opened and on stepped the dark man with his briefcase. His angel sorrowfully followed the man aboard. Jack swore angrily as he desperately attempted to gather the papers before Bus 69 drove away. But it was no use. There were hundreds of them and even with several others around who stopped to help, he could not gather them in time.
Jack furiously stuffed paper after paper into his briefcase as the bus closed its doors and rolled off down the street. He had missed it! Now his schedule was terribly off and he blamed that damn story of angels. But Camael did not mind. He did not need thanks.
And then came the explosion. It was unlike anything that Jack had heard before. Cars swerved away. People screamed.
And Jack paused. He felt almost as though his heart stopped. Bus 69 crashed into the side of a parked car and came to a halt. He could see flames and smoke rising in furious pillars from the shattered glass windows. His eyes lowered slowly to the white paper curled tightly in his hand. And he began to think.
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