David Martineau “Choices” The angel Samuel was nervous and anxious. Normally, such turbulent and hesitant emotions would be completely absent from his being. Samuel’s kin rarely ever found themselves consumed by anxiety; such was the nature of their species. But today was different, and for good reason. Samuel had never expected to be in this situation. Of course, he had made mistakes before, acted recklessly when caution was necessary. However, he had always prided himself on his adherence to regulation—until today. In mere moments, Samuel was about to undergo examination, something few of his kinsfolk had ever had to endure. Such evaluation, which judged an angel’s actions under Eternal Law, was only undertaken in extreme circumstances, another factor that contributed to Samuel’s restlessness. Apparently, his actions were considered “extreme…” Sighing, Samuel leaned back in the office chair, his russet wings drooping. I’ve really done it this time, haven’t I? He hadn’t tried to make it happen—nor had he wanted it to. It had just…happened. How was he to control what he felt? Angelic emotions were preternaturally intense, second only to those of the Creator, making what had happened seem almost inevitable. However, Samuel would have never imagined it happening to him—maybe a more passionate angel, like Adiel or Viorel. But it hadn’t happened to either of them. It had happened to him. And now he would face the consequences of his actions. Closing his eyes, Samuel shook his head, his fingers buried in his thick brown hair. No, he thought, he had done nothing wrong. How could he be punished for something he had no control over, something done unintentionally, unwillingly? It was unfair, and he would resist, fighting for what he believed until the end. He would not back down. A gentle noise reached Samuel’s ears. Turning, the angel stared over his shoulder. His eyes settled upon the open door leading into the office. A figure stood there, garbed in white robes embroidered with twisting gold designs. Six golden-feathered wings framed the figure’s tall, lean form. The being’s face was wizened and compassionate, even with the grim expression it bore. A mane of neatly combed silver hair surrounded the figure’s chiseled features, which betrayed almost no sign of age, aside from sparse wrinkles around the eyes, brow, and lips. With silent, gliding steps, the Seraph named Metatron made his way over to Samuel, lowering himself into the chair behind the mahogany writing desk the younger angel sat before. Samuel’s chest tightened. His trepidation was such that it overshadowed the pride and honor he felt and being able to sit facing the Creator’s Chief Scribe. Metatron spent a few moments arranging the items on his desk into a perfect semblance of neatness. The table contained few objects, the most prominent being a massive, leather-bound book that sat open, taking up three-quarters of the desk space. Beside the book, a white feathered quill with a golden nib rested in a crystal inkwell, the silver writing fluid within shimmering like liquid platinum. Other than these two items, the only things on the desk were a few papers neatly placed in an empty corner and a solitary folder, laid atop the pages of the open book. Metatron’s golden eyes flashed upward, settling upon Samuel. His face was emotionless, his eyes piercing. Samuel felt as if his very being was examined in that one glance. Could this be all there was to the evaluation, he wondered? Perhaps… “You know why you were summoned?” the scribe asked plainly. Samuel nodded, slightly disappointed that his torment was not yet complete. He said nothing, out of both respect for Metatron and anticipation of the results of his evaluation.
The Reynolds Young Writers Workshop at Denison University - Anthology 2013
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