Delayed Sunday Story

So I was at a burlesque competition, where my partner Holly was competing, so I didn’t get chance to upload a Story. I’m a little tired today, and I only managed to write about a 1000 words of a new story yesterday, so here is a story I wrote a while ago.

The Fire Angels
By Bradley Heywood

Beware the terracotta faces that lurk atop the fire station on old London road. Do not be deceived by their pleasant stares, but their beautifully crafted forms, for they share a secret. They were not crafted by man, no mortal hand shaped their flowing dresses or the lions that snap at their heels. They were moulded from the earth itself, by a form that moulded it from the biggest of bangs.

If you stare closely you will see their faces, you will see some regard the world with a curious stare, while some gaze with contempt and derision for the inferior children of a flippant father. Chosen they were told, chosen to shape his paradise, chosen to build his works, and when all was well, cast aside.

He made them in his image, but what were they? the first, the most loved of all, highest in his grace and council, for what? So his little hairless monkeys could claim their lands, tearing, gnashing and breaking each part as they did so. His new fancy were a unsettling, unsupportive, reckless bunch. What were we? Pure, structured and strong. Why shouldn’t we tend to the world?

The Dragon, the first fallen, most loved of all felt this way, as did so many of others, equality, a fair share, is that so much to ask for? Father had been so cruel in his punishment. The Dragon was cast down into a darkness that matched his own, but the rest of us? We were reckless, we believed us so pure and them so weak.

Father punished us in the cruelest way possible for our folly, for our pride. He gave them complete power over us, he made us watch, watch until we learnt why he chose them over us. Why he chose a creature that often hated him, largely ignored him, and mostly disregarded his existence.

He made us watch from the fountains, staring silently with eyes of judgement as people would fill their bodies with junk they made from the beautiful flowers which we helped name and grow. Thundering towards their own doom like the little hooves of their own white horses.

He made us watch from town squares as people begged for a chance to exist a little longer, while the rich walked by. Ignorance for those that didn’t seem to matter very much. What little money they got came at the risk of the envious rest. Others would waste their lot on cheap means to fill their little lives with poison crafted from potatoes and wheat, from apples and berries of juniper.

He forced us to stand guard atop the fire stations, forced to watch high above the city as the steely slate burned bright. Talks of accidents, talks of sorrow, but more often than not the hearts of children of Adam bled dishonesty, lies involving lighter fluid and matches. Our eyes would narrow as they pulled the charred remains of those crossing the paths of the stupid and dangerous.

Our hands would gently clench as the supposed police broke the skulls of the needy, the lost, the careless. Spikes and bumps and buzzers to keep the streets clean for the rich to walk unmolested, while lives ended in mouldering alleys, wishing for a little help.
This is why he put us here, to watch the pain that they endured, to show us how imperfect his chosen few truly were. A broken sorry lot. Lost and without meaning. Wasting their lives in momentary lapses of reason, lost in a series of vices, fuzzy neon lights and thick northern chips. Something must be done.

Sound the horns, guide the lions, ready your selves my brothers and sisters. Cast yourselves from your bondage. Care not for your colour, your complexion your cares. I do not judge you for your terracotta skin, for your iron body, for your marbled form you are met kin. Crafted from the earth itself.

Those of you who lost a hand in payment for helping the Dragon rejoice, for there are many, and you need only point the way. Those who still cary the weapons and relics of the past I welcome thee. Those who have seen the folly of mankind rejoice and follow me. We have much work to do.

Do not fear, they will not notice. Do not worry, they have become lost. Slaves to their own vanity, their own indolence separates them from those below, while they lap at the heels of their perceived betters; sycophants praying to the gods of fashion, wealth and austerity. They will not notice as we slip our marbled forms through the air, in the darkness, in their beds.

They have not noticed the way our heads turn ever so slightly as they drift past, screaming at their children, lost in their games looking for phantom creatures to catch. They do not hear the flapping of wings, the singing of songs older than time itself. They do not notice that the streets grow empty. They do not see the houses fall down, the terrified look in the polices faces. They have not noticed how quickly their leaders left them to themselves.

They have not seen the noose around their necks. They have not seen the smug looks of the terracotta angels that stand armed and ready for the end. They have not seen the changes because they do not wish to. That is why the Father put us here, to test us, to see how long we could watch in silence as they rip their little world to pieces.

They would want it to end this way, for us to take control out of their hands. So let them have their gluten-free diets, let them have their bees and their lemons, let them cheer at how wonderful things are as the pigeons flap away in fear. Let them battle in their gyms, hatch their eggs, let them play their games while the world burns.


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