Red Rover
Standing before us are two beings so beyond our reality, I almost want to laugh just to keep from falling over.
Angels. Real ones.
Not pretty stained-glass angels. Not soft, glowing, harp-toting cherubs. These are soldiers. Aliens. Weapons given form.
Ten feet tall.
Four wings each—two across their shoulders, two just below the ribcage.
Four arms.
Eyes like voids. No whites. No irises. Just endless black.
Golden skin. Battle armor. Swords, shields, spears—and a fifth hand left free, I guess, in case they feel like waving.
Bab Populer