Anselm leapt from the hood and swooped behind Mags. He reached around her and placed a hand on top of hers, then as easily as if he were lifting a flower from a vase, brought Maribeth Harris out of the mud, shoe and all. His body and wings enveloped the two young women, which sent a momentary shudder racing through him when they fell through him to the grass.
Mags felt a blinding sensation the moment Anselm’s hand had touched hers. Something frightening, for those few seconds, heretofore outside her sensory experience in the physical world. Frightening, yet joyful and comforting. Star hot, yet frigid. Soft, yet diamond hard. Falling backward through the angel’s chest and abdomen, the warm waves of Tahiti met the fury of Cape Horn’s. Her vision tingled from the shock of a flashbulb erupting, her ears picked up Brahms and AC/DC, intermixed and lovely. Sensible. Shockingly impossible.
The angel stepped away, uncertain in his universe of simpler makeup and emotions for the first time. Accomplish the task assigned, but be wary of coming into contact with the fruit of the tree. He shook the uncomfortable feeling away, but he wondered at its power, the alluring aspect of it. He thought of the Angel Of Light.
(c) Patrick Sean Lee-2010