In English we were supposed to write a satire and so after three days of attempting to find something to write about, my fingers burst forth with inspiration. Actually, in the middle of dinner I somehow became inspired so I just wrote down key points on a napkin because there is no way I would be allowed to leave the table right in the middle of a meal. But then I wrote, and wrote some more, an came up with something that I am for now calling The Angels. It's supposed to be a satire on celebrity, and you can come and angrily comment and say I don't know a thing about what their lives are actually like, but I will not listen unless your name is Katy Perry or Lady Gaga or some such. Until then, I'm going to rely on my years of watching people, stalking people, reading long (And boring) tomes on how people tend to work and make my own assumptions.
Oh, and part two of this little story is that I printed out my paper, set it on top of my dresser, the default place for 'stick this in your backpack before you go out the door' and then went to bed... and then I obviously didn't bother to notice it this morning. So now I have a late assighnment on top of all those glorious insecurities because literally not a single person in the class told a tale. No, they just exagerated their pet peeves and sounded funny, while I wrote a depressing two page thing about a chick who doesn't even have a name.
Face-palm to the end of the universe and back.
So yeah. Here it is, The Angels, on celebrity.
They
called them the angels.
They
were said to live in the clouds, those exalted, their palaces of stone and gems
shining for the rest of the world to worship. Always there was the talk. At
times it seemed that these people never had a dull moment, never were anything
but wonderful, beautiful, to be worshiped. Their clothes were made of the
finest threads, their eyes shining with laughter and with the sun in all
things. They were said to be different from one another, individual, and
surely, surely they tried to be. They were of course different in small ways,
in the things they produced. The numbers seemed to move in constant flux, but
always there were at least seven. Seven ways to change the world of their
lessers.
Once
a year they called. Their halls lit up, the light shining through the clouds,
and their voice sang out sweet and clear. In those moments, the ones when the
eyes of the world were on them, they truly did seem exalted. They seemed more.
But
for Her there was only fear. She had never wished to be chosen. Some said that
those chosen would become angels themselves, but She knew it to be a lie.
How
could one become exalted when all those above the clouds were lies?
With
wrists bound to an old column, tears began to drip down Her face. Never again
would Her family be Hers, never again would She be able to hope for something
normal, and something good. There was only one life for the angel’s and their
immediate lessers.
It
was not a castle that She found above the clouds. It was a prison, much like
the one left behind, the walls covered in words.
Of
course, She could not read them. She did not yet know their meaning.
They
choose her a guide, and led her through the grungy halls. They were different,
every angel. Each had a personality, a look, hobbies and sides of themselves
that She had never before seen. But they were all, each and every one of them,
broken.
Always
they had been idols, and always they had called. Now She knew why. They were
not the immortals the world may believe them to be. They passed, replaced with
someone much the same. Perhaps this new one wore a cloak, or perhaps they wore
nothing at all. But they were all stuck, trapped by a people who worshiped
them, trapped by a people that would not let them be released, because it would
surely mean that peoples’ downfall.
Yes,
some of the lessers rose. But only because an Angel was dying, only because
everyone knew that they were soon to pass from the world.
She
became a leader of sorts. It was the worst death of them all, one of the
oldest, that no one had thought would pass. She was supposed to last forever.
The one who had been chosen was charged with the task of living up to the
impossible standard.
When
She broke, they all saw it coming.
The
blood was always cleaned away before the next one came, but they always knew.
There were reasons for the coincidences. No death was by accident. All were by
choice.
Their
clothes were not fine, but pictures, pasted over posters that showed the rags
they truly wore. Their lives were lived on the sides of cliffs, always trying
to maintain the balance between being amazing and falling to one’s death. Their
faces were painted, and only in the dark could they cry and smear the brilliant
reds and blues. That was why their eyes shone so. Tears, just held back.
And
always, always, that fervent wish…
To
go.
