This thing that never happened (or a rough script for my comics project)
I have to write about this thing that never happened. It could have happened but it never did. I was there, so I know it never happened.

The bus carried me home, as it always had, in my detached haze of dreaming drowsy downtrodden dreams of what I couldashouldawoulda done had work and my need for monetary compensation not beckoned. The rain ran ragged down the windows. Stop go stop go. On off.

Al sorts of people ride the bus. Young, old; warm, gold; shy, bold. I have met artists, priests, punks, men and women, boys and girls.

And once, an angel.

The angel had raven hair, the blackness of which had not been seen since the great nothing that became everything exploded forth eons ago. She was round and fertile, as one who brings life into the world would be. She smelled of cloves and beginnings. She had dark eyes that had been open longer than there has been light to see with. Her wings (I’m sure she had them) were hidden beneath a chocolate brown coat that fit her curves and allowed the fairness of her skin to illuminate the bus.

I knew she was an angel because I had dreamed her origins.

As she boarded I found myself dozing and then floating in the desert sky. The desert over which I floated was God’s land, as all lands are.

In this land many gods had intruded upon the One to live in the Holy Ka’ba, God’s House upon the Earth. And thus came the Prophet, who had heard the secrets of the world from the angel Gibreel. It is possible that, like Jacob, he had wrestled the angel into submission for these secrets, but that is another matter. The prophet knew that these stones which lived in the house of Ibrahim, which he had built for god, were but facsimiles, manufactured, to serve the needs of man and not to glorify the true nature of the unseen creator of all that is and ever will be.

She lived in this house. And her name was Al-Lat. Her sisters were Al-Manat and Al-Uzza and they had been agents of the creator but now sat on pagan thrones, which they had not built for themselves.

We are weak you see. We feel we need things. We feel we need gods. We feel we need leaders to do the heavy lifting for us. They make the world magically better, happier, and safer.

Yet we are the ancestors of those winged seraphim who descended from on high to build the world. We are they and they became us. They built the vision of the creator and then populated it.

And the prophet knew that it was time we took charge of ourselves and realized that all were one.

He banished those who lived in God’s house (though he failed to point out that perhaps God has little need for a house). He brought God’s word to these desert people and the world (though he seemed only able to convey these words in his own tongue). He banished the daughters of God (yet referred to them as birds of Heaven).

I dreamed that I asked her what she had felt when the Prophet banished she and her sisters.

She said, “I was glad to be done with it all. They worship us and beg of us for that which we cannot give them. Nor can even the creator give them more than has already been given to them. Life is all there is. That is all we could give them. You all wanted to reach up to Heaven and all we wanted was to live and die as you do.”

And in this city, where we see the sands slide slowly down the hour glass. Where we ask what can be done and do not ask what WE can do. An angel tells me she wishes only to be one of us. To face the inevitability of death. To struggle and fail under her own power in her own world without wings or the hand of God.

She is riding the same bus as I am. We are all going to the same place. We will all exit eventually because we cannot ride forever.