by Grant Dawson

While he sat there clammy-handed and fidgeting, he thought the dust particles dancing around in the light looked like angels. His nerves, frayed as they were, were close to encouraging inaction, but he fought it. Here, the dark theater was timeless; he was not rushed. The projector whirred much like his heart. He raised his arm and extended it around her. And for the time remaining, it was like he caught his own angel and held it close to him until the lights came back on.


Grant Dawson is a teacher in Illinois. His blog can be found here.