Night, the Hardest Time to Be Alive, By Melissa Yuan-Innes

Editor's Note: Love in its many forms can uplift or curse those that find themselves under its spell. It is a theme that resonates in fairy tales set in the past and the present. We hope you enjoy this unique tale as much as we did.

His mother never permitted his father to sleep.

She would prod him awake with her elbow or kick him in the backs of the knees.

In fairness, Da never wanted to sleep. He rigged up his own devices to keep his eyes open, including a bed of nails. He shivered under a thin blanket when the snow lay three feet thick outside. He tried not to lie down because if he did, he said, he would never wake up.

"Why?” the boy asked.

Neither mother nor father answered. All their energy seemed devoted to this strange task of keeping Da from sleeping. Ma made a meager living taking in laundry and doing embroidery. Da worked in the fields when he could, but he took a chill more often than not. His hacking cough kept all of them awake for weeks.

Until one day Da fell asleep under thin blanket.

"Da?” Michael said when he came through the door. He forgot the dirt crusted under his nails and the straw in his hair from weeks of harvesting. He saw only his father curled up by the dying embers of the fire. And his mother curled over his Da, weeping silently and saying, "I killed him."

Michael ignored her. He shook Da's shoulder. Da rolled toward him, but his eyes had finally closed. Da's chest lay still, his lips slightly parted.

"Da?” Michael repeated, in a higher voice. He wanted to tell his father about the harvest, that he had made enough money for wood and a bit of meat this winter.

Tears dripped from Ma's face on to Da's blanket. "I killed him. I cursed him," she said.

Michael finally held his mother while she blurted out some story about how she had been a nymph, had given up her immortality when she married his father and bore Michael. But when she caught Da cheating on her, she cursed him. "You promised me you would love me with every waking breath. So be it. When you fall asleep, you will die."

Michael patted her shoulder. Poor Ma Ondine. Raving. In his head, he calculated how much a funeral would cost out of his new earnings. They would only have to feed two mouths this winter, but they could no longer count on Da's small income, either. He would have to take care of the family now.

Generations passed.

Ondines loved and cursed their mates. Michaels grew old before their time, caring for both of them. The cycle repeated without breaking.

Always the Ondines. Always the tragic loves.

And always the Michaels. If they survived their parents, they swore to work and never love anyone except themselves.

The 21st century Michael loved women. He loved the way they ducked their heads and looked sideways up at him through their hair. He loved the way they walked, undulating in front of him. He loved the way they smelled.

And there it ended. His parents had paid too high a price. He would not make the same mistake.

Little did he know that his parents continued watch over him in every incarnation. And with each generation, the power of their combined love and protection grew stronger. They were his guardians. You might call them his seraphim.

If only their power could overcome the curse.

"Abarka. Thank you.” Nina Chowdary flashed the final slide of her presentation, showing herself and the rest of the medical team surrounded by Gambian doctors and nurses and children. Dr. Nina's brown skin contrasted with both the ebony villagers' faces and the rest of the pale Canadian complexions. "From all the children in Gambia who can now smile, Abarka.” Nina massacred the Gambian words, but language wasn't her forte. Surgery was her strength. Microsurgery, to be precise. She'd been the only resident invited on the medical mission and she'd taken up her precious vacation and study time to go.

While everyone applauded, a waiter handed her a glass and she downed it, realizing too late that it was champagne instead of water. She choked on the bubbles. Her microphone picked up the noise, and everyone laughed.

She cleared her throat and croaked, "I'm not worried because if I have any airway trouble, about 90 percent of the people in the room know how to resuscitate me."

The crowd laughed some more.

"Sorry," said the waiter.

She took a closer look at him. Blond guy, young, carefully spiked bangs. Deep blue eyes. A good body hidden under his uniform. But not a good waiter, although the champagne flute would've given the alcohol away if she'd been paying attention. "Don't worry about it--” She glanced at his lapel pin--"Michael."

And that was that, except when she snuck a cigarette at the back door at the end of the night, she spotted the waiter tossing out a garbage bag. When he turned, he called, "Hey. You're a doctor. Don't you know those things are bad for you?"

"Terrible," she called back, waving the cigarette at him. "Don't turn me in."

"Hey, I'll just make you choke on some champagne again."

She took a last drag and stubbed the cigarette out. "Good. That's one way to make people laugh and donate more money."

"Glad to be of service."

Their eyes met across the night air.

What surprised Nina the most was not that he turned out to be nine years younger than her, a barely-legal 21, or the fact that he'd actually read Emmanual Kant, which was more than she could say. It was the way he always closed his eyes in bed, squeezing his eyelids shut as if to block out everything except the sensation roaring inside his body.

"Open your eyes," she coaxed him the third time, the tenth time, the twentieth time, until she finally gave up and figured there were worse things, like premature ejaculation. At least this way she could make whatever faces she wanted and he'd never know.

Until he left her ten months later. "No offence," he said. "I just don't do this.” He gestured around her sky blue bedroom, ending at her window, left ajar to permit the May breeze inside.

"You don't do windows?" she said, even though her heart cracked in her chest.

"I don't do love. Sorry.” He closed the bedroom door softly behind himself. Two weeks later, she heard he'd taken up with a high school student who catered with him. Young. Not too bright. But with big tits and a tinkly laugh, someone who might not do love, either. Or, if she did, he'd saw the heart right out of her chest.

Well. Nina was a surgeon. She knew how to put things back together. She hoped.

For weeks, she wrestled with strange dreams. A man who commanded her not to give up, that she and Michael were so close to “the beginning.” A dark-haired beauty who warned Nina that she was in danger of sealing over her own heart. “Forgive, start anew. Love.”

Both the man and woman looked so majestic and yet hauntingly familiar in the shape of their eyes, the lift of their chins, or the twist of their lips.

Sometimes, in Nina’s dreams, she heard a rush of wings.

Twenty years on, a blond man in a tuxedo offered Nina a flute of champagne at a fundraising dinner. She held up her glass of water, barely glancing at him. "I've got a drink, thank you."

"Plus ca change," he said, and gave a crooked smile that tugged at her memory.

"Michael?” she said, sloshing her water in its glass. She examined his broadened cheekbones, the looser jaw, the threads of white mixed at the temples, and his filled-in build. He still looked hot, damn it. But then, he'd only be about 42. Prime time for men. Unfortunately.

He bowed his head. "Dr. Chowdary."

She held out her hand as if he were an old acquaintance. Which he was.

He shook it, holding on a little too long. His palm felt cool. "You look great."

She shrugged and pulled her hand away. "I do all right.” Plenty of her colleagues had opted for Botox, filler, or a face lift or two, but Nina had resisted everything except laser therapy so far. "How are your wife and kidlets?"

"I don't have any.” He swallowed the champagne she'd refused and dropped the flute on the tray of a passing server. "Are you wondering why I'm attending the reception instead of catering it?"

She sipped her water. It seemed to hang in her throat before she swallowed it. Somehow, she was always choking around this man. "You were a lousy waiter."

He laughed. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, I'll tell you why. I wanted to see you and make a donation to your foundation."

"Thanks. You'll get a tax receipt.” She signaled the organizers that she was coming.

He paused. "I guess I deserve that. Can I call you?"

She adjusted the strap on her scarlet gown. "Sure. The foundation knows how to reach me.” And then she crossed to the podium with a practiced smile stretching across her face.

He wasn't the only one who had learned to live without loving.

But when she slipped out the back door and saw him leaning against a maple tree, silhouetted in the moonlight, she stared at him.

He raised his head. "Sneaking a cigarette?"

"No, actually. I gave it up ages ago."

"Good for you.” He patted his front pocket with a rueful smile. "I was going to offer you a light."

Just like that, she crossed to his side. Because although she had learned not to love, she also knew how to heal. And she was willing to try one more time. Because everyone knows that once in a great while, a curse, instead of a true heart, may be broken.

Ondine and her lover spread their wings around Michael and Nina—wings too far and to ephemeral to be felt by mere human flesh.

And yet, in that precise moment, all four of them smiled.

Melissa Yuan-Innes is a doctor who loves fairy tales. As Melissa Yi, she writes werewolf thrillers (Wolf Ice), teenagers who save the world by talking to animals (High School Hit List), and the critically-acclaimed Hope Sze medical mysteries. Find Melissa Yi Yuan-Innes on Facebook, @dr_sassy on Twitter, and www.melissayuaninnes.com.

Cover Design: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

Angel Fixed in Stone, By Kim Malinowski

Editor’s note: As we round out the 2011 angels and fairies theme this month, Kim Malinowski brings us a gorgeous and touching fairy tale filled with sorry and beauty and hope. Enjoy!

She realized long after the process had started that angels could be turned into stone. With every prayer, with each tear, her ethereal marrow, her graceful flesh, slowly changed. Without a glimmer of realization, she began creaking into hardness. She did not know to fear, and perhaps would have embraced her destiny had she known. This did not mean she was lost or did not feel divine mercy. She did not know what caused her ache, but she knew she could still hear and help the suffering and even the dying. But it was the mortals’ pleas that caused the damage, as if divine will could damage even an angel.

The humans’ bleeding wounds and their begging for tattered hearts to be mended. Each petitioner’s need calcified her as she loved them. She blessed them in granite. Their prayers cemented her. She crooned lullabies for their salvation. She kissed the valiant off to war. All the things angels ought to do, but none of it was permanent—only her.

She felt the warmth of flickering candles and prayer. Those she blessed wished for her to save them. They wanted her to save everyone in the village, give peace to everyone on earth. She, of course, wished this too. But she could not understand the stiffness of her shoulders or how her heavy limbs sank into the dirt. She focused on her capture. And then, she would forget it with the first rays of sun. She would beat her wings each morning and rise to the heavens. She felt renewed by the sun’s energy and heaven’s grace. She sang songs of remembrance for herself. Then, she floated back to the earth as if on wisp a of cloud at dusk.

The pilgrims waited patiently for her arrival. Each time though, she was heavier, even her breathing was more labored. She felt her pelvis stiffen and it would not loosen, not even during prayer. Worse, each time she rose, it became harder for her to fly. She claimed these people’s fear. She sang away grief and eased deaths. She knew she was burdened by their depravity and love. But after prayer and vigil, the men and women were lighter. They blew kisses to her and sang brightly. She knew that they were better for coming to her. That made any sacrifice she made worth it.

As time went on, her vast wings pounded through fog and blizzard, and even spring petals. But she became rooted. Her feet were firmly planted, as if her toes were mired in mud. She was no longer able to fly. She was cemented by wax, desperation, and the pilgrims’ and villagers’ need for companionship. They needed someone to watch over them and their land. They needed her. And even though bound to earth, she knew she needed them just as much. She had bound herself to the land as much as the divine had.

She blessed the mortals and taught them to pray. She led them gently to forgiveness. She accomplished even the most difficult of tasks—teaching them to forgive themselves. The dead were laid at her solidified feet and she beat her wings and blew her sacred breath over them. She chanted each of them off to heaven. Each prayer, each candle, and especially her tears, made her more rigid. Already, she lived the life of a statue. She only felt like her angel-self when helping someone. As the snows began falling, those who had nowhere to go, huddled by her feet. She offered protection with long robes billowing from her arms. Even her garments began to harden. Her robes covered the needy and the pigeons rested on her halo.

She feared not being able to help. She did not fear being petrified. She knew through grace that even some trees became stone—monuments of time and beauty. Some angels were thought to be carved out of stone. She now knew better. She was becoming a statue. She was transforming into a piece of art. She found solace in the men and women’s worship. She begged for divine love and for miracles. Surely, if a broken man touched her foot, he would become whole or at least have enough strength to press on.

What was prayer anyway? She mulled as another molecule became granite. She was made up of millions of prayers. Wasn’t that art? Wasn’t that divine love and grace? Wasn’t that purpose? Her gown and robes became even more solid. They did not billow. They mocked the gauziness and felt starched, as if carved from a block of stone dragged from quarry. They became as much of as a statue as the wearer.

Still, there was work to be done. Women and men, even light-footed children, came for blessings. She waved her hand over their brows. Then later, she could only wiggle her finger. Then even later, only her nail trembled. The people could feel her power and blessings, though. More candles appeared and there was such love and devotion. She knew the divine had brought her here—to this place, to this town, to this plaza.

She knew love destroyed. She saw it destroy countless marriages. She saw it ransack wronged lovers who begged for reconciliation or revenge. Those lovers that had done wrong pleaded with her for relief and forgiveness. Then, in a moment of solitude, she realized that love would destroy her. It was a solemn realization and a quiet one. She prayed for hours over it. Then days.

She was being turned into granite—or concrete—rock—and these things while hard, weathered. She would be turned into sand and float away to the sea. She understood love had a cost. There was always a penalty. She loved the people and so her wings had stopped beating. Soon, they could not even vibrate. They flew behind her, but as stone. No one carved her, but there she was, becoming art. The divine carving her into love—into symbol.

There were more candles and more tears. So much despair and death and love. All a cycle. She wanted to know if she was part of a cycle? What would happen when she could no longer cry? When her tears would not drip onto wounds and heal?

One day she felt the etherealness leave. Her skirts were stuck in perpetual breeze and her lips did not move for prayer. Her heart felt like it would burst and she prayed. And prayed. And prayed. One last molecule. Gone. She was stone. Carved by the One himself.

She felt no beating heart, no flapping wings… And even in her rigidness, a sobbing woman lay broken at her rooted feet, begging, calling out—and she cried over her. This one was the last tear. Tear ducts calcified. And then, the woman fled, healed and light—almost floating like she had once done.

She felt a tear try to fall and felt a thunderous crack. The fracture started at the nape of her neck—all of the humans’ penance. The crack caressed her neck with all of the love she had given and received. Her stone head fell into time. It broke into sand or was buried or carried to the sea. Her dust was held in pockets for good fortune. She blessed believers as they touched her legs and brushed palms across her skirt. The people were desperate for miracles and she performed many.

She gave and she gave. Divine energy flowed from her rock form. Particles disappeared into ether. Pilgrims came to collect dew at the soles of her feet. Beggars felt safe by her and were given enough for dinner each evening. She could do that much at least. She still stands guard. Headless, but caught in beauty—a rock of salvation and refuge. With each tear that is wept at her feet she knows that, in time, she will become a whole angel, and she will once again fly.

***

Bio: Kim Malinowski is a lover of words. Her debut poetry collection is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Her chapbook Death: A Love Story was published by Flutter Press. Her work was featured in Faerie Magazine/Enchanted Living and Eternal Haunted Summer. She writes because the alternative would be unthinkable. Visit her website at http://www.kimmalinowskipoet.com/.

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Image by Kayla Koss for Unsplash.

Angel Card, 6-29-20

My original angel cards are still missing, but I dug  some old timey ones up in an old cupboard. They are guardian angel cards. They have a Victorian angel theme, which is perfect for this year of angels/fairies here at EC.

As I explored a while back, I’m only picking one card from here on out. And today’s card is ready to be revealed. The back of it is of a traditional child angel—very big in Victorian times. She seems a bit full of secrets to me, but maybe you see differently, which is part of the fun of looking at these Rorschach test-like cards.

The card face has an action kind of guy—a real old fashioned soldier looking like he’s ready to report for duty. He has a very “be prepared” vibe. You know he has a fantastic Swiss Army knife. I guess I see him as a reassuring doer of good deeds.

What does the handbook say? That there is a lot of work to be done, so make a plan and work a plan, fast. This is a card for folks who love action, have confidence and get the job done. A real multi tasker card.

This card seems like an indicator of exciting, fun times, but hard work will be needed, as will a positive attitude. What do you see?

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Eager to send something short to EC for publication? A chance is coming up really soon. Look HERE.

Angel Cards, 6-24-20

Hi Everybody. It’s angel card time, and things are different today, again. As I noted a couple of weeks ago, HERE, three cards are a lot to work with each week (using the original deck), for a return that doesn’t yield more eyeballs on stories and poems on EC. (As for stories and poems, HERE is a link to a 2017 Diamonds and Toads issue, just for fun.)

I am using “ Angel Wishes” cards today. They are straight up positivity cards. I still can’t find my usual cards. So I’m using these.

Here they are. There is no handbook for them, but the box says they exist to provide guidance and encouragement. Since they are small and uncomplicated, I did go ahead and pick three. But when I go back to the old ones, I’ll just do one at a time.

The first one could be an “Ask  Your Angels,” suggestion. Or perhaps you believe in a higher power: God, the Cosmos, the Universe. As for those of you who are nonbelievers, I’d love to know if you feel any potential from this. Is it negative, positive or nothing?

The second card is, frankly, a little too sweet for me. But I hope some of you might get some comfort from the idea that feathers signify that an angel is sending you love. I am aware that in angel culture, floating feathers are taken as a very possible sign. Or is it just a feather to you?

The last one about dreams—have you ever had a sense that your dreams came from other people? I have. It’s usually been after someone has died and just wanted me to know he or she is okay. Do dreams hold a lot of significance for you? Or are you rolling your eyes? 

Let me know. Tomorrow is Throwback Thursday, so come back to see what I’ve chosen.

P.S.: The window for submissions opens again on July 1, at 12 a.m., and closes at 11:59 p.m., July 3. Times are Eastern Standard Time. HERE are the submission guidelines.

Angel Cards, 6-2-20

It’s Angel Card Day, and this week I decided to focus on good things happening in life. The cards can’t predict what will happen, but they can give you food for thought about changing your circumstances to have a better life. I think of them as being a little like a Rorschach test. An angelic, positive Rorschach test.

I shuffled the cards, then picked three, randomly. Take a look at these cards, which are currently face down. Now think of a specific issue in your life you’d like help with to create a good outcome. Fix it in your mind.

Which one speaks of the past, present or future with this issue? Most of the time when you do a three card spread, the past, present, and future go left to right, but I’m freestyling this because it’s not a personal reading. You don’t have to sense them in the order they are laid out. The third card from the left, for example, may mean the past for you. Just go with your gut and jot it down. Also, you don’t even need to think about the past, present, and future. You can skip that and just think about creating good circumstances in your life with the three cards.

OK, I’m turning them over.

Look at the cards, which are in the original order, but remember, your past, present and future may have presented in a different order. Also, please remember we are not doing divination here. My reading is to get you to think about your life. I have no special powers. (To learn more, go HERE, and read the first five paragraphs.)

The “If You Believe” card is about having faith in yourself that good things can happen, no matter how difficult life can be. And for a lot of us, life is very difficult right now. Because of that, I think, just leaving your mind open to the possibility that good things can happen is a positive step. 

As for the book about the cards, it says that good things can come to you if you believe, and visualize the outcome you want. It also says to “set aside all negativity,” and I’m not sure that’s good advice. (It also discusses the Law of Attraction.) Humans need to look for negative things—it keeps us from making dangerous choices. Again, I say be as positive as you realistically can be and good things will very likely happen. Or, try to reframe events from the past that you’ve viewed as negative to be less so. That could help with spotting good fortune now and in the future.

As for the card’s image, there’s a very beautiful angel, with snakes and wings above her head. She’s also holding symbols of sacred geometry. I freely admit to knowing next to nothing about sacred geometry. So an explainer is HERE.

The next card makes me very happy, because it encourages meditation, and I’m a meditation teacher! I can tell you that taking time to clear your mind and gently focus on your breathing will make both bad and good situations better. I have been through some difficult xperiences during the last 18 months, including the death of my mother. Meditation helped me more than I can possibly say. But it also helps me enjoy the good things in life even more. Rather than go on about this, check out my Facebook page, Kate Meditates. There are lots of posts about the benefits of meditation. And tips.

The handbook says that this card means that you should not just try to solve things intellectually. Instead,  go “within through meditation or inner spiritual work.” It also says to look to your nighttime dreams for answers.

The image is fairly simple, showing a woman in a meditative position at the feet of a beautiful, radiant angel, who appears to be giving the woman answers.

Finally, there’s the card that just says, “WAIT”! Well that’s certainly straightforward. This card is part of a timing group within the deck. The way I see it, it’s telling you that you need to look before you leap, and maybe you should remember times in your life when you didn’t wait for something good and as a result, it didn’t happen. Good things can definitely come to those who wait. Take positive actions, but be patient about results.

The handbook cautions a little patience. The angels need time to word on what you want, and you should also be aware that what you want can affect others, and that’s why it will take some time.

The image is certainly emphatic. The angel is looking kind of stern and is wielding a sword. There are flames around him. So, I’d wait patiently if I were you. (I actually think the image is a bit over the top.) what do you think?

That’s this week’s cards. How did they work for you?

Thayer Angel Inspiration

For those of you who want to submit fiction to EC in 2020, don’t forget that there’s an angel theme. Just look right under the header of this site for more information. (Nonfiction must be fairy-tale themed but does not need to be about angels or fairies.)

To help inspire you, here are some of the famous Thayer Angels, whose cool, yet strong and spiritual angels have made them notable for over 100 years. Thayer was an artist and naturalist, and he had some fame during his own lifetime. He was a well regarded portrait painted and a keen bird enthusiast, which probably explains why his angels’ wings are so pleasing to the eye. 

Thayer spent his life in a house full of women, and revered and respected them. He was no keen appreciator of sexy images of women, which may be why there is an androgynous look to many of his angels. Some of his children posed for the angels, which also explains the look timeless innocence many of his angel paintings display.

An eccentric and a man of many interests, he was also the father of camouflage. 

Angels and camo. There you go.

Here are the paintings. Learn more of Thayer’s story HERE.

A Year of Angels, By Kate Wolford

“In heaven, an angel is no one in particular.”— George Bernard Shaw

I do believe in angels. I think they are a pedestrian occurrence in the universe. “No one in particular,” as in average people like me, can and do access them.

There. I said it.

(Bear with me while I get to fairy tales through the angel path.)

And while I’m coming out of the closet as an angel person, I’ll admit to believing that reiki really works, and that sensing “vibes,” good and bad, is a real thing.

I’ve been sensing vibes my whole life, but turned down the ability in my early 40s, after having become exhausted by sensing the life situations and emotions of hundreds of students.

So what do angels mean to me? As much as I love gorgeously winged humans of classic paintings and illustrations, I think of angels as positive energetic forces in the universe. Ones that humans can tune into.

The whole reiki, vibes, and angels thing works together for me. It’s about access something beyond the seeable quotidian. It’s energetic and quite mundane, but in 2020, most people don’t see or accept that yet.

I think there’s so much we don’t know about science and the underpinnings of the universe that what I perceive as vibes and angels are likely totally natural forces that humans have yet to understand. But maybe we aren’t as far behind as we seem. Check THIS out.

As for reiki, if you don’t know what it is, you can find out HERE. And to those people who think energy healing is just placebo, I say, awesome! Placebo is a real thing. Find out more HERE. 

But back to angels. I freely admit that my angel beliefs came after what has been the worst year of my life. My mother died in October, and that’s only one of the very difficult experiences I had in 2019.

As I was absorbing the loss of my mother, I came across a Udemy course called Complete Guide to Guardian Angels. Ros Place, a “Guardian Angel Communicator” was the teacher, and in her very sweet, knowledgeable, straightforward sort of way schooled the hell out of me on various aspects of guardian angels. It’s a very layered course.

I didn’t buy into everything Ros said, because I rarely buy into everything anyone says, but she taught me a lot about accessing my angels. I recommend her courses, and I don’t receive any benefit from saying this. Learn more HERE.

And honestly, I do feel better when I ask my “guardian angel” for help. It’s perfectly okay with me if you think I’ve lost it. Or that early senility has set in. The fact is, though, that when I meditate on my guardian angel, I feel a real sense of a very specific, helpful presence. The day improves.

Whether you believe or not, I hope you’ll enjoy fiction on EC about angels this year or maybe submit one of your own original tales.

You might have an angel set a series of magical events in motion. You might have an angel only briefly touch down in your story. Or maybe a fallen angel could create havoc for your fairy tale heroes.

You can stretch the notion of angels to include fairies. And you can do the same things with them as suggested above.

By no means are my suggestions the limits of what you might do. You might make Cinderella’s fairy godmother an angel. Or make the seven dwarves seven putti. I can’t begin to suggest all of the possibilities. Just let your mind soar.

Really important: Angels come in all shapes and forms in different cultures and belief systems. And you may want to write a story free of any religious connotation. That’s fine.

EC is always open to stories about all kinds of people and cultures. And angel culture around the world is fascinating. Whitney Hopler writes on the site Learn Religion: “Hinduism calls each person’s spirit guide an atman. Atmans work within your soul as your higher self, helping you to achieve spiritual enlightenment. Angelic beings called devas guard you and help you learn more about the universe so you can achieve greater union with it, which also leads to enlightenment.” So if you’d like to write a story about a Hindu angel, give it a go.

As excited as I am about angels this year, know that this is a one-year theme and that your non-fiction essay submissions do not have to be about angels. Although if you want to relate creative nonfiction about a personal encounter with an angel, have at it.

I have a lot of submission rules. You absolutely need to read them before even starting a submission. They are HERE.

As for me, I’ll keep asking my guardian angel for guidance. As yet, my GA has no name and really doesn’t look like anything to me. Not even a ball of energy. Maybe you all will help me fill in the details.

Note: Although I don't believe that angels are literally like the ones in classic art, I love the look of them and you should feel free to describe them that way (or not) in your tales. All images here are by Edward Burne-Jones.