WRITING PRACTICE 1.18
Writing Practice.
When Moira drunkenly promised the moon that she’d do anything for her if she saved her from the unfortunate life she’d made for herself, waking to an alarmingly large crashing noise in her backyard was the last of her expectations. Her hair was a matted mess and she could feel last night's makeup soaked into her skin. She had the decency to leave herself a healthy glassful of water on her nightstand last night and gratefully downed it, ignoring the rancid, fuzzy taste in her mouth. Her cat was pawing at her from the end of her bed, tilting her head to stare at her with big green eyes. She slowly sat up, petting Fish before placing her bare feet onto the winter-chilled wood.
She listened to her voicemails as she poured herself coffee. There was one embarrassing one from her ex calling to make sure she was okay after a drunk call at 4:32 am; she wanted to stick her head in the oven after that. When Fish started meowing at her feet for another reason than to fill her food dish--it was still full of dry food--Moira remembered what woke her. Fish followed her to the back patio door, staying a safe distance behind Moira’s legs.
In the middle of the small backyard of Moira’s small suburban home was a small crater. Moira immediately picked up the phone. Charlie’s line rang three times before going to voicemail and Moira’s voice wavered as she approached a figure lying in her backyard.
“Hey Charlie, I know I called you at like 5 am this morning, but this is serious and I need you to reply- oh my god.” Moira pulled the phone away from her ear, the figure only a step away, “Just...just call me.”
She slipped the phone into her pocket and Fish stepped in front of her, stopping to sniff at a charred, feather in the grass. Lying at her feet was an almost naked girl, her clothing littered with massive burnt holes, with cream-colored wings growing out of her back. They were bent in a way that even Moira knew wasn’t right. The girl seemed to be only a couple of years younger than Moira and her only reaction was to mutter under her breath: “fuck.”
She had thrown the girl onto her back, struggling with the dead weight of her body and the feathers poking her face, and dragged her into the living room. She tried to let her down onto the couch as gently as she could, but gravity is not a nice lady and the angel-creature-thing landed with a thud and bounced off the couch and onto the floor. Fish curled up in her feathers, purring loudly; Moira couldn’t get him to move.
Moira was sitting, staring at the creature and trying to think of a solution when she stirred two hours later.
