This is my entry for this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Check out some of the other stories by following the link. I’d also like to point out that it took tremendous willpower to make this story not be about the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who.
When I heard the story, I was huddled around the fire with my battalion in the ruins of the city. I could see the statue from there, its wings outstretched.
“You know,” Bastiel, one of my brothers-in-arms, said, “there’s an old legend about that statue.”
I was in desperate need of anything to distract from the cold. “Tell me.”
“It was carved by a blind sculptor,” Bastilel replied. “He was possessed by a vision and obsessed with showing the world what he’d seen. After he made the final cut, he said ‘it is done.’ He died at once. Some say that the statue has great supernatural power. Even as the city was shaken by fire and war, it was safe.”
I looked at the statue. The idea of it being supernatural seemed absurd.
Then I noticed something.
Everything else was covered in snow, but the statue remained untouched.