Angel Snakes

The Sign of the Gnome

Nissa, a small Angel Snake with body paint done in the latest array of pinks and purples, needed a new home, one with a more peaceful karma. The last artist had just not worked out. “Top Draw” he had called himself. What in the world kind of name was that? Top Draw. Nissa had once asked him about his name and all he replied was, “Don’t you get it, Dude? Top Draw. That’s me.”

She did not get it then, and after being with him for three months, she still did not get it. By anyone’s standards, his drawings were terrible. Furthermore, he had attracted only two fans—his mom and a girl who was so lonely and unattractive that all he had had to do was look at her and say, “Wadup?” to smite her with true love. That was it, two fans.

Arrogant—he was so arrogant. Nissa had offered many encouragements and suggestions. She had patiently watched him work and not work. She had left little presents on his easel. He would pick them up, look at them, shrug “huh” and then toss them into the corner. 

How much abuse should an Angel Snake endure before losing all her self-respect, before giving up? 

Back in school, numerous seminars had been offered on the topic of practical musing. Nissa had frankly not paid much attention to the ones on discerning the suitability of new employment opportunities. Now she wished she had. She had always thought she could rely on her beauty and the luck of the stars to get her where she wanted to go. 

As she lazily flew through a quiet neighborhood bordering the arts district, her eye caught several gnomes grouped in a garden. Then she remembered. Yes. The old Angel Snakes had mentioned garden gnomes as a sign of a likely suitable spot. It made sense. 

Garden gnomes would not be present unless someone in the house had a whimsical, creative spirit and an active imagination. Nissa circled the brown Arts & Crafts house several times before landing on the porch to wait for the inhabitants to come out so she could introduce herself. 

 

The Magic Pouch

On this rainy afternoon, Linda was headed for the local public library where she had promised to read stories to the children after school. She herself was feeling none too chipper, none too magical—the lack of which qualities usually made for a trying afternoon. On her way out the door, she grabbed her magic pouch. Reaching in, she pulled out a stone, and began to finger it in her pocket as she walked over the colorful wet leaves plastered to the sidewalk like a magic carpet. 

[What about the magic pouch? It was a small leather bag containing small stones and found objects worth nothing on the open market. The baubles simply delighted those who saw them or held them in their hands. Soon their imaginations would take off in some unexpected direction—out the window, down the lane, or to the stars. A certain power would take hold, pushing thoughts a wee bit further than might be expected.]

The stone today reminded Linda of her own childhood when she looked forward to story time at the library because in her small town, that was the biggest excitement to be had on a summer’s day. An old lady whom everyone called Aunt Hattie would appear in her sensible shoes, grey skirt, and lilac blouse with a brooch at the neck and seat herself on a low chair covered in crimson velvet.

Aunt Hattie always told a little story about herself before she began the reading, a story that somehow explained why she chose that story to read on that particular day, or how that story had affected her a long, long time ago, when she was young and heard it for the first time.

Then she would transport us to some distant place, around the corner, where all things were possible and even small acts had great significance, where everything was connected, where conflicts could all be resolved, where bad people received their just deserts, and good people basked in the glow of admiration and respect.

Yes, the pouch had again worked its magic. Linda took a deep breath, “From now on, I am Aunt Hattie when I go to the library—maybe at other times too.”

 

The Ripe Mango

Julietta slithered her way from one end of the kitchen counter to the other following the sweet scent of the ripe mangoes. Something in her snake brain could not resist the pull of that aroma. She began to shiver slightly all over as she neared her objective. She could not recall ever having smelled something like that and wasn’t exactly sure what it was. She must have it. 

Her Grandmother had warned her that such things existed, things to which she was already addicted. Her grandmother said that the consensus among Angel Snake scholars was that certain fruits had been present and consumed on a daily basis millennia ago in The Garden, before the unfortunate incident.

Julietta took deep breaths to calm her nerves and pressed ahead, but the breaths served only to increase her desire for whatever it was. 

Finally she saw what she knew must be the source of the aroma—a lovely green, pink, red, yellow, orange fruit lying there on the counter like some ordinary apple or lemon. Clearly, it was food for the gods. 

She should have held back, considering the fruit was not precisely hers. Vivian might have some special purpose for the fruit. Julietta should have waited until it was offered. She should have at least asked. Alas, none of these thoughts even flitted through her small brain, not the conscious part anyway. 

Julietta simply forged ahead with her mouth wide open. As her extended fangs touched the skin, she sank them deeply into the soft sugary flesh. Juice shot into her mouth and into her brain calling up memories and experiences she herself had never had. She could not stop herself and ate and ate and ate until the sticky pulp covered her dark skin and bloated her belly. She could not stop until it was all consumed. Even then she continued to lick the pit and pick off the remaining strings.

The crime scene was bloodied with the orange syrup, and Julietta lay in the middle in a drugged stupor.

When the viciousness of her attack on the fruit slowly dawned on her, shame crept in with it. Any minute Vivian would come in to make coffee. Julietta’s life would be over. Vivian would surely cast her out into the cold. And they had been making such progress on the pots for her next exhibit.

The overhead light’s sudden flash blinded Julietta. She squeezed her eyes shut as it to fend off what was to come. 

Vivian let out a whoop and then laughed, “Oh I see you found the mango. I thought you might like it.”

 

Colored Index Cards

Laura Liebowitz's life was nothing if it wasn't organized. Her entire existence was outlined on colored index cards. Blue for household chores, yellow for exercise, red for food, orange for shopping, black for sleeping, pink for underwear, magenta for hats, cerise for exercise clothes, rust for coats and outerwear, and so on. 

When she had run out of manufactured colored cards, she had created her own with Sharpies or colored pencils and stiff paper. So many and varied were her colors and categories that, truly, they had ceased to mean anything.

Gloria, a recently unemployed older Angel Snake, flew by Gloria's dining room window and saw all the cards spread out on the table. The table had been extended as far as it would go by the addition of all the leaves. She stopped to examine the array of cards and watch Laura fussing with them. Settled on an overhanging branch, Gloria watched for most of one day as Laura made notes, colored cards, and moved things around. The pattern that was created was quite nice and reminded Gloria of a quilt. 

Suddenly, Gloria saw her work laid out before her: Get to know Laura and teach her to quilt. All that obsessive/compulsive behavior could be put into something productive and beautiful.

All Gloria had to do was find a way to work herself into Laura's life and gently guide her in the right direction. This would be too much fun.

 

Creativity at Shaker Village

Shaker Village, southwest of Lexington, Kentucky recreates to peaceful, arts and craft rich life of early Shakers. Nowadays, it is mostly a museum where costumed docents tell the stories of days gone by. 

No craftsmen actually live in the village any more. But, some Angel Snakes still do. Others go there for a vacation to rest from their work with artists in the real world. The problems happen when those gentle muses get restless from too much rest. Then  they need to find someone to prod and inspire to work harder and better. 

The restaurant and hotel on the premisis are first class, probably because of Angel Snakes who say to whomever will listen: "Couldn't you improve that just a bit? How about an intriguing garnish? Serve it on a different plate. Stack it instead of lying it flat. Flavor the butter. Fold the napkins more creatively. Add a flower arrangement to each table." And so on.

Of course, such actions upset the order of things. Such is the nature of creativity. You can't make something new if you do it the same way every time.

Look at the lovely aspic with a boiled egg inside. I'll bet an Angel Snake was responsible for that innovation.

Wings Up!!!
Madilla 

PS: Although it is the middle of August, the weather is beginning to feel like fall here in Kentucky.

Gertrude, Angel Snake Artist

"Oh, horsefeathers!" muttered Gertrude.

"There is no such thing as horsefeathers," retorted Lova the Lizard.

"Well, it is something to say that is better than what I could have said," she responded. "Leave me alone. I am working. Don't stand there; you will get me off track!"

"What difference would that make? What you are doing isn't all that great anyway.  . . .  And you know it." Lova was not an artist, and had no patience with those who made any attempt to express their creative gifts.

"Just exactly what are you trying to achieve with those bits of trash?" asked the sneering Lova.

Gertrude lifted fully half of her long body off the limb and glared at the lizard with her huge eyes, "These 'bits of trash' are hummingbird feathers I gathered with great care and effort. Their irridescence catches the sun in a most marvelous way. I am making a mosaic of them here on this tree where I like to sit and contemplate the good things in my life." 

"If the sun is so important why don't you work in the sun. This is shade."

"It is summer now. I am making it for the winter when all the leaves have fallen off the tree. Then the mosaic will catch the full power of the sun's rays, as will I, lying next to it."

"It makes no sense, all that work. Just go lie on a rock today and every other day and look at the scenery."

"You go lie on a rock," shouted Gertrude. "I am not going to listen to you any more. Period."

Lova looked up into the sky, "Maybe you should listen to me about the hawk that is higher up and is eyeing you. Might want to take cover."

Gertrude kept working. Hawk or no hawk, sun or no sun, lizard or no lizard. She was an artist. If she did not create something today, she would shrivel up and die anyway.

 

Lova - Chapter 10 - Part 1

        Ellie enters the commons along with several hundred other freshmen pulled in by the stream. By now the sitting and standing spots have been thoroughly staked out and secured. They will not change at all for the next nine months. Many will not change for four years, if then.

        Ellie goes to the spot she and Jack have claimed in the center of the cafeteria—the area for losers, loners, and loonies. Facing the serving lines, she waits for Jack who soon appears from the Country Cookin’ line.

        She sets her tray on the table and straddles the attached stool. Friday is Pizza day—pizza (the entrée), fries (the vegetable), ketchup (the fruit), green jello (the salad) and chocolate milk (the healthy beverage).

        Better than nothing (just). A meal guaranteed to send its eaters into slumber land during 4th and 5th periods.

        “Hey girl, what’s happenin’?” asks Jack who is wearing the same clothes she wore yesterday and the day before.

        “The car broke. My mom’s got to take a second job. My baby sitting schedule just went from part-time to full-time.”

        “At least your mom cares. Stop complaining,” with that Jack looks up and over Ellie’s black helmet of hair. “Oh, shit! Here come the Buxom Bitches.”

        “Ignore them,” instructs Ellie. “Just ignore them. Pay them no mind. That is the best way to insult them.”

        “Right! Just go make your stupid speeches. Pay those people in the audience no mind.”

        “Not fair.”

        “Whatever.”

        “Oh Jacqueline, what a charming meal! Is that from the Country Cooking line? I must try that some time so that I can see how the other half lives.” Lauren leans over, examines the meal, and sniffs. Her entourage is already laughing.

        Lauren moves to her table and opens a bag subtly labeled with the name of an expensive restaurant up the highway. She takes out the black plastic box and opens it. She unwraps chopsticks and begins to deftly pick up morsels and lift them to her mouth.

        “That Bitch,” mutters Jack.

        “Yes,” remarks Ellie, “a bona fide bitch.”

        “Go ahead and eat some of this,” Jack commands. “Seeing her makes me sick. I don’t know how much more I can stand.”

        Ellie reaches over and grabs some fries. When she thinks no one is looking, she slips a couple into her handbag. Lova will just have to deal with it.

        The two friends sit in silence and finish Jack’s meal together. A few minutes before the bell is to ring to send them on to fourth period, students begin clear the tables and carry trays to the clean up area. Then they slowly head for the door. Most ninth grade classes are in a wing at the back of the building, a long walk from the cafeteria. Students who tarry over lunch wind up tardy to class.

        As Lauren’s group approaches, Jack and Ellie pick up words like “white trash . . . country cookin’ . . . prisoner . . . one out-fit  . . . jack-off.“  They are all laughing and staring at Jack.

        Slowly, Jack stands, picks up her tray, yells “You bitch!” and throws it at Lauren. They tray itself misses Lauren entirely but red ketchup, green Jello, and brown milk hit the front of her tight sequined shirt and dribble down her short skirt to her designer shoes and the floor.

        All noise in the cafeteria suddenly stops. For at least ten seconds, an eternity, no one says a thing. Lauren just stands still and stares at Jack. Suddenly, shouts of “Girl fight” ring out. The bell to send students to class sounds, but no one moves to the door; instead they all gather nearer to the center of activity and form a loose circle around the two girls.

        “Leave me alone, you bitch,” yells Jack. “Just leave me alone.”

Lova - Chapter 9 - Part 2

        Just then Kiley burst into the back door. “Ellie, let me talk to Kiley for a little while. Go freshen up and then if you could fix supper for you and Kiley and help her with her homework, it would really help me a lot. We’ll talk more later.”

        “I love you, Mom,” whispered Ellie.

        “I love you too,” Anna said as she hugged Ellie one more time.

        Ellie picks up her backpack and handbag and heads to her room. She has barely shut the door before the squeaky, grating voice starts up, “Ellie, you cannot ‘suck it up.’ You know that. You’re mom does not get it. She does not understand. She is not the one who has to survive four more years with those people. ‘Suck it up’? What is she thinking. She just does not have time for you any more. What could she do anyway?”

        “I know. I know. I know. I will have to do this on my own. And now, I have to take more care of my sister. Like I have not been doing that already. Why did the damned car have to break? It is not fair.” Ellie plops down on her bed.

        “It is so not fair. You are right. Can you do me a favor now?”

        “No, I will not go get you some Cheetos.”

        “Not that, although they would taste good. No, would you tell me the story of what happened in the fourth grade again? It helps me to understand you better. I need to hear it again.”

        Having nothing better to do, Ellie starts in, “When I was in fourth grade, I had to get up and make a speech in front of the class and I had not. . . .”

        “No, I need all the details. Start with the assignment the week before. Then tell me everything.”

        Leaning back on her pillows, Ellie says, “Ms. Lacey the teacher assigned us a speech about some place we had visited. . . .”

        Lova interrupts again, “Describe the classroom for me. I need to get the whole picture. I need to really understand.”

        Before Ellie’s mom had knocks on the door to tell her good-bye, Ellie has told Lova the story three times and is starting on the fourth.

Lova - Chapter 9 - Part 1

        Thursday afternoon when Ellie puts her key into the lock of her badly-in-need-of-paint back door, she finds it already unlocked. Her mom’s car is not in the driveway. Did she leave the house unlocked all day? No, she distinctly remembers locking it and trying the lock. She is the last one out in the morning.

        Lova pushes to the top of the bag and asks, “Ellie, what’s up? You are panicking. What is going on?”

        “The house is open. Someone could be in there.”

        Just at that moment, Ellie looks through the glass of the back door and sees her mother come into the kitchen. She relaxes a bit but knows that something is wrong. Mom at home at the wrong time of day with no car. Definitely something wrong. As she opens the back door and walks into the kitchen, she reaches down and shoves Lova back to the bottom of her bag.

        “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

        Her mom comes over and hugs Ellie tightly, and then holds her at arms length as she smiles weakly, “A lot is up, Honey. Let’s get a soda and go sit in the living room.”

        Ellie’s mom Anna is small, wiry, like Ellie; unlike Ellie, Anna exudes a toughness that Ellie has not acquired, at least yet. Anna wears her light brown hair short so she doesn’t have to take much time to fix it in the morning. She is wearing her old frayed jeans and a faded “Crayfish Festival” T-shirt from several years ago, not the uniform she wears when she goes to work at the county jail.

        Ellie pops ice cubes from a plastic tray, puts them in mismatched plastic cups, and pours in a generic brand cola. She carries the cups into the next room and sags into the already sagging grey sofa. An old window air-conditioner is working hard to cool the room to a temperature more comfortable than the 101º outside.

        “How bad is it, Mom?” Ellie’s stomach is churning and the rash on her arms starts to itch. She blurts out rapidly, “What happened to the car? Why are you home on a work day? Did you lose your job? What?”

        “No, Honey, I did not lose my job, but the car did start acting funny on the way to work. I got it to the service station after I dropped Kiley off. They can fix it, but it will cost over $900. Ellie, I don’t have $900. Gloria came and picked me up at the garage and brought me back home. I took the day off from work to think and figure some things out. I was able to talk to your father over the internet at Gloria’s house. I feel better now. But it was a rough day.”

        Ellie scoots over and puts her arms around her mom, “Thank you, Honey.” She takes a deep breath, “Now comes the hard part. I am going to have to take a second job. There is just no other way around it. I talked to my boss at the jail and I am going to work ten hour night shifts four nights a week. It really works out to be about eleven hours with breaks and all. She is such a great boss, so helpful and understanding.

        “Then Gloria took me over to Dawson’s where she works. They need someone to work in customer service on the weekends. I will do that. I know it will be especially hard on you. You will have to do more around here to take care of yourself and your sister. I hope this won’t last long. Just until your dad comes home from Iraq. After Christmas. We will get by. I start at Dawson’s tonight at five so I need to get ready soon. How was your day?”

        Ellie looks at her mom and lies, “It was okay.”

        “How are your classes?”

        “Okay, I guess.”

        “How about speech class? I know that is going to be a hard one for you.” Anna looks squarely at Ellie and searches her face.

        Ellie’s facade crumbles. Her shoulders start to shake. Anna reaches out and hugs Ellie again. “Oh, Baby, you just have to get over that time. It’s hard; life is hard. You can do it; just suck it up and do it. You can be strong. Just stand up and do what you have to do. Don’t pay those bitches any mind.”

        Ellie had never heard her mom call her classmates “bitches.” Of course, she is right. Ellie has to laugh through her tears. Somehow it makes her feel better, at least for the moment.

Lova - Chapter 8 - Lauren Looms

Lova Speaks -

        I become their secret too. The method for dealing with fear must be just as much a secret as the fear itself.
In school especially, it is so not okay to be afraid, at least so not okay to show it. If the bully sharks smell fear in the water, they circle and summon their friends to prepare for the feast.

        School nurses know all about it. They know the ones who are deathly afraid but cannot admit it, even to their parents, even to themselves. They know.

        Sometimes I hang out in the school clinic. Game days, tough practice days, and big test days see particularly high traffic.

* * *

        Just as Ellie reaches into the tray at the bottom of the snack machine, Jack comes up behind her and grabs the package.

        Ellie turns and shouts, “Hey, what are you doing? Those are mine; they are for . . . .”

        “For who?” questions Jack with a twinkle in her eye as she rips the bag open and dumps several Cheetos into her mouth. Jack looks at Ellie’s face and sees something more like fear than anger and hands the package back. “I just wanted a taste. No harm done.”

        Without closing it, Ellie quickly stuffs the package into her handbag. Jack has on the same clothes she wore yesterday. Ellie has on a different black tee shirt, but is otherwise wearing the same clothes as the last three days.

        “Since when did you get all girly and start carrying a purse?” asks Jack as she playfully shoves Ellie. “You aren’t going sissy on me, are you?”

        “No, it’s just for my cell,” assures Ellie. “It’s easier to keep an eye on it.” Jack does not appear convinced and turns to leave.

        Each dressed in a fourth smashing outfit for the week, the three harpies—Lauren, Brooke, and Chelsea—are standing right behind Ellie, forming a menacing wall that forces her and Jack back into to the machines. Their silence is more intimidating than any words they could utter. They all smile and then separate as the warning bell for first period rings.

* * *

        The bodies of the students that had been churning in the commons suddenly start flowing toward the two main halls that lead to the classroom wings. Ellie and Jack allow themselves to be pulled into the stream.

        “I hate it that we have no classes together,” says Ellie softly.

        “But at least there is lunch,” assures Jack. “At least we have that.”

        “So, do you think you can talk your grandmother into getting you a phone?”

        “No way,” says Jack. “She needs to buy booze. And it is my money, the money I get from welfare. You have no idea how mad it makes me.” Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “My mom is supposed to call this weekend. I will have to talk to her in front of Gramma, but at least I can talk to her.”

        Ellie listens and can think of nothing comforting to say so she just moans quietly. Jack senses her sympathy, and they walk on in silence until Jack asks, “What’s up with Robby? He treatin’ you all right?” asks Jack.

        “He had to move to Dallas to live with his father. His mom got a new boyfriend who doesn’t want kids around. Can you believe it?” replies Ellie. Robby had been Ellie’s boyfriend through the second half of the eighth grade.

        “Do you hear from him?”

        “He called once.”

        “Hmmmmm. Life sucks.”

        “Big time. . . . What is the deal with Lauren and company?”

        They are at Jack’s classroom so she says, “We’ll talk at lunch,” and disappears into a science lab. Ellie moves on to her computer class.

        She can feel Lova moving around in the bottom of her handbag.

* * *

        “Have you ever heard of anything called a ‘Socratic Seminar’?” asks Ellie as she slams her handbag down on the table in the commons. “Oh, sorry, . . . ,” she mutters, thinking of Lova inside.

        “How many more ways can teachers come up with to make my life a living hell?” she asks Jack who is already seated with a tray from the Country Cookin’ line. Ellie reaches over and grabs a French fry without asking. No way is she about to reach into the bag of Cheetos that Lova has been working her way through all morning. They are going to have to talk about the crackling plastic bag and the crunching when the class is very quiet.

        Jack warns Ellie, “Lay off the fries. This is the only meal I will get today. You know it’s bad when I stoop to go through that line and eat this slop.”

        “Gotcha, sorry. I hate the stares,” Ellie says softly. “Anyway, Socratic Seminars? We get a grade for talking and asking questions. We have to read this article and then we get a grade for what we say. It is only a daily grade, but still, they add up. She says we will have several every six weeks. Says we have to be able to discuss things intelligently. Can you believe it?”

        “Boy, I am glad I don’t have Pre-AP English. But I could so do that discussion thing. I am good at that. They would have to tell me to be quiet. I have that old lady Mrs. Proctor. She’s older than dirt, and lazy. I will definitely ace that class. My B.S. Is good.” Typical Jack.

        “Now, tell me about Lauren. What happened?”

        “Well, it’s like this. . . . Aren’t you going to eat anything? What about those Cheetos?”

        “I, uhm, ate them between periods. I’m fine.” Ellie does not lie very well.

        “Okay, whatever, anyway, it’s like this. Right at the end of the semester, I never got to tell you this, but we had a project due in history. I did mine. It was actually pretty good, about the Civil War, and what Texans did in the war. My dad helped me. He loves Texas history.

        “Anyway, I had brought it to school and left it in Ms. Simpson’s room, my English teacher, because Mr. Marsden coached first period and his room was not open. Well, Lauren stole it. Just like that. Took a marker and put her name on it and turned it in. When I went to Ms. Simpson’s before history to get the project, it was gone. I couldn’t believe it.

        “I went to history and there it sat with Lauren’s name on it. Lauren came over and whispered to me that if I didn’t stay quiet and let her have the project, I would be sorry. Of course, I wasn’t about to be quiet. I threw a fit, screamed and hollered and got sent to the office. I finally made them call my dad and he told about what he had done to help me. He couldn’t describe it because he helped me over the phone, but anyway, they finally believed him and me, and Lauren got in a heap of trouble.

        “If her grandfather wasn’t assistant superintendent, she would have gone to alternative school. All that happened was she was warned and got a ‘B’ in history instead of an ‘A.’ Her dad used to be head football coach at the high school and is friends with Mr. Marsden.

        “So it is payback time. But, I am here to tell you, no way am I going to put up with her shit this year. She better leave me alone.”