Children of Static

A short story
by Robert Ciesla

Angelie stands in the shower booth until the tiles beneath her feet turn cold. Then she sees the stranger's face in the mirror, staring back without eyes, just flesh. She takes her time, counts to more than a hundred and back. She misses the warmth, but can't turn the water back on; it is too expensive. With dry, cracked palms, she closes her eyes, tiptoes past the freezing terror like every morning. (Why would anyone want to touch her there?) As the stinking flesh face she just rubbed minutes ago dries up, she needs to forget it.

Today she doesn't really mind the morning cold. Underneath the many blue daylight scarves, close to her long neck, it is always warm. Yet Angelie enjoys the planet's warmth more on its own these days. She feels them all the time. Her family is returning. And to celebrate the occasion, she will get herself some treats today.

Angelie has perfect hands, long fingers (with sparkling blue nail-polish) that wrap themselves around the chimes quite often. She used to be a belly dancer on the amateur nights, but the enthusiasm faded—there's simply too much work to be done. Angelie carries the chimed belt almost every day, wherever she goes (at least in her apartement with the messy kitchen and constant intrusion of television).

In the window, she catches a glimpse of some extra gray, a reflection of the pale, slowly sinking aura present in her face. Energy is always moving; it doesn't stay still, even inside her renewing DNA-ribbons and homemade clothing. Angelie knows just what she needs, and she shuffles slowly to her supply of flower remedies. She wears thick blue woollen socks to maintain the peace. No need to upset the turbulent people underneath and around her inner sanctum.

Young men sometimes phone her. Outdoors, they try holding her hands. She won't let them, not yet, not while there are problems in her first chakra area. The energy down there is too concentrated, too earthly. They don't understand, letting go of her hand with some violence, claiming the music she plays for them is cheap, fucked-up New Age garbage. Being of terrestrial origin, they can't sense her original wound.

At school, she used to fade out in the background, disappear into the walls. (She used to throw up before gym classes.) So she drew the symbol in the air to cast away negative energies and to send messages of assurance homeward. Angelie is here, on this precious Earth; she is alright, not getting into trouble that much anymore.

Sometimes Angelie looks at her peculiar long fingers and sees home in them.

At the school cafeteria she simply became static to her classmates, because she is of different vibrational frequencies (which is also why she never mastered inhaling smoke). Her classmates would falsely claim her ovaries bulged, squeezing her abdomen after facts-of-life classes.

Later, Angelie found out about her soul family living among the bright blue Pleiadean stars. She found Michael the Archangel. He is always present to bring her back from the static and the walls of supermarkets and other places all around Putten.

She doesn't go out far yet.

Angelie picks up her little black book of secrets and beloved people. Like clockwork and with perfect timing, she dials a certain number. A flawless string of harmonically induced light passes through the phone lines, moving from cheek to cheek. The boy abroad sounds strange and low again so Angelie tells him to calm down, to feel the connection. He is hurting, somewhere between torture and death in his private angers. The boy keeps forgetting about purpose, unity, clarity, and the L-word.

Love is all they need, and Angelie knows what it's like to drain without it in darkness, eyeing the clock for the recess to end faster. The boy tells her about sunlight moving like razors through his skin, walking on bleeding fleeting feet, on an escape from his messed-up council estate flat. Embedded in the crushing quiet of his remote room, he has tears all over his aura. The boy lives far away, in a dark corner of this world, but not out of Angelie's reach. In the ghastly morning of his chronic insomniac's day, he had gone to look for special places again.

Angelie knows of those special places and gently guides him home again. He is not ready to leave this world; the boy must not climb high places and hit the snowy concrete, breaking his neck like he'd planned. He gradually stops crying when Angelie tells him of dolphins and the Pleiadeans and plays him some stupid Dutch New Age music. She tells the boy of her occasional fantasies of being fucked up the ass, and it makes him laugh.

The boy wants to touch Angelie. He adores her blue heart, but she's in love with the whole world, in love with nothing less than no one and everyone in particular. They always think fondly of Angelie, her darling boys and girls, those few precious terrestrial people. And that is all Angelie needs. But they better not touch her first chakra area—not even with their energies—or they are told to leave. She feels the pink surge of warmth then, like some precious stream in a dreamer's forest. That colour tells of beauty and affection, alternating between oneness and sudden desperation. If the boy only knew how close to the snowy concrete she'd been, too, almost feeling weightless with her legs.

The only force allowed in Angelie is that of universal love, that which rests on the sunset reflecting from her big blue eyes. And as they once again fill with tears, she feels a deep joy of commitment. Suddenly all the cramped spaces of Putten feel like cathedrals. These are her tears for others.

She is right there, next to the boy, holding his hand (if he holds it absolutely still, that is). Angelie can touch everyone belonging to her soul family anytime, everywhere. Her energies are huge nowadays, reflecting back from those turquoise walls of her home. They are moving, expanding, dispersing through phone lines and the Internet. Some of them descended from the stars, some rose from among the flowers and the nearby forest.

Last night changed something in Angelie. Or was it just because of some thought? No, it was somewhere in the astral that they came to her. They asked Angelie: "Are you beautiful or not?" It would've been easy answering that silky, starry voice. Her head was startled, but not her soul, which is always carried by universal laws. Her family shone in blue light, their faces slightly curved in strange yet familiar shapes. They approached Angelie like loving adults sometimes do with children.

She always enjoys the warmth and touch of dream people, especially her family. But last night they came closer, much closer than usual. They changed under the influence of some tainted energy. One of them grabbed Angelie by the hand, refusing to let go. Their ranks shifted. Michael became static and faded among the bright Pleiadean stars. His angelic legions soon vanished, too, weeping in a warped darkness. That bald one shifted his eyes down there, and then he stole her.

That bald old man, who sometimes stared at her with venom dripping from his mouth, appeared. The one who used to be her father touched her lower part with the eyes of flesh in the bathroom mirror. But this was not Angelie anymore; she was gone. She was out in the flattest Dutch playground, watching the eternity in the sky, looking for any faraway hills for shelter. Then she was out walking, hurt by every passing person who just continued on their path.

Angelie knows they had to leave her that way. Yes, it was colder than in the morning, but she knows she must rediscover her own energy. She will dispel evil with her clenched fists, even from her empty space without cigarettes or confusing memories of boys.

They gave her that dream to remind her that no experience can change her essence.

She is no victim—she is now a creator. Angelie is a fragile power. She asks divinity for those who need her perspective on things. And when they arrive in need of love, together, they will spark some more. She will seek others like her, knowing there is much giving left in her.

Her lower part keeps staring back—it made Angelie cry earlier this morning—but she feels lighter now. On her way to the flower remedies, the wind is full of gentle spirits. Her new family watches her every step again. With courage and conviction, Angelie will surely make it to the supermarket today. The scarf taps her cheeks with backwards sunlight, with thoughts arriving—the boy falling asleep—reminding her that it is always healing time.

She comes from love and walks in freedom. And that's just what she does in the supermarket, packing her trolley with delicious pineapple juice.

Copyright 2006 by Robert Ciesla