How do you know if you’re one of the damned?
As a child, Don wanted to become a priest. Now a grown man mostly at ease with being gay, he’s left the Catholic Church and has chosen instead to help people through his work as a parole officer. His strong faith is shaken when his latest assignment turns out to be Michael, a young man Don hasn’t seen since he took Michael to church as a child—and saw his parish priest cast Michael out of the church as a demon.
Meeting him as an adult re-ignites the obsession Don had with the boy he couldn’t save—but can Michael be saved at all? Or is the strangely compelling demon with a taste for risky sex as damned as he believes himself to be?
Angel is a super short story, well written, quick and engaging…then the ending part blew me away. The last pages were really beautiful and emotional, the feel of acceptance, the feel of love mixed with fear, all of these filled my heart – Stella, Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
Review for the first edition:
What an amazing story! The difference between good and evil in its traditional, fundamentalist sense is examined and thoroughly discarded here. The message of hope that results left me (happily) stunned – Serena Yates on Goodreads
An EXTRA, which doesn’t appear in the book: Michael’s introduction to the story:
I was ten years old when I found out I was a demon.Of course, I’d known there was something different about me and my Mom for years, even then. The way we didn’t hang around in any one place for more than a year at most. The way I wasn’t allowed to be friends with anyone whose family were practicing Christians. Or Jews. Or Muslims or anything else for that matter, even up to the kid whose mom floated around in black lace dresses and called herself a Wiccan. I guess she just wasn’t doing it right.
Anyhow, when you’re a little kid you accept these things, but sooner or later you start to wonder why you have to follow all these rules that no one else does. Why you’re the only kid who’s never been to a wedding or a funeral, never gone to Mass or a bar mitzvah. It was around that time I started noticing that my Mom wasn’t like other moms. I didn’t know what the hell to call it in those days, I guess because the words “batshit insane” don’t figure in a lot of reading primers.
Anyhow, I’d kinda worked out that Mom was weird. It hadn’t occurred to me to think that maybe I was weird—that maybe Mom was weird because of me.
Until the day Donnie Gallagher took me to his church after school.
That was when I got these scars.