The Black Day Angel

Posted: December 6, 2012 in Fictional Parables

Black-Angel-85641By Julie Griffin

Where did she go?  From whence did she come? And what would she say or write next?  He shuddered at the thought of heading home to a black, dark house.  Thoughts of being all alone haunted him daily.  His best female friend was engaged to be married and the reflection of the thing stared him in the face all of the time.  Frightening to think that he would soon lose her forever.  She was getting married to a normal man. On top of that, his whole life situation was a mystery.

Even a neighbor, a glad survivor of divorce lived a full and happy life.  She joined a book club, enlisted with a dating club, and had even been gardening.  She had a wall of piranhas built right into the living room wall.  And before the necessary reconstruction ~ She designed flowerbeds shaped like piranha which lined the front yard on either side of the walkway leading up to the door. She painted the living room blood red.  She placed a molded Irish crucifix over the fish aquarium to guard them. The glass sheeting that followed, days of plaster and drywall removal mounted up to nothing in consideration of the hours of installation, and finally the transporting of the delightful and active fish.

The visage of the demon who lived in his house whenever he left ~ Marred and ugly, he entered the room.  He strolled through his living room as he had always done for 365 days out of the year. He walked past the enclosed indoor pool.  It was the middle of the depression, and yet the aspiring actor had work.  He wrote.  Plays.  Short stories.  And even the occasional love letter to a debutante’ for a wealthy courting gentleman here and thereFor these he got top dollar.  Fifty bucks a shot.  After all, preppy Dublin college boys knew everything about how to hold your gin martini and make a bully investment.  That and holding the stiff upper lip.  But nothing about real love and romance or pumping gas and baling hay, or how to carry your liquor after you drank a lot and still speak right to others.  To write flowery dissertations that spoke to the heart, was Lannie’s pleasure. Besides, this during a time when entire families lost their homes and lived on the streets starving to death.

The mystery of the invisible woman, so much on his mind, but some days the past romance lingered so on his mind as well.  True, he was a horrifying detective.  He never even guessed she was sick. And so, it was that she had died, and even though she had lingered for awhile, this was now forever. Working two jobs just to make it and then the nervous breakdown.  He hoped that wherever she was now that she was happy. How did she manage to go to this heaven he thought to himself?  But it was true.  Everything shut down.  No trace left.  He stared down at the box he held.  She had left without her present.

Acts 6:1-7 “The Hellenists, foreign Jews, complained against the Hebrews, Palestinian Jews, “… because their widows were neglected in the daily distribution.” A neglected widow means neglected children without a husband/father to depend on. Jewish women, as many women in developing countries today, received no inheritance and were therefore totally dependent upon their husbands.” [Portion for Orphans]

The demon darkened his door, and he told the man that daily he darkened the church of diligence.  He truly wanted to believe the trait a form of faithful religion.  The demon often prepared huge feasts in the middle of the night and left the dirty dishes for the man.  The man would wake up at times to find saucers thick with fried eggs and hot sauce, jar enchiladas and baked steak, half eaten baked potatoes (double butter and sour cream) spread out evenly over  the shiny white tile countertops.  Each tile came from Spain and took at least several years to finish. While he neglected details and facts, the demon did not.

Baked.  Polished.  Painted.  The man began to gain weight.  But he had lost a lot of weight over the past few years.  The stress of the economy.  The race to stay young and fit and spry.  He needed to eat. So, he actually began to look good again.  He worried about his image constantly, which drove him to drink liquor straight from the bottle.  He remembered the first time.  It was just a glass or two with ice water and a lemon and a lime to relieve the stress.  He slept like a child that first time. Then he added a green olive. It was all over after that. One day he looked down at the olive and noticed that the green flesh shone.  The light hit the marvelous vegetable and after a certain angle, he thought of the way the original tender plant curved and  hung on foreign trees.  The thing was life.  It was actually incredibly amazing.  Someone or something had to of created this.  It did not just form.  It did not just make itself.  He considered the ways.  There was not one time in his life when he had ever seen anything, let alone a tree just appear out of nothing.  That would be a miracle.  Those kinds of things were saved for Jesus Christ.

The dark man came.  Chilly thing, that.  The banshee held no candle to the being.  It reminded Lannie of the hours he had spent in the orphanage as a child.  No one wanted an older boy, and fortunately, he was more fair as a grown man than the plain boy he once knew.  The cold inner moors of the damp orphanage frightened Lannie, who remembered hiding under the stairs while muffling his little sobs.  He hid other things too.  A toy he got from the Christmas drop-off.  Chocolate.  A letter from a fellow orphan who left.  A tiny used lion made of soft felt fur and a real fur mane dyed rusty gold and only about five inches high.  This he placed in the mouse crack in his closet.  But they kept moving him around to different rooms, as older children kept coming into the orphanage left and right lately.  He had always been the oldest before this as long as he could remember.  He thought of people who desired to love tender and round new babies, creatures with rosy cheeks and priviledged smiles, he knew nothing of.  No one wants a plain boy, let alone an old boy he thought to himself.  And as he watched as if a movie, knickered legs curled up under a white and starched suspendered shirt, he saw smug families before lovely open chimney fires rocking newborns next to an Irish wolfhound curled up at the feet.

Rí Séamas Bíobla (Cambridge Ed.)
Is é reiligiún Ceimice agus undefiled roimh Dia agus an tAthair seo, Chun cuairt a thabhairt ar fatherless agus baintreacha ina ghalar dúnta, agus a choinneáil unspotted féin as an domhan.    James 1:27

“I think we may have an opening at two, Mr. Murchadh,” stated the receptionist.  His first positive response for a try at his first try at professional play acting ever.  He felt mystified, yet positive.  The Dublin Theatre.  The Old Lady Says No.  He did not know his part yet, and he did not care which part he played.  The important thing was that he got the part when times were tough, and the soup lines long.  Lannie himself had known the sadness of soup lines.  With no known mother or father or family of any kind to fall back upon, he had taken the liquid dol as well as all of the others who had  no family.  It was at the theatre that he first came to life.  It was at the theatre the at first noticed the dark man who stood off to the side flush against the rich, red velvet curtain. Lannie did seem to notice the aura of the man.  His fourtieth consecutive week of the theatre play, he had been working  hard, drinking much and sleeping little.  He needed the barbituates to keep awake.  The liquor to go to sleep.  His life a constant go,  he had no time for reflection.  No time for thinking.

The theatre cleared of all people, and the final gas light turned down, he  followed Lannie home that night padding twenty feet behind him matching his footsteps.  And not a sound he heard.  Since then he always appeared around the home of Lannie, always watching and creeping and looking. He stood in the midst of the swimming pool as fog and full moon poured around him.  Once Lannie felt the rush of a strange and melodic cold permeate as the creature drew near.  But like a ghost, he was mostly felt and rarely seen by Lannie.  And Lannie had his own private fits at the midnight hours.  Fits he never remembered having.

The demon of the dark man did things.  There were a group of people who ran a little church down the way.  A family church.  But like some churches in small towns, the church members all stayed within the group, and shunned everyone else.  Lannie, already a lifelong orphan had known enough shunning to supply a hundred small congregations like these with their ample fill of prejudicial hatred for people not like them.   Lannie, who never fit in anywhere, made his own path in life.  He had had his share of fickle people who say come join us one day, and push you away the next ~ Only to ask you to come again at the convenient time for them.  The dark man appeared at the back of the church one day.  That was all it took.  Several of the entire unsaved congregation, which included about every last doggone one of them, who always put hands over faces and whispered about him when they saw him in town ~  Clutching eachother at the sight of dark man, they knew the fear of God for all of their nasty ways.  Many of the group actually got saved by the real Jesus, as opposed to the religious Jesus that day.  Therefore, they demanded not for people to forgive  them.  And wrote no book trying to use clever public relations to flip their sins around.  But rather fell on bended knee in repentance begging for the mercy and forgiveness of almighty God for themselves and for their own souls.

One time Lannie woke up in the graveyard face down, a soft and sloppy rain pouring down upon him.  He turned his face sideways and kissed the mud.  He who loved his solitude gathered himself up, and while dripping from the brown mud mixed with the oily rain, he saw her.  The angel whose presence of black velvet dust stood as a forboding here.  She stared at Lannie, and the pools of his eyes revealed a great sadness ~ Centuries of time and celte oceans of fisherman long since drowned at the same time.  The dark man, obviously acted as the lone presenter.  The black day angel meant more.  Lannie watched a sheer slip of a ghost come up behind the angel.  The ghost, a man and his father from another place and another time.  And he knew. That fatherless children grow up to live like Lannie.  The man opened his mouth to speak and the veiled substance of his inner being simply hung there.  Lannie felt the spirit of the words the man was saying.  And a thousand years of regret from beyond the grave filled him.  Only a momentary apology.  He knew now his life would change, and that his life had a chance to be good after all.  It was the gesture that meant more than the words.

To Be Continued…


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