She Talks to Angels

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She Talks to Angels

She paints her eyes as black as night, now
Pulls those shades down tight
Yeah, she gives a smile when the pain comes,
The pains gonna make everything alright


Tim Dodds wasn’t a bad sort, as God botherers go. While his church ran a general outreach programme to the homeless, Tim had a personal mission to the young people living on the streets; where possible he reunited them with their families, or at least found them a place of safety. Every one he met had a different story, sometimes tragic, sometimes just a misunderstanding that was easily resolved. Of course, he had regrets for those he couldn’t reach, whether by circumstance or suspicion, but each strengthened his resolve to carry on. And then he met Kiera.

Kiera wasn’t a girl as most of his congregation would have recognised; she was tall, a bit of gawky, spoke in a whisper, and was quite obviously a boy for all the clothes and make-up — and there was a lot of the latter. She hadn’t been on the streets long enough to pick up a dependency, although Tim suspected it was a ‘punter’ who had put her in the A&E department where he first met her. Kiera’s life wasn’t a tragedy — yet — with a little help she could become the woman, God - if not nature - intended. His church might not agree, but he would bring them around — he was Pastor, after all.

She nursed her coffee cup, taking large bites from a sandwich Tim had bought her. The black eye had almost healed, as far as he could tell, under the layers of heavy eyeliner, and concealer. Was it vanity, he asked himself, to go hungry for appearance’s sake? It was one of many questions she had prompted since their meeting. Did the cross around her neck have any special significance for her, or what was the crumpled photograph that spilled from her pocket occasionally. That she should have been born a girl he had no doubt, every mannerism, her smile especially, said so. It was a cruel trick, on Kiera and on her parents; she told him they were dead, that she had run away from a care home, which he knew to be untrue — in hard fact at least.

“I want you to have this,” Tim took out a mobile phone from his pocket, “it has my number in the memory. I even loaded a few MP3s I thought you might like.” The phones had been donated by a network, older models that they couldn’t sell, pay-as-you go with a few pounds credit. As well as his own number, Tim loaded Kiera’s parents’, and a message from them asking their child to come home. There had only been one major flashpoint, not violent, and her father was distraught that she had run away. Tim firmly believed that things were not so advanced that he couldn’t effect a reconciliation.

“You’re not so bad,” Kiera said, rewarding him with a beaming smile, “anyway, got to go.” He watched her leave the greasy spoon with a few short, bouncing steps, before taking their cups back to the counter.

“Seems a good kid Rev,” the cashier pooh-poohed his attempts to pay, “always on the house for you.”

Outside someone was shouting, but there always was, so Tim took a few moments before turning. Kiera had sunk to her knees on the pavement, doubling over until her head almost touched the ground. He was at her side in seconds, kneeling in the spreading pool of blood.

“He tried to take your phone,” she held up her fist, tightly clenched around the mobile. Tim took it from her, his fingers trembling as he dialled ‘999’. He slipped an arm around Kiera’s back to support her, and she leaned back into it, revealing the bloodstain spreading from her chest. All for a phone, a phone no one was supposed to want. He’d as good as stabbed her himself.

“Ssh sweetheart,” he whispered, there’s an ambulance on its way.” She was shaking, a trickle of blood running from her lips every time she coughed.

“They called me Kiera,” she whispered, “in the message, on the phone.” A deeper cough wracked her young body, but she didn’t seem to be in any pain. What was taking the ambulance so long?

“I know,” Tim said gently, “they love you, and want you home, no matter what.”

“They called me Kiera,” another, larger cough, brought a torrent to her lips. She carried on talking, but so quietly, only the angels heard her.

*********

I hadn't planned this one at all, but the idea came to me while listening to the Black Crowes' 'She Talks to Angels'. The song is about drug addiction really, yet there was the kernel of a tg story in there. It's also very beautiful... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a76FeV2-Dw

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Comments

exquisite tragedy

laika's picture

TALKS TO ANGELS tells a lot of story in few hundred words. And it's a good example why Ceri is one of my favorite new authors at BCTS- the depiction of flesh and blood individuals (deftly, economically) rather than cliches. An outreach preacher who's a real christian not a sanctimonious buffoon or a damn-near impossible saint; a t.g. street kid who's not a cynical burnout; parents perhaps estranged but not warped and unreasonable; An act of kindness (loyalty to that act) bringing about a misplaced sense of priorities,
at the exact wrong moment. "They called me Kiera"........ Oh sh*t that was a tear jerker!
~~~hugs, LAIKA

ah dear

kristina l s's picture

I have to agree with Laika... Ceri, you're good. A few words to paint a story and show the bare bones of a couple of lives and the pathetically senseless acts that too often damage them. A lovely story and yet it's not at all. Still a glimmer of hope and joy amidst the grime and fear. Real... which is not always easy.

Kristina

I was afraid it was overdone

I'm a fairly sentimental person, though not given to showing it, so I thought it might be too 'on my sleeve'. It had a happier ending when I first thought of the story, but it would have been too close to 'Persephone', and the tone is perhaps closer to the song that inspired it. I have to admit that I was more than a little choked up as I wrote the last few lines, so I'm glad that came through in the writing.

You always do it.

You're right there's a few typos in there but I can see why. Very good, very sad, but very impressive. I know what you mean when you say it made you cry because a short short (non TG) I wrote a couple of years ago never fails to do the same to me. Not sure if it's a good thing or not.

as always, thanks.

Geoff

Powerful

joannebarbarella's picture

Sometimes we have to have a tragedy.Well done,
Joanne

Yet Beautiful...

This is a MASTERPIECE!! She Talks to Angels is wonderful, I found it enchanting as it could happen to anyone in real life. I have heard of people being killed for less. This story is a true work of art... I can't praise you enough for writing this stery based off of a song.

Jayme Ann

The answers to all of life's questions can be found in the face of a true friend

The answers to all of life's questions can be found in the face of a true friend

Hard Ending

...and all too real, sadly. All the senseless things in our lives, and we just muddle through as best we can, pretending that we have some degree of control.

Beautifully written.

Well done

This was well done Ceri! A sad story perhaps but told with a gentle compassion. I like it!
hugs!
grover

So sad

But so beautifully told.

Wow the timing

This morning I learned of a 15 year old who was murdered in California for being feminine and wearing makeup to school.The kid that did it was 14 and shot him in the head at school.It's been haunting me all day and I look at as two losses.I was discussing it earlier with someone that wanted to string up the 14 year old.If I were to desire to string up anyone it would be the person that put that type of hate in a kid.You really did a great job Ceri.A torn up Amy

Young Mr. McInerney

laika's picture

Re: this news article. His daddy taught him well, didn't he? I can't even hate the kid...

About a decade ago this adorable little three-year-old girl who lived next door called out
through the window of their apartment to me, "Hi Faggot!", only to be yanked away from
the window and---from the sound of it---swatted. Gee, I wonder where she got that?
~~~sigh, Laika

Maybe from her peers in the

Aljan Darkmoon's picture

Maybe from her peers in the neighborhood and at school? That’s where I first encountered profanity, epithets, and other such things that were never expressed at home.

Why?

joannebarbarella's picture

Only 448 hits as I write. That's disgraceful. This story deserves ten times that. It's the best piece of short prose this year on BC.

A very poignant tale

Angharad's picture

exquisitely told.

Cofleidiau,

Angharad

Angharad

thanks everyone

BCTS never fails to surprise me. I'm more than happy with the number of hits and comments, as until I came here my stories weren't attracting anywhere near this level of reaction... I didn't think however that this little story would be my most popular yet (shows what I know) :)

The linked news story is desperately sad - one life ended, another effectively over, and it doesn't seem that either had a very good start either.

Beautiful

Thank you, that one had me crying.
Michelle

Simply superb! Well set-up,

Simply superb! Well set-up, and well told, especially considering how few words were used.

- vessica b

How sweet and sad...

Andrea Lena's picture

...and wonderful. Thank you!


Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

She Talks to Angels

Is a bittersweet story of what could have been. Me, I think that the SRU Wizard made sure that Kierra'a voice was heard and that scoundrel pay.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

Please pay attention!

I'm sorry, but I meant to write this yesterday and I got stuck at work! I saw this and I feel compelled to say something!

No wizards! No magic!

“They called me Kiera,” another, larger cough, brought a torrent to her lips. She carried on talking, but so quietly, only the angels heard her.

Her voice was heard because she survived just long enough to tell the pastor that she got in touch with her parents, and that they called her by her name. You missed what was meant to be ironic and tragic in your rush to comment. Slow down!


Barely Memorable Belle

Where Are You, Ceri?

joannebarbarella's picture

I just read this again and wept again. Ceri, please write more. You haven't done anything for ages and we need you on this site,

Joanne

Ceri, Please write more.

I just read this and I agree with all the others and just had to add this to my favorites list.
*Hugs*
Bailey.

Bailey Summers

This brought tears

This story reminds me of how I felt the first time my mom used my name. No matter how bad I'm feeling, remembering how I felt when she did that always brings tears to my eyes and a smile on my face.