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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1630035
Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Religious · #1630035
The Public Relations Agent For The Pope and An Angel Live In Troubled Times.
1956

I readjust the cuffs of my shirt, or trie to. I hate wearing long sleeves over another set of long sleeves. They never agree with one another.
I don't have time to go the restroom and correctly readjust the shirt.
Anyway it's not like it's a hundred in Rome today. Why shouldn't I wear this stupid tweed jacket.
"Jesus"
I need to stop saying that. It was a bad habbit before I worked at the vatican.

Long before

I hide in a dark place, not hard to find here, in order to run my fingers through my feathers.
Which ever one of my brothers created the tick shouldn't expect mercy.
I heard Jazar complaining about the tiny parasites, but he has white feathers.
He need only to look down to find them, in the dim light, out in the open.
But my wings are black, and so are these little bastards.
So now I sit in the dark, running my hand all the way down my pelt feeling for bumps.

1956

"How about his glasses?"
He probably needs them to read. I think it, I don't say it.
"They're fantastic. I love the round frames, was that his choice?"
The two church officials give each other an excited look.
The poor man, Pope Pius XII, far older than my granfather, sits back in a tiny modern chair I know he didn't pick out.
I butchered the introduction. Shaking hands and bowing, I forgot everything they taught me.
But he was gracious about it. He smiled and cupped my hand in his, as if catching it before it could do anymore damage.

Long before

" Stupid things are everywhere. And it takes forever to find them."
I stop talking cause I know Abel is half listening. Whether he was or wasn't he answers,
" Make something that eats ticks."

1956

The people here are crazy. Although I can't say much for the sanity of men who spend all there lives wearing a robes.
Every things marble or gold and there is no comfortable place to sit.
One morning while I was heading up the Ivory Summit ( it's stairs) a man high up in the Catholic church walked up with me.
He said he knew the exact date Pope Pius was going to die and that he'd already bought large stakes in flower and candle companies.
Traditional tools of greif in Italy.
I was hired to protect the pope from public opinion, nothing else.

Long before

The moment I created the hen it chased me around the dark cold earth.
I tripped on ice and ash and it dug claws into me.
This is the best creation I've made of the hen, I've been forced to anhialate every other creation I've made.
Anthopamorphal Alchemism is not my forte. I make mountains.
I get behind it and force it's wings under it's belly.
It tries to turn it's head and pec me but it cannot.
This is worth a decreased insect population.

1956

I write press releases for the church now.
I list every yes word and no word for the pope and many of the Cardinals.
I went from being exclusively the Popes public relations officer to the entire catholic churches public relations officer.
By the end of the year my family lived in a castle outside of Rome.
The same week I moved was the same week a reporter from Amstredam famously accused the catholic church and Pius himself of keeping silent during the holocaust.
The phones weren't operational yet, but I knew I was needed in Rome.

Long Before

Spears dig into Abel and he falls from the sky.
I don't see where he lands. There are to many fires on the ground and we can hardly see where we're going.
I slow down and coast off of smoke and sute.
By the end of the day I won't be the only one with black wings.
Nothing makes a sound and I suppose I've lost the rebels chasing me.
Satan can't win. Why fight his creator this way?
Wings start kicking up around me and I'm going to have to choose a side soon.
The neutral won't have a home after this. He's made that clear.

1956

" Listen you prick. In the year I've been here I've asked him to change his hairstyle. I've asked him to change his stance both literally and politically several times. And the whole time the only thing I really wanted to tell him was to get rid of the useless half sack he's had forced upon him. Useless half sacks such as yourself. I will not ask him to publically apologize for something he's got no need to be sorry about."
It's true.
He took a strong anti invasion view throughout the entire thing.
He scolded Italy for it's involvement in the war. Few in the media had the balls to do that before and especially during the war.
The church did not.
In fact several publically denied it was happening or said it was being exaggerated.
It wasn't Pope Pius the group in front of me was worried about saving.
No, not at all.
"He'll be dead soon. He doesn't even know what’s printed about him. He hardly knows his own name anymore. We, however, still have a place in the church."
"We're you to keep it that way."
I knew before they asked that I wouldn't do this for them. I knew before they asked I wouldn't stay and that I was selling the castle.

Long before

The war is over.
I found out I spent my whole time in Africa. Dazed and alone.
The place has been torn to pieces. The sun tried to go down over Asia yesterday and Satan in desperation tried pulling it backwards.
The planet has almost been completely flooded by his foolish actions.
Rumors are spreading he was killed in the process. These same rumors are usually followed by the one that god is ending this whole mess.
We are all finding each other as fast as possible. Saying goodbye.
No ones seen Abel. A lot are missing.
It's noon when we start getting disoriented. Drowsy. The suns getting darker and our wings are losing mass.
I lay down, no longer able to hold my weight. All I have now is one last thought.
I can't believe my biggest achievement was creating a flightless bugeater.

1958

I work at a perfume company out of Paris.
I've got an office with a window.
Down at the base of the building is a really hip corner café with music and entertainment.
They bring me coffee every five minutes.
I neither turn it down or drink it, as a result my office is packed full of empty mugs and a dead plant.
The walk to work is short and I pass my daughters school. I drop her off and pick her up every day.
I don't own a car and I love the scenery.
Last week Pope Pius XII died. He was eighty-two. I saw a photo of him on display. He laid there with the haircut I assigned him almost two years ago.
Next to the picture was a brief article released from the church that I'm glad I didn't have to write. One part stood out to me.

"... Also known for famously standing up to an unjust dictatorship in both Italy and Germany in the height of their reign. And despite the united states and Europes refusal to acknowledge the murder of Polish and German jews throughout the war the knowledge of the genocide was still spread around Italy thanks to Pope Pius XII vigilant use of influence and power."

The article which takes up the entire page of the french newspaper is said to be an official release of Stato della Città del Vaticano, Republica Italiana.
In other words, Author Unknown.
I don't know the name of the man who wrote this but I know the man.
I know his job, I Know he has loose religious beliefs and whatever beliefs he does have he abandons everyday.
His soul has gone rancid and he doesn't know what to do with it.
I also know of a great castle that can help with that feeling.
I fold up the article and place a fresh cup of coffee on it.
There's a finders fee in Italy for anyone who can find a buyer for a million plus property.
I scrap my work for the day and try finding out who the hell wrote this.
It's sad, desperate, greedy work.
And I miss it.

Long before

The feeling on this continent is negative. So negative I have to leave it behind.
Ever since Abel went crazy and tried to strangle Satan everything went south.
He spouted nonsense about a previous existence to this one. And a war between Satan and god.
His attack on Satan is so bad we were forced to attack and kill him.
I hide in a dark place, they're hard to find here.
A pinch on my wing forces me to reach a hand over my should to stop it.
I return my finger with a tiny, vicious object.
Why god created the tick. I linger on the question but never ask it.
I heard Jazar complaining about the tiny parasites, but he has white feathers.
He need only to look down to find them.
But my wings are black, and so are these little bastards.
So now I sit in the dark, running my hand all the way down my pelt feeling for bumps........




End.
© Copyright 2009 Z. A. Aycock (zaycock at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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