Of Angels and Lions

an original short story by naatz

all rights reserved ©

Shadows spread over the light blue sky. They were only clouds, nothing more. But soon the night would come and after the night passed, the sun would rise again and peek from the eastern mountaintops above an isolated village. In that village, angels slept, waiting for the sun to brighten their rooms.

When all were up, they would write all that had happened during the night. When night fell yet again, they would go to sleep; they had never understood, nor asked, who was writing the occurrences that happened through the day, for they wrote the occurrences that happened throughout the night. Everything had just always begun in a different place.

As the sun falls down, the lions rise and roar. The lionesses whisper words of deeds that happened that day in their ears, and the lions would repeat them all, not blinded by the sun, which had her own opinion. They have never understood either, or asked, who was writing the occurrences of the last night.

They have never seen each other. White-winged, black-haired angels have never seen the black-furred, golden-eyed lions. The bare-footed, sapphire-covered lions have never seen the silver-shoed, ruby-covered angels.

Both kinds did not know how they knew what had happened. They just did, and their part in the world was to keep a record of all.

They have never even known of each other, and they never will, if things stayed as they were, and still, they did the same thing.


This is what the angels wrote of in that day:

. . . Louise Sorgen, a raven haired woman in her late thirties was attempting her second bank-robbing in one month. If she had been asked, she would have said she was doing this to feed her children. And that would have been true. Unlike the first time, this time she chose a bank that was more far from her home so it would be harder to catch her.

. . . Louise looked at her wrist-watch to check the time. It was eleven thirty, and she had twenty minutes to make the last-minute preparations. She nervously pulled her black hair up to a tight pony-tail, and pulled out from the bag a black pantyhose sock to cover her head with, a torch and a bag that hung at her chest for the money.  As an afterthought she took out a small gun, just in case something goes wrong.

She frowned. She did not like it. Not for even one bit. But she had to.

Louise looked at her watch. It read eleven forty-five. She needed to get going. She put her jeans bag behind the trash bin and quickly stepped away from the wall she was hiding behind of.

The bank was about to be closed, and the security guards were about to make their shift change Louise waited until the guard walked away from his post, and ran quickly and quietly to the doors.

"Stop!" She heard a voice.

. . . was caught while sneaking in by a guard who has not left his post before his replacement arrived, and went out to smoke a cigarette before the shifts change. He was shot by Louise Sorgen at 11:51pm on the fifth of June, 2003. He died on the spot.

. . . 'Shit,' Louise thought desperately.

"Stay where you are!" The guard warned, coming near her with his club out. "Say something!" He ordered.

Louise could not say a thing, or else he would know she was a woman. She slipped her hand into her pocket in nervousness and it met something cool and metallic to her touch. It was the gun.

She held onto it, feeling as it would save her life.

"Draw your hands out of your pockets, slowly, and turn to face me. Slowly." He ordered.

She did as she was told; only she drew the gun out along with her hands. It calmed her; soothed her. It was her only lifesaving rope. She slowly turned to face the guard. He looked at her sternly, ready to beat her with his club if she did something surprising.

When Louise was sure he was about to see the gun, she pulled it out quickly and pointed it at his chest. As she pulled the trigger she saw the look of surprise, fear and desperation on his face. His hand went to the gun that was hung on his belt, but he did not make it.

The shot echoed in the hall.

The dead man lay on the marble floor, blood streaming from his chest, eyes still open, staring at nothingness. Louise felt petrified. She killed a man. She killed someone. She never killed anybody. She—

She had to do it quickly. She had to finish with it. She would never do it again. She could not let herself run away.

Louise all but ran into the bank and looked for the closest stand with a cashier. She found one and hurried towards it.

"Hey, you!" She said as thickly as possible and held the gun at the cashier's head. "Give me all the money you have here." The woman nodded and started taking money out from its depositing boxes was about to put in the strongbox. Louise looked at the clock that was hanging on the wall. Eleven fifty-eight. She had no time.

She snatched the money from the woman's hands and hurried out, putting it carefully in her bag. She closed her eyes when she saw the red pool of blood.

. . . unknown to Sorgen from lack of preparation, another cashier was in the room at that time and he pressed the button to call to the police. Also unknown to her, the nearest police station was only two streets away. They arrived to the bank at the same minute she came out of the building.

. . . Louise stopped as a strong light hit her closed eyes.

"Freeze." A voice was heard and she stopped dead on her tracks. "It's the police," a man said softly.

Her eyes burst open, but she squeezed them shut again when she saw the light directed at her. She tightened her hold on the gun. It helped her once. Why won't it help her now?

"Raise your hands," the same man said with that same soft tone which was highly unnerving. "We have guns. Don't try to escape."

Louise raised her arms quickly, and when it was halfway up, she accidentally pulled the trigger of the gun and then there was loud noise. Then, silence, followed by the sound of several rifles.

Louise fell bleeding to the pavement, lifeless.

. . . hit by three bullets. One hit her head, one her left shoulder and the last one hit her left hand. She died on the spot. Her body was identified two hours later, and the Welfare Services for Children arrived, and the children were taken into custody.


The angel closed the book respectfully and put it on the nearest shelf as the sky turned pinker in each passing moment. He stumbled slightly and looked down to see his young, grey winged son who looked at him with glittering eyes. "I want to help her, father," he said emotionally.

The angel closed his eyes and answered, "You cannot."

"Why not?" His voice was only above a whisper, and tears were threatening to flow down from his eyes.

"Because," his father said coldly, "it has already happened." He sighed. "Now, go to sleep. It is time."

The child nodded. "I will, father." He bowed slightly and went to his bed. His father followed him, walking to his own bed. His son would grow out of being overemotional.

In the end, they all did.


Slowly, the lions started to enter the large hall. They all yawned. Some scratched their fur with their claws, and some went straight ahead to the tables and started roaring the events of the passing day, listening briefly to the whispering lionesses. The hall has changed dramatically, only that the lions did not know that. For them, it has always been like this. It was coloured in cheerful colours, blue, green, yellow and orange. Cubs played around the place, making loud noises. The older lions looked at them and shook their heads with a smile.

Some might have been slow until they got to the books, but unlike the angels, they did not write. They talked, and the books wrote themselves. They have always managed to write everything that happened.

Some almost mature male and female cubs sat quietly to listen and learn. They scratched and licked and tickled each other as they listened, all quietly.


This is what the lions said of in that night:

. . . seven year old Rose Wobster woke up in the morning and went to school. Later that day, she returned home and ate lunch. A while later her father took her out to the garden in their street.

"Daddy!" Little Rose called to catch her father's attention, which was already focused on her. "Daddy, look! Look!" She yelled excitedly. "Look how high I'm swinging!"

Her father nodded and grinned. "Aren't you scared, Rosy?" He teased her.

"No!" She smiled, oblivious to his teasing. "Higher!" She laughed. "I want to go higher!"

Her father pushed the swing that Rose sat on a bit harder. "If I'll push you any higher, you'll fall!" He warned her, acting serious, when in fact, he was trying not tot laugh openly at her.

She giggled at him, and her dimples grew deeper and more visible. "I don't care! I can see the trees!" Rose laughed. She liked the spring so much . . . "And I like the flowers! Especially the pink ones!"

"I like them too," her father agreed. "But if you swing too fast, the wind will knock off your hat!" He told her warningly.

Rose shrieked and raised her hands to stop her blue hat from taking off. "I want down!" She said, alarmed. "I want down!"

Her father laughed once again. "Sure, princess." He let her down.

Rose jumped off the swing and made her yellow dress whirl in the wind and her hat to fall. She quickly grabbed it and put it on her little head again proudly.

. . . she fell down and scraped her knee. Her father leaned to kiss her leg, and she claimed it felt better.

Rose jumped up and down, still excited. "Daddy! Let's go to the carousel!" She said brightly.

"Sure," he father agreed. He watched his daughter skipping and dancing on the way to the carousel. Suddenly, her foot hit a rock, and she fell.

He hurried at her and took a good look at her knee. It was scraped a bit, just a little skin came off and there was almost no blood. When Rose saw the little wound, she started crying.

"Shh . . ." he comforted her. "It's okay. It'll go away in a tiny bit."

Her sobs softened a bit. "But it hurts now!" She complained.

"I know . . ." he said helplessly. "C'mon, I'll give you knee a kiss, just like mommy does, and the pain will go away. Okay?"

Rose sniffled. "Okay. You promise?"

Her father nodded and leaned down to give her small knee a kiss. "There," he said with a smile on his face. "All better!"

"Yep!" Rose nodded and got up to limp away to the nearest bench. Her father sat next to her, and she lay on the bench to have her head rested in his lap.

"I love you," she said sleepily.

Her father smiled tenderly. "I love you too, Rose."

. . . a while later they went home hand by hand, and cooked dinner together so it would be ready when her mother returned.


One of the younger cubs in the listening group raised to stand on his four paws. His black fur was lit by the fading moonlight, and his eyes shone with affection to the little girl. "I want to play with her!" He stated.

The lioness shook her head sadly. "You can't."

"Why?" The young lion asked in bewilderment.

The lioness sighed. "Because it's already happened, dear," she said softly. "We tell the things that happened in the past, not the things that happen now."

"I don't care!!!" He screamed. "I want to play with her! Now!"

"You can't," the lion said hoarsely. "It won't help you to want."

The cub looked at him. "Yes it will!" He yelled as strongly as possible. "I want to play with her!"

The rest of the lions drew near them. They whispered to quiet him, but he ignored them, and continued to scream.

"I want to go to her!!!"


The young angel thought he heard something. He got up, but the room was dark.

He panicked. He never saw the room dark. He looked around and saw his family sleeping deeply. When he made sure they were asleep, he crept out of bed and went to the hall.

The angel picked up some noises from there. They were unfamiliar . . . not of his kind, and that thought brought goosebumps of excitement to his skin.

He decided to be brave, so he entered quickly without stopping to breathe to the writing hall. He was not prepared to the sight he saw.

There were black things with blue stones on them. He was making choked noises, and caused them all to look at him.

"Who are you?" Asked one of them.

The angel stood as tall as he could. "My name is Semyel."

The animal's eyes twinkled happily. "I'm Earth-Drop." He hopped up and down. "Wanna play?"

Semyel blinked, and then smiled a small, uncertain smile. "I do . . ."

"So come!" Earth-Drop nudged the little angel to the corner where some cubs were playing. "You'll have fun!"