Way back when......there were two angels and some alcohol. Young angels, as 'young' as angels ever get. And really, it was quite a lot of alcohol. The land was veritably flowing with it. Metaphorically ( Read more... )

Bartleby's asleep, as he so often is at the moment. He's in a chair, snuggled sideways. It's not quite big enough for him.

Bartleby is cross-legged on the bed, back against the wall, surveying the small room. He hasn't been here for a long time. It feels colder and lonelier than it used to. Not home anymore.

Bartleby's in his room.

My brane is in hiding.

Bartleby is not asleep. He is simply lying quiet and still, eyes focused on not very much, thoughts chasing around inside his brain.

Bartleby is not quite asleep. He's hovering on the edge of waking, and tossing in the bed a bit.

Flashes of images are all he's conscious of. Angels with serious faces clustered over him. He thinks he sees faces he recognises every so often. Mostly it's only pain. The wings hurt the most as they are removed, carefully and cleanly, and he feels blood trickle down his back in warm rivulets. He'd hoped that would be it, wings off, now you're a ( Read more... )

He's back in the bright light room. He didn't ask to be here, he barely even thought it. But he Knows that it's the right time ( Read more... )

There shouldn't be a choice. Not at all. One is Home, one is merely home. And less than half a year ago there wouldn't have been. But now there is. There is a wavering. There are people and experiences and things that he would miss so much, and the thought of never seeing or hearing or touching or tasting or smelling again is painful ( Read more... )

"Come." The longer Bartleby was in Purgatory, the less apparent it was that time was passing. He couldn't judge how long it had been since he'd seen Ishmael. There was time in between, he knew, because things had happened, but it seemed less and less relevant ( Read more... )