Ivan sat on a wooden stool, his back curved, shivering under a wooly blanket. He stared at his reflection in the small metal box, on the desk in front of him. A microphone mimicked his posture, bending towards him. Next to it, a lightbulb waited in the shade of the room. On the other side of the box, a set of holes marked some rudimentary speakers, with a chunky red button under them saying ‘Listen’.  

A light knock made its way to Ivan’s desk, from the back of the room. Ivan half turned, his plump nose poking between the blanket rolls. 

‘Come in,’ he said in a muffled voice.

A little angel flapped in, his head hidden behind a stack of blankets. He dropped them on the floor with a joyful sigh. He resembled a child of about ten, yet was about as high as a footstool. 

‘Another cold day, sir, thought you could use a blanket. I made them myself!’ 

Feathers floated around the angel from dropping the blankets. He smiled a toothy smile. Ivan fully turned to watch the angel jumping around to catch the feathers. He let go of his own blanked and revealed a quiet grin.

‘No prayers today,’ Ivan finally said with a tint of sadness. ‘I don’t know why I volunteered for prayer duty again.’

‘Don’t be discouraged, it may take years for people to discover you.’

The angel stuffed his wings with the feathers in his hands. Ivan chuckled under his breath, then rose to get another blanket from the pile. His back bore the shape of a question mark as he shuffled towards the angel.

‘You know, you are always welcome to join us upstairs! It’s Moses’ turn to host the storytelling night. I hear he’s bringing his old staff, those two never really parted ways.’ 

‘Thank you Paulo, I’ll stay a bit longer, the reception is better on this cloud.’

  ‘As you wish, may it be blessed.’

Paulo picked up the rest of the blankets, smiled with all his might, then flapped clumsily out of the room. The door closed, while a chiming sound accompanied it. 

Ivan turned to his metal box, his expression between hope and sorrow. He stared at the lightbulb. Its deadness reminded him of his spiritual struggles on Earth. Ivan closed his eyes, remembering the grace that would fill him after such times. He prayed and waited. He wrapped the second blanket around his feeble body and sneezed from the fluff. 

Just before dozing off, his ears pricked at a buzzing sound. Ivan opened his eyes to see a slight flicker of light, pulsing against the bulb’s glass. His back straightened with anticipation. He pressed the button and listened. 

White noise, followed by dispersed words resounded through the speakers. 

‘Ivan….flight…mountain…help!’

The lightbulb flickered a few more times, then stopped. 

Ivan jumped out of his seat and ran out of the room. Outside, hundreds of other clouds with little wooden huts such as his, floated around a cumulonimbus. The latter shone bright with multicoloured lights and emanated a sweet fragrance in the crisp stratospheric air. Little angels were flying in and out of the cloud, delivering various items like scrolls, blankets and soup. 

‘Quick, someone is flying into a mountain, he needs help!’ Ivan shouted towards a group of angels. 

A brownian motion of cherubs fluttered and flapped into the grand cloud to deliver the message. Ivan returned to his desk. The lightbulb was now on, the flickering had disappeared.

Ivan listened.

‘St Ivan, please help my son fly his kite today. It’s our first outing in the mountains and he’s very excited. I told him he can ask you for help, but he’s still waiting for the wind to pick up. I’m not sure if his prayer got to you, so I’m sending mine just in case.’

Ivan smiled with all his heart. Someone had remembered he’s the saint of kites. 

*Thank you Timothy, for editing the piece.

The wind howled. Mrs Bootle brewed her chamomile tea. She stared through her dusty kitchen window at Alfred, the house pony. He looked bored, or perhaps lonely. His mane was soaked, but he just stood there, blinking in a chewed up garden. Rain chipped at the glass, like sharp pebbles in a pool.

Mrs Bootle poured the tea in a flowery cup. The scented vapours steamed her round glasses. Alfred neighed in a low tone. The tide had come in. The pony turned his head to look at it flood the garden with a thirsty gurgle. He snorted, then climbed onto a boulder, unfazed. He turned his head towards the window to watch Mrs Bootle slurp her tea with visible noises.

A wave crashed over the small stone wall at the brim of the garden. The sea burst through the wooden gate. Alfred was knee deep in water. He watched a jellyfish swim past, as the wave retracted. Still he stood there in the rain, like a loyal rock. Mrs Bootle opened a newspaper. It had the picture of a seagull with a sea captain’s hat, eating an ice cream. A second wave curled over the wall, foaming at its tip.

Alfred frowned as water picked him up. He floated to the windowsill, his legs still stretched, as if standing. Fish swam around him, but he did not move a muscle. He kept staring at Mrs Bootle with a feeble twinkle in his eyes. Suddenly half of the stone cottage drifted off the sandy cliff like melting ice cream on a brownie. Salty rain drizzled the woman’s newspaper. Her flip flops soaked the intruding sea that was racing in through the opening.

Mrs Bootle reached to place her cup on its saucer, but found it had moved. She blinked audibly, waist deep in water. Furniture was floating around her, while she shuffled to the door. She opened it in time to see Alfred floating past. He neighed courteously as if tipping a hat.

‘Where are you off to Alfie?’ the lady creaked in a composed, upper class voice. She then grabbed her umbrella and sifted through the sea to reach her pony.

‘Come here boy!’ she rang, shaking a bag of wet toffees.

The house collapsed as she stepped off the porch. Alfred now stood on a little muddy hill, staring at the raging sea. Still he did not wince. Mrs Bootle gave a few strokes with one arm, her head erect, toffees in the other hand. She pierced the muddy hill with her flip flops as if escalating a mountain.

‘There you are my little lad!’ she puffed. ‘That is a pretty cloud, isn’t it Alfie?’

Alfred snorted and placed his snout on the bag of toffees. Mrs Bootle took out a lumpy piece and placed it into his mouth. His snout was foamy and grassy, leaving her hand sticky. She patted him with the sticky hand and giggled polite sounds. The swelling sea clambered onto the little hill. Past hooves and past flip flops it went. The sun sank behind the mount of water, as it swept over the sky and over Mrs Bootle and Alfred’s smiling faces.

Andy wailed, his chubby legs splayed onto the wet sands of Seascale. His yellow toy donkey was floating a couple of yards away.

‘Mommy!’ he cried and pointed.
‘Shush, I’ll get it!’ Anna shouted.

Andy looked at her with round, twinkly eyes. He then giggled as he watched his big sister splash through the water in her flip flops. He then resumed splatting the little hill the sea had made of their sand cottage.