by McKenzie Richardson
Merlot-hued spatters stain white feathers as I snap the final bone, hanging my newest creation up for display. These heavenly angels have gotten soft in their home of clouds, always so trusting. That was their downfall, my advantage.
I didn’t fall from Heaven—I was pushed. But I crawled my way back up.
I lick the blood from my fingers, surveying the crippled bodies that decorate greying rainclouds. I’ve won the war and earned my right to remake this world. It will be perfect, no matter how many wings I have to break to force it into my own image.