Art by: Daneecastle
Every spring, which is to say some season that feels like spring but probably isn’t—the kind of spring that shows up late, apologizes too much, and forgets to bring flowers—angels and demons begin to molt. Not metaphorically. Literally. Feathers everywhere. Big, important-looking ones that probably once had a job in divine aerodynamics, now just floating around like unemployed metaphors.
The angels try to act like it’s all part of the plan, God’s filing system or something. “We’re being renewed,” they say, as they try not to look itchy or embarrassed while clutching feathers to their chests like love letters they didn’t mean to keep. The demons, meanwhile, make a scene of it, of course. They scratch in public. They joke. They light fires just to watch the feathers curl, blackened and hissing, like they’re getting back at the sky for something it said a thousand years ago.
And for a brief time, both sides look the same. Patchy. Tired. Waiting for something to grow back. And in those moments—quiet, awkward, molting—they almost look human, which is probably the most uncomfortable part of all.
