index


Message-ID: <48685asstr$1091502604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kids_at_play@webtv.net
Content-Disposition: Inline
Content-Transfer-Encoding: Quoted-Printable
MIME-Version: 1.0 (WebTV)
Subject: {ASSM} "When the Angels Cry" (no codes, no sex)
Lines: 211
Date: Mon,  2 Aug 2004 23:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Just a little story I had to write down and share.  I
hope you like it.  It contains no sex or incest but it tells a powerful
story, at least I think so.  I hope you do, too.
Thank you for reading it.      KAP



"When the Angels Cry"

by kids_at_play


 
It's raining again. 

Funny, the Weather Channel hadn't forecast rain on their last update. Oh
well, I didn't have plans to go outside anyway. 

Sitting here in my comfortable easy chair I am content to stay dry while
others who dare to venture out into the fray will hazard the risk of
becoming victim to an innocuous spray of rainwater from a passing car
along a stopped-up sewer grate at a curb somewhere down the block. No,
I'll just sit here and stare out the big picture window as the
smog-filled raindrops plummet earthwards and smack the asphalt and
grassy lawns ending their doomed descent from the clouds. What else have
I to do? 

As the steady staccato of raindrops pelt the window before me I hear a
small voice in my ear. 

"Daddy, why does it rain?" 

Ah, a child's question. One of the many hundreds of inquisitive demands
from one too young to understand the dynamics and physics of rainfall.
One too young to also have it explained to her correctly. Fortunately,
my daughter is at that age where fantasy explanations seem to quench her
exigent hunger for knowledge. 

"What was that, sweetheart?" 

A small, round head of tangled chestnut brown hair appeared at my side,
turned upwards, penetrating, inquistive umber eyes staring deep into
mine. 

"Why does it rain, daddy?" my daughter asked again. 

Before I could answer, she toddled around the front of my chair and
tugged at my pants legs and attempted, rather clumsily, to climb up onto
it, obviously wanting to situate herself onto my lap, but having a
rather awkward time of it. Being four years old and quite short for that
age will have that effect on most of one's 
undertakings to achieve higher ground. 

Ignoring the increasing tempo of the rain outside I leaned forwards and
slipped my hands underneath my daughter's underarms and pulled her up in
one swift motion with the greatest of ease into my arms, pressing her
tight against my chest, relishing the warmth of her small body. Her
hair, longer than shoulder length, tickled my forearms and I gently
stroked the top of her head, hoping to keep her safe from the pounding,
incessant rain. 

"I don't think I heard you, sweetie," I said, preparing to ask my
daughter what it was she wanted to know yet another time. 

"Daddy!" she said demandingly. 

Her head pulled away from my chest and her lips formed an undeniably
cute pout and her eyes burned with orange fire. Or perhaps that was just
the reflection of the table lamp refracting off of her eyes. Regardless,
my daughter would not be waylaid for much longer. 
She wanted an answer. 

'Why does it rain?" I repeated her initial question. 

"Uh huh," she said, nodding her head. 

"Well, it rains whenever the angels up in heaven cry." 

"But why do they cry?" she asked me. 

"Well, sweetie, sometimes the angels cry when someone they love very
much has something very bad happen to them. And because heaven is a
place where everyone you've ever known and loved is at they all cry
together and that's what makes the rain come down." 

My daughter seemed to think about that for a bit, her little face
scrunched up in that pensive sort of way that you see old professors in
their work chambers do when stressed with a formula or such that they
just can't fathom. I brushed a stray brown hair from in front of her
face and waited while her four-year-old brain processed the information.
Usually my fantasy explanations satisfied my daughter, and she'd give me
a kiss and say "thank you, daddy" and be on her way to her next playful
adventure. 

But this fanciful explanation seemed to have her somewhat stymied, if
not perturbed. She wasn't quite through with me yet. 

"But daddy, if the angels are crying, how come we can't hear them when
it's raining?" 

"Well, you know heaven is a long ways away, and I don't think the sound
of their crying could reach us down here on Earth, sweetie." 

She thought about that piece of information. 

"Daddy, what do you mean by something bad?" 
"Well, sweetheart, when someone down here on Earth gets called up to
heaven, that person has to leave behind their family and their friends,
right? So, even though that person is going up to heaven to be with all
the other angels, the people left behind are sad, aren't they? So that's
something bad." 

"And they cry, too, daddy?" 

"Yes they do, sweetie." 

My daughter fell silent. 

I looked out the window at the still-falling rain. Its intensity was
waning now, but still forceful enough to play out a rhythm on the pane
of the picture window. 

My daughter looked out the window too, and watched the falling rain with
me. We shared this moment, the two of us, and I never felt closer to her
than I did now. Neither of us spoke for the next three minutes. Only the
steady beat of the raindrops against the tempered glass resounding in
our ears. 

"The angels must be really crying a lot, daddy," she suddenly observed. 

"Yes, they must be, sweetie," I said forlornly. 

"Do you think they'll ever stop crying, daddy?" 

"Oh, I think they will. You know, eventually. I don't think they can cry
forever." 

Still staring out the window at the pouring rain my daughter said, "I
love you, daddy" and without turning my gaze away from the hydrous
visage before me I whispered, "I love you, too, sweetheart" and closed
my eyes, listening to the beat of my heart keeping time with the beat of
my daughter's heart which kept tempo with the incessant beat of the rain
on the window. 

I held my eyes closed not wanting to open them. Wanting to keep them
shut for eternity. 
But that was not possible. I knew that. 

I opened my eyes and my arms fell against my chest, falling through thin
air. The tiny weight on my lap was no longer there. The sweet smell of
innocence and the aura of youthful inquisitiveness was gone. All that
remained was the rain. Still coming down. Still falling to Earth. 

I said aloud, to no one there, "No, my sweetness, the angels can't cry
forever. Someday their tears have to dry up. They have to, don't they?" 


It's raining again. 

I'm starting to hate rainy days. Really hate them. Nowadays they always
seem to make me cry. And I'm not even an angel. What's up with that? But
I know, somewhere up in heaven, when it rains, my own sweet angel is
crying with the rest of them. Crying for someone who was called there.
Adding her tears so that they, too, will fall upon my picture window
while I 
watch and cry. 

You know, I can almost believe my own explanation of why it rains. It
isn't too hard to understand or believe it. Take it from me. I know. But
there is just one thing I don't understand. Or fathom. Why my little
girl had to be called away so early. There's really no fantasy
explanation for that, is there? 

But I know now that it's true. My heart tells me that it's true. My
heart always hurts. 


My heart always breaks when the angels cry. 


The End 


kids_at_play  

Maxima debetur puero reverentia 
(We owe the greatest respect to a child)

"Well I'm a grown man and as strong as I am, well sometimes it's hard to
believe; that one little girl with little blonde curls can totally
terrify me."  (Gary Allan)


"Thank Heaven for little girls!"  (Maurice Chevalier)
 
"Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?" (Lovin' Spoonful -- 
1965) 

"We find delight in the beauty and happiness of children that makes the
heart too big for the body." =A0 (Ralph Waldo Emerson) 

"He who cannot see the beauty of a child hath no beauty in him." =A0 =A0
(Anon) 

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever."
John Keats, =A0 "Endymion" =A0 =A0 1818 

Kids are our future. Kids are our hope. Please respect them. Don't
exploit them. 

kids_at_play 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+