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The Thing with Wings

by Sujana

There was a thing with wings in the hospital, and he wanted to cut them off.

No one was entirely sure how he got those wings, who he was, or even if he was human. The Protestants and Catholics of the hospital crowded to meet him as doctors forced the individual into an isolated room. Two security guards held them back, out of fear that one of them would break through and disturb the patient inside. Several caught glimpses through the glass window on the door, catching sight of a dead television and a pair of white wings covered in red droplets.

Raphael didn’t believe in angels.

It had been ten years since he last visited a church, and most of his Catholic family members had either passed or forgotten his existence. He didn’t mind—the image of gods and medieval torture devices never particularly appealed to him. He believed in medicine, the choice between a long life and an easy death, and the power of herbal tea. He was a content man, never too saddened by a death, never too elated by a successful healing. He’d rather God didn’t exist. It made miseries easier to digest, knowing it was only a product of misfortune instead of malice.

He was surprised, then, to hear that the strange thing yearned only to talk to him. It couldn’t make less sense if he tried. Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask for a priest? Or at least a Catholic doctor? Surely there were some, especially in a hospital named after a saint.

Perhaps it was just a coincidence.

He entered the hallway, walking towards the two security guards by the door. The usual ruckus was present, but the people from the first few days appeared calmer, more intent on staring at the thing with wings from afar. They stared at him, their eyes peeled wide with hope as the security guard let him pass. “Not a chance,” one of the guards shot at the crowd. They cooled down again.

Raphael nodded, entering the room. Someone tried clutching at his lab coat, only to have their fingers slapped away by the previous security guard. He closed the door as quickly as possible, feeling the rosewood stutter slightly. He sighed.

“Hello,” a voice started, “Old friend.”

The first thing he did was stare at the wings on the hospital bed, with feathers like lily petals stained with roses. They breathed, little inches of feathers melting off every time they did. There was a man attached to them. A blonde haired, blue-eyed man, with scar tissues for a face and a muscular build. It was difficult to disassociate his image with camo garb or a suit of armor, or something else he’d bring to war. The blue scrubs the doctors put him in did him no justice. “I’m sorry,” Raphael answered, politely, “But I’m afraid I can’t quite call you an old friend, considering I barely know you.”

The thing with wings arched a brow, before nodding silently. “Ah. Yes,” he said. “You must’ve forgotten. It’s a fitting coping mechanism. I might use it, after I’m done with these accursed things.” He struck his own wings.

Raphael paused. “Forgotten—what?”

The thing laid back in his bed, shrugging. “Heaven. Hell,” he eyed him, intently. “Lucy and Gaby.”

He didn’t catch a word of what the thing was saying. He recalled tidbits of conversations with a local priest in his childhood, talking about angels and demons and the like. “Lucifer and Gabriel, you mean?” There were many angels, as far as he could recall. He only knew a handful, and ruling out the first two and his own name left him with one. But it couldn’t be. “You’re…Michael?”

The thing with wings grinned. He’s crazy, Raphael thought. Or maybe I’m crazy. None of this is real, either way. “You remember me.”

“I remember Sunday school,” Raphael propped himself down by a chair beside his wings. A feather brushed against the back of his hand, and it almost felt like salvation. “My parents had an obsession with angels. Which, of course, led to me.” He smirked. “But I suppose you’re a bit more widely accepted, being the one who threw the Devil in hell.”

The smile on Michael’s face faded soon after, replaced by an expression of shame. Raphael opened his mouth to point it out, only to push it aside. “Do you have anywhere to go to, Mr…”

“Michael,” he answered, lowly, “Just Michael.”

“You must have a surname.”

“I don’t need one.”

“Well, you will if you want to register into our system.”

“I only wish to have my wings cut off.”

“We’re considering it. It might be very dangerous, and the hospital would rather not risk your life. Especially knowing your condition.” Raphael eyed the wings, calmly. “It’s unseen in the medical world. Did you get it transplanted, or is it a genetic condition?”

Michael shook his head. “It’s a gift from God.”

Raphael smiled. “Ah.” He chuckled to himself, looking down at his fingers. He pulled out a notebook, turning to the thing with wings earnestly. “Yes. I forgot.”

There was a silence between the two as Raphael penned something on his notebook. Patient might be experiencing psychosis related to religion, particularly associated with his condition. “You don’t believe me,” Michael mentioned. Raphael closed his book. “Do you?”

Raphael looked up at him, silently. “Perhaps not now,” he confessed, stashing the notebook back in his pocket. “I’m—admittedly doubtful. You make it very convincing, though.”

Michael smiled. “How much more proof do you need?”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, I don’t know, really. I’m on the irrational side, now, seeing that you’re here. It’s difficult explaining away a winged thing with science, as you ought to know,” he admitted. “I hope to rule out the logical before assuming the strange. For reality’s sake.”

“Am I--” Michael considered his words. “Breaking your reality?”

Raphael blinked, before nodding in agreement. “But reality deserves to be broken every once and a while. It’s all subjective, we humans can never know what the world has hidden behind the next curtain.” He thought over what he’d just said, suddenly getting excited. “I mean, think of the possibilities. If it turns out a human-like creature is capable of carrying wings without drastically changing their morphology, we could design something of the same breed for ordinary human beings, evolve into a new species of--”

“That wouldn’t be a very good idea.” Michael answered, quickly. “The Lord did not intend for humankind to possess wings.”

The brown-skinned doctor panned up, his enthusiasm somewhat dimmed by Michael’s admonishment. “I mean, if you believe in that sort of thing. But if He didn’t want that,” he said, “He wouldn’t have brought you here.”

Michael stared at him. “My descent is entirely my choice.”

“But certainly the Lord knew you were coming here?”

“I came here,” Michael said, sternly, “To have my wings cut off.”

Raphael shook his head, turning away. “Well, yes, I suppose you’ve made that clear,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “But you could put your wings to much better use. You could put your very existence to better use.” He paused. Did he sound selfish? He sounded selfish. Damn it, he was supposed to help the man, not drool over anatomy. “And we could help you with whatever problem you have, anyway. Cutting them off would be reckless.”

“Leaving them be would be a sin,” Michael said, sitting up straight. A muscle by his mouth inched slightly, indicating pain. His wings drooped. “Or do you not believe in sins, either?”

The doctor clutched his fingers, shaking his head. He stood up. “I think our discussion is over,” he said, “For now.”

He moved towards the door, Michael calling him back. “Answer me.” He said. “Please.”

Raphael stood by the door, looking out the window. There were people outside watching him, eagerly waiting for him to leave and allow a glimpse of the thing with wings. “I—I believe in practicality,” he said, looking back temporarily. “I believe in a balance. Vices and virtues may or may not be a part of that.” He paused, gauging Michael’s reaction. “If it means anything to you, I believe in forgiveness, at least.”

Michael stared up at him, grasping at his sheets. His eyes seemed to whisper some sort of regret, as if he was trying to say ‘I wish I felt the same.’

Facts arose. Tests were performed. Michael still wouldn’t vent his complaints to anyone but Raphael, but his words weren’t as important as what the machines told them. “We don’t know what blood type he is, the only thing that seems to be able to damage the wings are fire and corrosive acids, and X-rays suggest his bones are nigh unbreakable,” one doctor told Raphael, laughing. “The man’s a marvel, I tell you.”

“Well, we can safely assume he’s a little more than human,” Raphael said. “What is he, then?”

The doctor didn’t have an exact answer. He thought it was important, but once the news inevitably slipped from hospital walls the public decided Michael’s species long before any other biologist could—an archangel.

At some point they had to move Michael to a separate room. The cause obviously pointed towards the hordes of people crowding to witness the rare spectacle of a living angel, but it was more specific than that; a reporter for the Guardian climbed towards a window to get pictures of the angel while he was resting. Michael, however, was not resting. The thing with wings went to the window, pulled the reporter in, and did whatever in God’s name he did to the poor man. Raphael had found the reporter in pieces the next day, mostly uninjured but in a state of catatonia.

“What did you do to him?” he asked the thing with wings.

Michael simply sat in his bed, shrugging. “He wanted to talk. He climbed a wall to reach me, so I thought I’d grant him that, at least,” he stared at the man. “He’s been like that for some time. I think the last question he asked involved God’s name.”

Raphael glared at him. “You know God’s name?”

“Well, yes,” he said. “I suppose it was my fault. I already knew the human mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend such a thing, but he did insist.”

They reassigned him to a windowless room, after that, hiring security guards to inspect every single corner. Nobody but the occasional doctor and Raphael was allowed in, and even then they all had to have their cards with them. Michael seemed somewhat annoyed with the doctors tests, and he had started asking people other than Raphael when he was having his wings cut off. “It’s difficult to say, Michael,” Raphael answered him, once, giving him the standard conversation he’s given countless other patients, “You’re making it very difficult for us. We aren’t sure if anything in our arsenal could cut it off without taking unaffordable risks--”

“I don’t care,” Michael answered, restlessly, “I’d rather die wingless than live a traitor to my kind.”

Raphael glared at him, narrowing his brows. “What do you mean?” he looked at the back of his head, trying to remember his lessons in Sunday school, “Michael, you’ve never done anything wrong. Not as far as I can recall. Theology adores you. There are kids named after you. There’s a religious sect that thinks you’re God.”

Michael shook his head, violently, grasping at his mouth. “That’s not the point,” he screamed, attempting to move further out of his bed, “That was never the point.”

He turned around, letting Raphael see his backside closely. There were tears in the skin and a number of feathers had been forcibly pulled out, leaving an egregious leaking of blood. “Michael,” Raphael grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him back, “What happened to your wings?”

“Well, you wouldn’t do it for me,” he said, glaring at Raphael, “What difference does it make if I do it myself?”

“Michael,” Raphael screamed at the thing with wings, holding him by the wrist. “This is serious. You could kill yourself--”

“I don’t care.”

The scream made the doctor jump, putting him back slightly. The thing with wings glared at him with death in his eyes, his face slowly dissolving into guilt again. Constantly remorseful. Constantly searching for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what? “Leave me alone,” Michael tossed back, shaking his head. “We’re done.”

“Michael,” Raphael started, “I--”

“Did I not make myself clear?”

Raphael repealed his apology, nodding in silence. He left the room with a heavy weight on his shoulders, and no deeper understanding of the situation.

“Do you prefer pizza or hamburgers?”

Michael glared at the man, who’d come into the room without his request, carrying a large bag fragrant with grease of some form. “I mean, I know I probably should’ve chosen something healthier from the food groups, but at this point I doubt a little junk food will kill you,” he propped himself down on a chair nearby, pulling out a thin box and a couple of plastic bags. “There’s some fruit juice there, too, if you’re queasy about this sort of thing.”

“I’m not hungry,” Michael answered, plainly.

“Come on. It’s a bonding ritual.”

“This is somewhat demeaning.”

“It’s pizza. Pizza can’t be demeaning.”

Michael glared at him. Raphael adjusted his glasses, shrugging nonchalantly. His face was set, cheerless, broken. “You know, I asked my brother to make this, just for you and I,” he said, setting the box on Michael’s lap. “It was difficult to ask—we haven’t talked as much as we ought to. A very radical believer, you’d like him, I’m sure. He’s never taken too kindly to my…beliefs. I’ve never taken too kindly to how he treats me as if I’m damned to hell,” he smiled, chuckling. “But you know, if there’s anything he can do that’ll always have me crawling back, it’s his cooking. He fed us both for most of our childhood, and now every other Italian meal tastes like grounded rocks.” He blinked rapidly, as if holding back tears. He looked up to Michael. “It’s good. I swear, it is.”

Michael stared at him, conflict stirring in his expression. With a wilted sigh, he opened the box, picking up a slice. “Jesus Christ,” he said, the moment he took a bite.

Raphael laughed, chuckling at the winged thing. “I told you it was good.”

“Who in God’s name is your brother and why has he not been made a saint?” Michael asked, taking in one more slice.


“Your brother.”

“Oh, that. I don’t have a brother.” Raphael chuckled. Michael glared at him with the most annoyed expression in his eyes, and he laughed harder. “I’m not even Italian. I’m a fourth generation Mexican, and I’m not exactly the master of tacos. But if you’d like to make anyone a saint, I’ll pass the compliments to the pizzeria down the block.”

Michael glared at Raphael, shaking his head with a clear smile on his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

Raphael grinned. “You’re a miracle in your own right, Mr. Angel.”

That was one of the first dialogues where Michael’s wings were completely ignored. Michael and Raphael knew their boundaries, bit by bit, figuring out what they liked and what they didn’t; Michael preferred sausage, Raphael preferred anchovies. Michael seemed to conform more to the Catholic mold, and Raphael was content with being a liberal heretic. Michael didn’t like talking about what he was before he was found in the wards, and Raphael didn’t like having questions about his religious values thrown at him. It was a comfortable relationship. It wasn’t meant to last very long.

“What do you think of evil?”

“Don’t you think it’s too late in the evening for that sort of discussion, angel?” Raphael chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d brought in a bag of orange juice and apples, since the other doctors suggested feeding the patient junk food was too risky. “Go and eat your apple. You’ve been to too many tests.”

Michael shook his head, biting into the fruit in his lap. “I’m being serious.”

“You’re being too serious.”

He chuckled. “No. Really,” he said, softly, “You don’t believe in God, do you?”

“It’s hard to say that when I’m talking to an angel.”

“If you don’t think goodness comes from God and evil from the Devil, do you think they exist?” Michael continued, ignoring his statement.

Raphael paused, looking at the orange in his hand. He tossed it to Michael, who caught it with a free hand. “I believe that other people believe it exists, but I wouldn’t say there’s a law in the universe stating that it affects gravity or anything substantial,” he answered, honestly, “Humankind can afford to be good or evil because survival’s become cheap. They’ve carved out their place in the universe, and they want to make rules of their own, in their little worlds. That’s fine by me. But good isn’t always good, and evil is often just cruelly practical,” he smiled. “It doesn’t matter too much to me unless I agree with it.”

Michael eyed him, intently. “And what does matter to you?”

Raphael paused. He sucked in a breath, nodding. “Saving lives. Leaving the world with something worthwhile.” He called out, from the top of his head. “Just doing what I can to help others, I suppose.”

There was a long silence between the two. Michael leaned back, carving at the orange with his nails. “You know, long ago in heaven,” he started, solemnly, “We thought that there would be no need for an evil. The universe was empty and hollow, and most of the angels liked it fine. We were in harmony. There was no need for war, no reason to fight. We knew the Lord wanted to make another creature besides us, but we thought that wouldn’t develop for a long time.”

Raphael listened to the story intently, chewing on his apple. It didn’t quite matter to him if it was true or not—too many strange things have occurred for him to care for the truth. Still, it was entertaining to listen. “Some of the angels,” Michael continued, “Assisted in the project. One of them helped design fire, which would later be used to spark light into the universe, and the other helped design water. The one who designed fire was named Lucifer. The one who designed water was named Raphael.” he looked to him, knowingly. “They were my dearest friends, if I were allowed to have any.”

“I was only the one who gave the orders, the commander, nothing more. They were intelligent. They were ambitious. It was not uncommon for the two of them to spar over ideas, faces filled with holy fire, deciding what percentage of fresh water they should leave on the Earth or how hot they should’ve made Venus. Lucifer threw the water storage from Mars to Earth to prove that Raphael had left the Earth too dry. Raphael retaliated with decomposing a star, proving to Lucifer that its collapse would cause a singularity. It was all in jest. I knew it was all in jest, because the three of us promised we wouldn’t be torn apart by anything as simple as an argument.” He continued. “I loved them both dearly.”

“But love is dangerous. It’s volatile, it’s a sin. One day, Lucifer decided that they’d had enough with leaving the credit to the Lord. Initially, they wanted to be acknowledged as more. As they realized that many other angels shared the same sentiment, though, they decided they wanted to be more than just acknowledged. They charged into heaven with the intent of turning it into hell.” He stopped. “I was told to rally the troops and show them no mercy.”

Raphael stopped, swallowing chewed pieces of his apple. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. “Oh.”

Michael nodded. “Raphael was angry, afterwards. I told him it was my duty. I think he believed it, for a little while, but then it could never last.” He confessed. “He ran. I thought I’d find him in hell, so I interrogated Lucifer to find him. They told me differently. Gone to Earth, they said. Plans to cut off their wings and become a human being. Left you a message, too.

What message? I asked.”

He’d tell you to go to hell, but he doesn’t know where it is anymore.

Raphael dropped his fruit, looking away awkwardly. “Michael. I’m--” Sorry? He wasn’t sure if he was sorry. He wasn’t sure if what he was hearing was real. How could he be sorry for a dream? “That must’ve been very difficult for you.”

Michael paused. “I still want to get my wings cut off.”

There was an even longer silence between them. Raphael nodded. “I understand.”

“What do you mean he ran away?”

“He just disappeared,” the guard told him, earnestly, “Some of the guards saw him run away, but he was too fast for any of us, and he—well, his wings were heavy,” he laughed, nervously, “He knocked out a couple of us. We chased him downstairs, but by then he’d flown away.”

Raphael was frantic. He made calls to the police station, the local newspapers, even other counties, every one of them making him sound like a raving maniac. A person is flying in the air, but without helicopters or airplanes, he told them, he may or may not be suicidal.

It made headlines for weeks. Paranormal enthusiasts and FBI agents alike went scouting for the strange thing, going off the basic description of a man with blonde hair and blue eyes. There were no words that could do to justice to his splendor other than angelic. There was no greater tragedy in Raphael’s mind than to see it all go to waste.

A thing with no wings came to the hospital, one night. It had them cut off.

Several of the nurses screamed when he sauntered in, and the other more practical ones called Raphael. There was no quicker responder. He dragged all the doctors he knew from their idle shifts and ran downstairs, coming to the thing’s side. He had been propped onto the lobby couch, blood oozing from his back, his hands holding onto a pair of wings. “Michael,” Raphael screamed, “Michael, can you hear me?”

The thing with no wings looked at him, dimly. He chuckled. “You know, I think you once said that only acids could cut it off,” he said. “Did you try a chainsaw?”

Raphael shook his head, holding the thing’s back up to face him. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he whispered, before snapping to the nurses, “Someone get him a stretcher, now.”

But a male and female nurse had already come in carrying one, a female nurse helping Raphael gently carrying him to it. “It’s going to be alright, Michael,” Raphael whispered as they sped towards the emergency room, repeating the same words he heard family members of dying patients say, “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

It wasn’t okay. He knew it wasn’t okay. Michael knew, too. The thing with no wings looked up at him, earnestly, his eyes no longer filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, Ralph,” he managed, “I’m sorry for Lucy. I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for everything that happened in heaven and in hell.”

For a moment, Raphael thought he remembered. He thought he remembered a battle for heaven, a decision to choose mortality over the divine, a decision to run away. He didn’t know if he did or if it was his mind playing tricks on him. “If you die,” he said, clutching at the thing’s hand, “I will never forgive you.”

Michael smiled.

The time of death was three AM in the morning. Raphael waited in the dimness of the hospital hallways, his face flickering like the fluorescent lights above him. The moment his fellow doctor opened the door with shadows under his eyes, he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to feel it. He didn’t want his hope, his feathered thing, to be crushed by the weight of the situation.

When the doctor looked at him, he wept.

Michael’s last wish was to donate his body to science. They found that his blood had healing properties to it, and reconstructed it to create various cures to fatal illnesses that went beyond just cancer. Raphael helped pioneer them. He and the dead thing in the morgue were seen as universal heroes.

But there would be no celebration on Raphael’s part. He was given the wings from Michael’s corpse, told that he was the closest the thing had to a relative. Raphael hung them in his future office, a gigantic space filled with mahogany and bookshelves, because he had to be reminded that Michael was gone.

There was neither a heaven nor a hell that waited for Raphael—only the silence of the Earth, and the brokenness of wings. 

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5 Reviews

Points: 532
Reviews: 5

Tue Jun 07, 2016 9:35 pm
Solarpen wrote a review...

Hello! I really liked this story. The theme of angels that have become human really catches my eye.

However, there were some things that confused me. Like Noelle said below, Raphael's introduction as a character was off - I had to stop for a moment and reread it to understand that he WAS a doctor and not a random pedestrian caught up in the crowd.

I'm also confused about the main theme of the story and the ending. What was it particularly supposed to be about - Michael wanting his wings off, or his relationship with Raphael? Why was Michael a traitor?

Loved the story, though. Very good.

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1417 Reviews

Points: 3733
Reviews: 1417

Sun Apr 24, 2016 2:25 pm
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Noelle wrote a review...

Hi there! Noelle here to review as requested.

I'm feeling a bit harsh today so beware :3 Although my harsh is probably tame compared to everyone else's harsh...

The first thing I noticed is that I never knew Raphael was a doctor. I was reading this story, imagining a random man off the streets being called in to this hospital to talk to Michael. As I read on it became obvious that Raphael is a doctor. That's something I would've liked to know at the beginning. Something like a blatant statement that he's a doctor. Obviously not a "Raphael was a doctor there." That would be dumb. A good place would probably be in those few paragraphs at the beginning where we're learning about Raphael. He believes in medicine because he's a doctor. Reading that he believes in medicine doesn't prove much to me.

Speaking of those few paragraphs, I wanted to talk about them. Character development is always important. Duh, we all know that. The problem is, how can we develop characters without info dumping? We have to weave the story of our characters within the story we're telling. At the beginning of this story we're told all about Raphael. I knew everything I'd need to know about him. That's great. But it took away from the story. I felt like I was reading through an introduction before the story began. I wanted to learn about Raphael through the story, through whatever it is he was going to do. I didn't get that. Once the story began though, I felt more in tune with the characters. And that wasn't because of the paragraphs at the beginning. I actually forgot all about them.

I feel the same way about the last three paragraphs. The very end line I like. It wraps up the story nicely, pulling together everything that happened into one sentence. The two paragraphs before that though, seem to have little purpose. Why do we need to know about what happened after Michael died? He was the whole focus of this story. Here's a man who looks like an angel who wants his wings cut off. He ended up without any wings. End of story. The thing with shorts is that they're only a portion of a larger story. This story is focusing on Michael and Raphael's relationship. There's not really a need to expand upon that.

By the end I feel I have a good idea of who each of these characters are. Raphael is a nonbeliever who's forced to reconsider because of a man who is a believer, who claims he knows Raphael. Michael is trying to convince Raphael of the truth while Raphael is trying not to accept it. I can see that unfolding. What I don't understand is why Michael donates his body to science in the end. It just doesn't seem like something he would do. Sure he wants his wings cut off, but that's all he wants. Never do I get the impression that he cares enough about humans to help. He wants to find his friends and set everything right again. The greater good of humanity seems to be something that would be far from his mind. Maybe he had a change of heart when he ran away, who knows. But there isn't any evidence to support that so I can't come to that conclusion. I'd reconsider that part of the ending.

There's really only one more thing that I want to mention. The wings. It's mentioned that the doctors tried everything to get the wings off. It comes down to fire and acid hurting the wings. Michael knew about that, but never reached the point where he was desperate enough to steal one of the two and do it himself. Yet near the end he did reach that point. It makes me think that he would've done that earlier as well. He'd still want to seek out Raphael and make things right, but he'd want the wings off even more. I guess the real thing that makes me second guess this is we don't know how much damage the fire and acid really does. The doctor mentions it does damage, but there's no explanation beyond that. Raphael would know what damage it did because he's a doctor working there and he's no doubt read all the reports. We don't know all of that though, so we need to be told. Small details can become rather important in the long run.

Overall you've got a good story here. I enjoy shorts that focus on characters and their relationships. As exciting as an action packed story is, it's nice to explore a character and really find what makes them tick. That's what creates a story worth writing, and ultimately reading. Thank you for a wonderful read.

Keep writing!

Sujana says...


thank you noelle, that was extremely helpful. I now know what to cut to make this a bit shorter.

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8 Reviews

Points: 680
Reviews: 8

Fri Apr 22, 2016 2:22 am
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Notrandomatall says...

Just, woah.Not a bad woah, good woah. Woah.
In all honesty it reminded me of Supernatural.
While I don't agree with everything you wrote, it is a good story and definitely one I will reference later for future inspiration.

Now that I'm over the bafflement:
It's a well executed story with an interesting spin on angles. Yes, like I said earlier, I thought of Supernatural.

You did a good job of giving the reader a reason to feel. You made me feel what the characters were feeling.

You're a great author, keep up the good work!

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34 Reviews

Points: 439
Reviews: 34

Fri Apr 15, 2016 2:48 pm
JediDeadpool says...

The sad part is I can't even review this :'(

Sujana says...


i swear ill ask one of the reviewers from the request boards to save this good for nothing little irrationality

JediDeadpool says...

*wipes sweat off brow*
Thank goodness. Perhaps now I'll be able to sleep at night

JediDeadpool says...

It's still here liek what even

Sujana says...

hey bruh if you really liked it could you leave a like on it so that at least it doesnt look sad and lonely


JediDeadpool says...

I did like it the first time I read it, then unliked it immediately. I've technically liked it about 30 times since then. But now it's all official ^-^

Sujana says...

aw thank you bae *hugs even harder*

*chokes you in hug*


but then again youre deadpool so youll live

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34 Reviews

Points: 439
Reviews: 34

Fri Apr 08, 2016 3:22 pm
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JediDeadpool says...

Spoiler! :
Please excuse my obsessive love-rant of your piece. I looked at it objectively after writing it and realized it was ridiculous. I then submitted it anyways

There come times (all too rarely) where I read something so staggeringly profound that after I finish I sit there in awe for minutes. Slumped over, staring at the screen with a numbness that can only be described as a self defense mechanism. My whole being refusing to let the beauty of the work consume me, for it would surely kill me. My body on temporary hiatus to spectate while my heart and my brain are locked in a primal battle with my eyes as referee. My heart championing this is the most beautiful work of art I have ever encountered, and my brain attesting that this work is not only illogical, but also that since I have read the 12 times it is at this point detrimental to my health.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, and chased my breath around the room for half an hour before finally catching, it I felt I had to try to convey the beauty I saw in this work.
You have created one of my all-time-favorite works on YWS, and I shall come back to read it again in the future. If I gave out YWS medals, they would surely have to fire me because I'd end up giving you all of them.

Sujana says...

...Okay but seriously, thank your precious little soul

Because I'll be honest, I'm not a hundred percent proud with this. It's not my best work, in my opinion. But I've been in a bit of a slump, and your comment made my day. Gah, I wish you wrote a review instead so I'd know where I can fix stuff.

JediDeadpool says...

I like it that you think it's a bit flawed, due to the subject of it.

But I've never wanted to pick up a story and hug it and pet it's hair until I think it stopped crying. It was a strange feeling and I loved it

Sujana says...


unlike my heretic soul yours will probably go to heaven

(we should just call the green room purgatory at this point because this work will forever be stuck in it)

JediDeadpool says...

Don't you have to believe I heaven to go there..?

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741 Reviews

Points: 11133
Reviews: 741

Wed Mar 16, 2016 4:14 pm
CaptainJack wrote a review...

Hey there ellmist. It's just lizzy dropping by real quick, so without a further ado, let the reviewing begin.

1. When this story was first published I read it and started to write a review. I never got around to it and then I stumbled on the piece once again in the green room. You did four reviews of my chapters and it only seems fair that I repay the favor. No discussion on length is necessary even though it took me a long time to get through this. The chain of events are very complex but I'll save that conversation for later. There is probably some other piece in the green room that needs a length rant so you're being skipped of this great honor for now. Onward troops to conquer the next category.

2. I usually take one of my paragraphs to talk about the subject matter, plot and storyline. I have to admit I couldn't help but laughing when I started to think about what to write seeing as we were just talking about Supernatural. Emotion wise I would say that part was executed very well and I almost cried. (I don't cry from stories very often except for a rare few.) You made it 50% of the way there so congrats.

3. One part I really liked was the conversations between Michael and Raphiel. Again, this part drew on my heart strings. There were also a couple of lines that struck me as funny but I don't know if they were intended to be that way or not. Like this one for example.

Raphael was frantic. He made calls to the police station, the local newspapers, even other counties, every one of them making him sound like a raving maniac. A person is flying in the air, but without helicopters or airplanes, he told them, he may or may not be suicidal.

When I read that line I was thinking, what do you tell the cops? That there was this angel who wanted his wings clipped off but then he flew out of the hospital. That would get him dragged off to a mental institution. So why does it seem the authorities are just acting a little too calm.

4. And here comes by paragraph full of miscellaneous comments and questions that wouldn't fit anywhere else in my review.
i. There were little to no curse words making it a pretty clean piece except for this line.
Raphael shook his head, holding the thing’s back up to face him. “You’re a f---ing idiot,” he whispered, before snapping to the nurses, “Someone get him a stretcher, now.”

I believe that there is some sort of requirement rating even if the word is only used once.
ii. I don't know how many would but wouldn't some people take offense or really just anger at your piece. By my family's standards I am Catholic but I don't step foot in church very often. It doesn't have that much attatchment to religion I just thought I should ask.
iii. This should have been asked somewhere else but what was your inspiration for this piece? Just wondering.

5. Sorry for such a quick review. I just had 15 spare minutes lying around in between classes.

Sujana says...

Oh, well this was a surprise. Hello again, Lizzy. I've always wondered if any of my works would make Catholics angry--my subconscious seems to be determined to do two things, and that is to annoy the living crap out of reviewers because of my long works and to make some religious groups extremely angry. I think I'd call this tame if albeit a bit blasphemous, compared to other things I've written involving human beings

As for inspiration, I had a dream once about having wings and wanting them cut off. I had very little idea why, so I decided to explain it in a way that made sense.

Thank you for the review!

A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.
— Markus Zusak, The Book Thief