‘We are, all of us, vessels.’
‘You’re a pisshead in my bar and you’re tab’s run dry, fuck off.’
He gazes, bleary-eyed at the foul angel swimming before him. ‘You sing a song, but you’re out of tune friendo. Pass me that there bottle and let us wet your whistle.’
‘I own that bottle, dipshit, I can drink from it whenever I like.’
‘A choir most foul, it saddens me to hear it. You’ve fallen from grace.’
The angels face shifts and melds with the neon lights behind it. ‘We all know who’s fallen from grace around here, John. Aren’t you tired of this?’
‘God’s children don’t tire. We must always be open. Always ready for his gifts. We are vessels.’
Darkness takes him into a slathering pit of sweet nothingness. The angel sighs.
Paddy Dobson
11th November 2021