The young woman sat with her back straight as she looked out at the sky. Her long skinny legs encased in jeans dangled over the edge of the snowy precipice she sat on. Her ears twitched as she heard footsteps crunching towards her in the snow, but she did not stir as the figure sat down.

“Seraphim,” he said with a smirk on his face “You know that every time you’re upset about something, we end up somewhere snowy. So there’s no point in trying to hide it by making blue skies with rolling clouds.” He gestured towards the skyline that she was so intently staring at. “It doesn’t hide the fact that there is snow on the ground, and there is not a sound to be heard for miles.”

Seraphim closed her eyes and sighed, letting her posture sink. When she opened them, she turned toward him with a very flat expression. “ I want a stage Angel.” After a moment pause she turned away from him and stared at her feet. “Will you build me a stage Angel?” she asked quietly.

He smiled slightly and stood up, brushing the snow off his jeans. “For you, I’d make a stage out of moonbeams and sunlight.” He turned away from her and walked a few steps, and by the time Seraphim gathered up her legs and turned around, there was a large wooden stage in front of them. It was lightly stained wood, with golden vines intertwining across the arch of the stage and the bottom skirt of it. The whole of it glowed with a warm welcome aura that brought a smile to Seraphim’s pale cheeks.

She climbed up the short steps and when she walked out upon the stage, her jeans and t-shirt had been replaced with loose black pants and a sleek top. She planted her feet shoulders length apart and straightened her posture with purpose. Her voice carried loud and clear through the echoing nothingness as she spoke to no one in particular.

Words filled with passion flowed from her mouth and danced outward from the stage, falling off the cliff like a waterfall. Her voice grew louder and bolder with each new thought, and tears began to brim quietly in the corners of her eyes. She spoke of her family, of her lover, of her friends, of herself. The depth of compassion in her voice was matched by the raging anger that constantly competes with it.

With deep breaths her speech winds down, and her eyes turn from the skyline down to her feet. When she finally stops speaking, she is much smaller, much meeker in appearance. So small and so frail, it is hard to imagine such clarity and purpose could be born from such a person.

Standing on her lonely stage, Seraphim waits in the silence.

Waiting for something to change.

Waiting for something to begin, or to end.

Waiting for her words to get her in trouble.

Or maybe, she hopes they will set her free.