A Case of Missing Wings – Fiction Writing by Marpel and Kruze
When I woke up, they weren’t there.
Not on my shoulders where they usually hung. Yes, they were attached when I fell asleep. No, I didn’t take anything, didn’t “tie one on.”
Checked the free-standing oak wardrobe. Nothing. Hall closet. Nothing. Not hanging around anywhere in the apartment.
You’d think after a couple thousand years, I’d be pretty attached to them.
So I just…
No, I can’t. That’s gone, too.
All my powers. Gone with the wings. (Well, at least I still have my warped sense of humor.)
Time for Plan B.
– – – –
Six long blocks of walking in L. A.’s heated grime finally got me to the emergency outlet.
It was a pawn shop. On Santa Monica Boulevard – Hollywood end. One shop out of many – and that was the point. Kept it non-distinctive. This one had a particular red English phone box, a fixture in the place. Had an American coin-phone in it, though. A special one.
The cashier looked up from his racing form. “Angie! Long time. What’s up?”
“Just needed to take a visit to old Ben. Got a token for me?”
Bert hit a key on the register and the cash drawer slid out with a ring of its bell. He reached into a back drawer of it and pulled out an odd coin. One with notches in its center, like an ancient subway token.
I held up my hand and he flipped it to me.
Then I entered the phone box, closed its door, inserted the token, and dialed.
The small booth filled with a red smoke substance, about the same color as the phone box.
While I shimmered from there to somewhere else…
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