I’m extremely late to the party (especially considering Friday comes to some parts of the world when it’s still Thursday here) but I’ve finally gotten to my Friday Fictioneers post. Yet again it’s something a little different for me (I don’t usually write much of anything related to religion) and it’s way, way, way too long (not so much flash fiction as extended-full-frontal-nudity fiction) but hopefully some of you will make it to the end.

Bernie

Bernie stood at the mirror and flexed his new wings, wincing as they pulled taut the raw-sewn wound. They were heavy and strong.

“Magnificent,” he said, but the surgeon only grimaced.

“The human body was not designed to bear such weight,” he said gravely.

“And what of the human soul?” Bernie replied. “The Seraphim, the burning ones – they who sit closest to the throne of God – first made proof of their devotion when they kissed the hot coals. To be close to God is only a burden to the unbelievers – and like Icarus they burn in his fire – but the truly devout know only glory in His light.”

The surgeon said nothing to that, and Bernie went home to heal. When at last the flesh had knit and the pain was gone, he went up on a hill and looked into the sky.

“Now I prove my devotion,” he whispered.

Slowly, carefully, he unfurled his wings, the white feathers shining with the sun’s radiance, and then — with a single fluid surge — he lifted himself from the ground.

Higher, higher he flew into the empty sky, leaving the earth shrinking and cold below.  The wind gusted in his face and he laughed with joy, flying ever higher until there seemed nothing about him but the ever expanding heavens, and nothing below but the hopelessness of the world, left forever behind.

But the human body wasn’t designed to bear such weight (and frankly doesn’t care what the soul has to say about it) and before long Bernie was laboring for each and every rise. His back ached and his muscles failed and beads of sweat broke out on his skin – or was he melting?

“No,” he shouted. “This is your test. You must not fail it. You must not burn.”

And with one last triumphant push he drove his wings down, earthward, with all his might, filling their plumage with a great breath of sky …

Hours later, and many miles away, a man crashed down in a great storm of feathers. They say his back had been broken, that his skin had frozen, and yet there are some who say he was smiling.

***

This week the photo prompt comes care of Lora Mitchell, and as always Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Madison Woods. Check out the other links with the button above, and leave your comments and links below!