Nick Cicchetti | 1 min read
She is fastened to the background by a great eye, swaddled in feathers, a dense, downy eyelid lazily pooled around her iris. Half a dozen wings fold out of her, groping at the air. Feathers jut out and scrape at each other like flared and broken scales. Languidly, she accompanies him downwards, strikingly upright, a stiff goblet of feathers stalking after him as he falls naked through the air, a single particle of humanity cast downwards like a drop of paint. The wings that brought him here have slid off, molten by the soft yellow sun and formed by blasts of heavenly wind into the Seraph that is now suspended in the open space above him. There is a buzzing discomfort surrounding the circumstance, some great magnetic disparity between the man and the god. Electrical forces pulse against one another, pushing the man farther into the abyss.