“Every time you hear a bell ring, it means that some angel just got his wings.”

~Frances Goodrich~


Gong, swoosh, dead. “Next!” Gong, swoosh, dead. “Next!” Gong, swoosh, dead. “Next!”
The line of nameless faces slowly made their way toward the anthem of their demise.
Gong, swoosh, dea—
“Mommy?” a voice called from somewhere among the crowd of onlookers.
“Next!”
“Yes, Michael?” Another voice chorused.
–ng, swoosh, dead. “Ne—
“Why do they ring the bell?”
-xt!” Gong, swoo—
“Why?” the mother pondered, eyes trained on Heaven.
-sh, dead. “Next!”
The women turned away from the grotesque scene in front of her, taking her six year old little boy into her arms. “Why?” she repeated as she slowly began to flee the horrid melody that stained the land, her land…her France. “I suppose it’s so they know.”
“They?” The boy asked laying his head against his mommy’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart. Ba-dump…ba-dump…ba-dump. “Who are They?”
“Well silly,” two words, two steps, “They are angels.”
“ANGELS!” One word, one nod, “really?”
“Yes. You see, when they ring the bell the angels know where to go to pick us up. That’s why they always ring the bell at church.” She said pointing at their sanctuary a few miles east. “Until the bell is rang the angels have no wings, but when they ring that bell…”
“When they ring the bell?”
“When they ring that bell,” she continued her voice dropping to a whisper. “God gives the angels wings and they come to whisk us away…to whisk us away.”
Gong, swoosh, dead. “Next!”

“Mommy?” a voice called from somewhere among the crowd of onlookers.
“Next!”

“Yes, Michael?” another voice chorused.
“Next!”

“Mommy?” the voice repeated slowly.
“NEXT!”

“Yes, Michael?” she answered again.

“…you’re next.”