PENNY PICKLE
A Novel
PENNY PICKLE
A Novel
A Shortage of Angels is an unusual story that blends a folksy aesthetic with a more pointed reflection on spirituality, as members of a Southern community cross paths with angels in their midst. Pickle attempts to capture narrator Cal's East Texas drawl and sometimes morbid sense of humor as she grapples with and comes to accept her haunting powers. Calvina (Cal) is perceptive to small details in the world around her and often in awe at the appearance of the angels. The dialect shines most when describing members of the community and their dynamics.
- Booklife Prize
Calvinia Jean Prather is a 10-year-old, precocious tomboy, living in the 1960s town of Onward, Texas. She is blessed by birthright to be a "special purpose" child who has the ability to quiet her mind to see the workings of angels as they go about their celestial tasks, navigating the trials and hardships faced by mortals here on earth. "Cal" lives with her grandfather, who is a mortician, in their home, which is also the family funeral parlor. In their business she encounters Clovis Ray, a baby angel who schools her in the workings of the universe and how she may be called upon to carry out duties towards the purposes of the Great I Am. She embraces Moody, an outcast classmate, and a forest woman who is thought to be an urban legend, to band against a motorcycle gang who murdered a rival gang member. Confession of the crime is accidentally witnessed by Cal and Moody as they explore the reaches of the Sabine River in rural East Texas. To save the lives of her dearly loved ones, Cal must bargain with the most powerful angel, Lucifer, to secure the safety of those who mean the most to her. In this quest she discovers the true reasons why she has been kept in the dark about the death of her mother, and who she can truly claim as her father. Cal's life and the reckoning of dark prejudice by the townsfolk of Onward against others hangs in the balance, as she fearlessly taunts the jaws of death for the sake of those she loves.
I have heard many folks laying out their errant incantations of the Judgment Day. And any time I hear someone declaring the Judgment to be from God on mortal beings, I know that the orator has no business talking. Oh sure, there will be a reckoning and a revelation. In the hereafter for each arriving soul, revelation is the unveiling of the life’s mission. It is the day when it is self-revealed, whether or not the soul fulfilled its assignment, or to what degree our dreams came to fruition. The judgment is not from God on us. We execute these judgments upon ourselves. We are faced with accepting and relishing our outcomes, or orchestrating the completion of these purposes in eternity, when the soul is no longer in bodily form. Indeed, it would be our fervent desire for the Great White Throne Judgment to be imposed by God. Because God is forgiving.
—Rev. C. J. Ellison, Tent Revivalist
My name is Calvinia Jean Prather and I can tell you right now, I’ve got a gift. But before you think I’m talking about myself too fancy and proud, this gift was something I didn’t conjure up or beckon to myself. So, I am not claiming this in a bragging, smart-alecky way. It was a secret at first, even to me. The gift hid itself, maybe waiting until I cleared my mind of things that don’t really matter. Setting up housekeeping in the back of my head, it came out from time to time in little pieces. I couldn’t always put my finger on it. But I knew it wasn’t right to be in a hallway all by myself, and then feel somebody brush me from behind. To top it off, it didn’t scare me when it happened. It was lightly peculiar in the beginning, so I didn’t even give it the time of day.
When I went into a spell from my gift, I was transported to the depths of my soul, during sacred moments when I could commit my mind fully. I was usually dizzy-headed and felt like I was dreaming, or watching a movie of myself. Sometimes I walked into a room and knew for sure somebody was there by the feeling in my bones, or I thought maybe somebody behind me was reaching through the window. Each time I looked for them, I felt a heavy stillness so quiet, I could hear my shoes crease as I stepped. When I checked the windows and doors they were latched shut. Sometimes I pitched back, caught with a glare that blinded both eyes so bad that I thought my number was up. But no, it was not my time. In my younger days, I was accused of putting bobby pins in electric sockets. And I have to say, guilty as charged. There always followed, a long pantomimed scolding about what it would be like to get electrocuted. But when I did it, I never felt anything but the swirl of a cool flying breeze. Many are the folks who have felt the passing draft. Few are those who can see the angels who created the cool gust. But I can see, because that is my gift.
- A Shortage of Angels
Read by Penny Pickle
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