The gray feather

I was always ashamed to admit it, because as a child I thought angels and demons were two teams in the same game, exchanging wings like they exchange cards during recess.

As an adult, I understood that image to be terrifying: an angel who tries a demon feather discovers it burns the same way, and they can no longer believe in factions.

I wrote about them telling each other a story so they wouldn't be alone, a narrative so well constructed that they ended up living inside.

And now, every time I sit down to write, I feel that pen pulsing in my coat pocket.

I don't know what role was mine. But I write it anyway, because that's the only thing I know how to do with fear.