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It was soon after the rebar incident when I saw my first angel. He or she was waiting for the number 23 bus. Briefcase, reading the NY Times, wings folded in close, and a golden halo hovering just above the crown of his head. Even driving by in my truck, I could see he or she had those eyes that you couldn't look at. Whenever you tried to look in his or her eyes, you found you were looking at something else. This was a novelty at the time, but so many of them have appeared among us that it just seems commonplace now.

He or she didn't look up at me, but then angels never do. I thought about stopping to offer him or her a ride, but I saw that the bus was right behind me. I watched in the rear view mirror as he or she stepped up and paid the fare. Then, there was a bright flash, followed by a moment of profound silence, and the bus turned into William Blake. It was supposed to turn onto State Street, but no. It turned into William Blake. The sculpted head, the far away look. It was Blake, alright, no mistake.

I suppose I should have doubted my sanity, having watched a bus transform into a 17th century visionary artist, but all I could think about was the other people on the bus.

Who were the other people on that bus? What happened to them? Where, or when, are they now?

So, I quit my job and became a writer. It's not like I had a choice.

Story by:

Gene Murray

8 September 2012

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