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An angel This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

she sits there... probably on a chair similar to those crummy swivel chairs
the nurse in your high school had, red, or green perhaps. the kind that have
no back support whatsoever and are impossible to type at a computer or even
talk on a phone for longer than 2 minutes at a time with.

on her desk, if you can call it that, are various materials she's brought
with her. maybe a few sticks of gum, a cup of coffee.. almost guaranteed
a notepad, the yellow kind, and a pen, though i think she prefers a pencil
so she can bite the eraser - she just goes through all the pencils very
early in the week, and last night was a Wednesday. she'd probably just ran
out of pencils and had to turn to pens.

it's important to note, that these pens, these pencils, the coffee, the gum,
the notepad.... they're not ordinary..... you see, they're special - for a
a special person. the same way a poet uses a pen, or a typewrite, maybe a computer
for their sword, that gum is her flaming sword fighting off evil and rescuing
the lost souls of the world. that coffee is her shield, and the pen is her
replacement steel plated armour for when she's run out of silver armour made
of rubber.

as the night goes by, she picks up that flaming sword and puts on that armour
over and over again as lost angels like myself repeatedly tap on her shoulder
repeatedly. we line up all in a row, and just as she repairs the wings on of us,
another one, like myself are ready to be prepared.

every once in a while she has to let one of us go, or send us to God. and some
of us get a little greedy, poking her on the shoulder with rude requests like
"may i have some of your gum?" "can i listen to myself talk?" "i'm a drunk
and i'm gonna slur my words and call you names as you try to fix my wings"

thats when she wishes she had a nice piece of silver plated armour to chew on.



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