In the Matter of Fallen Angels: A Short Story (3 page)

And it was then that Quinn Parnell got up.  All his joints were stiff and made clicking sounds when he moved and the muscles in his legs were knotted and cramped.  He hobbled over to the coop like an old, old man and supported himself by hooking his fingers in the chicken-wire the way Angie Stoat had done, and he stared at the angel.

And slowly, slowly—though
not compared to how it followe
d the orbit of sun and moon—the
angel lowered its moon-fixed gaze and looked Quinn full in the face.  Its wings quivered, for sure this time, raising a little breeze that stirred the bits of cottonwood seed stuck in the chicken-wire.

How long did they stand staring at one another? Quinn never knew, only that he never ever forgot it and never ever told another living soul.  When he could look away he did, and unlatched the coop with hands that trembled before turning his back and hobbling away on pain-racked legs.  When he reached the farther picnic table he stopped and waited.

There was no sound and no change in the subtle moonlight, but presently a brief wind sprang up and died again, and Quinn waited another full minute afterward before turning around and seeing that the coop was empty and there was no sign of an angel anywhere in Garrett Ainsworth's backyard.

It took a while, but after that things pretty much went back to normal.