⚠️ Trigger warnings:
Language;
Mentions of death.
Part 1 of The THANA SAGA:
Sal’s Prompt—Expiration Date—A woman discovers that touching objects reveals their exact moment of breakdown/death
Painting used for edit: “Saint Michael the Archangel” by Claudio Coello
“May 30th, 2026,” she says, rubbing the crystal ball like she wants to melt it with the sheer heat generated by friction.
The man across from her gasps, clutching his tie. Pearls would complete the dramatic outburst.
Because tears start pouring, and between choking sounds, he manages to wail: “I have less than a year left??”
Yolanda shrugs and extends her open palm. She needs payment for the prediction of that poor idiot's death date.
I am infuriated.
I thought, after managing to kill Megan, I'd be free from Celestial toilet scrubbing. I dreamt of being the best reaper again.
However, God was not convinced “I've learned my lesson”—whatever that entails—and gave me another shitty task. Pun intended.
Some second grade angel messed up. Yolanda, now dubbed The Death Teller—can predict the Expiration Date (of cheese, tables, appliances or… other humans).
A power reserved for reapers—like me.
But I'm staring at her. Collecting her fifth cash payment of the day no less. She uses our sacred power to feign psychic ability. Classy.
See, God wouldn't normally care. People get messed up all the time—sometimes they see poltergeists, or jump timelines or conjure demons.
HE DOES NOT CARE… unless it messes with the Heavens.
And humans are weird like that: if they know their exact due dates, their heads implode: some get checked into sanatoriums, some jump off bridges the day before, some start robbing banks.
Yolanda's previous clients—down to the last one—lost their shit and made stupid choices.
One started a doomsday cult, if you can believe that. It amounted to three thousand members—all of which paid Yolanda to forecast their deaths.
And I have to somehow prevent that circus from happening again.
The girl has another thirty years in her, and FOR SOME REASON—I am not to reap her soul before then.
I could just drag until her time comes, but I cannot stand being a Cosmic Lackey a day longer.
I keep being made fun of during lunch break—and if I hear Martha say “Janitor Thana” one more time I'll mop the floor with her wings.
Yolanda sits yet another client down, while I have this tiny existential crisis.
I shake my hands, to warm myself up.
This girl is the one. I bombed her ads, her mailbox, even stuck a flyer to her bedroom window; played with Yolanda’s schedule to make sure her appointment is at the perfect time.
She'll die today—and if I play my cards right, I can trap her soul temporarily.
I don’t enjoy using pawns, but someone not being able to cross into the spiritual realm would set off all kinds of alarms. Enough of them to summon His Highness Michael.
Locking a soul flags “a demon summoning attempt”—and while God doesn’t care about those, Michael has a bone to pick with Lucifer.
In the recent century, he went to every and each high demon summoning, hoping to sucker punch his brother.
Or so he told me. I’d personally guess they kiss on the mouth.
I do not have the energy to hear them bicker, so I will not do any of the other steps to summon Lucifer. Besides, he'll try to push a contract down my throat. He’s one hell of a sales guy, and I’ll probably accept—putting myself in a worse position than I already am.
One of them at a time is plenty. I'll have to push a contract down Michael’s throat. Because—you see… the task isn't exactly “deal with Yolanda”, but rather “convince Michael to”. Which is harder. Even considering that I cannot extract power from living humans.
This stupid situation could be solved instantly if that smug Archangel just fixed what HIS people broke.
But God loves to order around us cockroaches and praise his “warriors”. When in truth, they’re only ever fighting over who gets the seat closest to Him at dinner.
While I portray Michel's face that's paralyzed in a state of utter disgust for anything but himself in the mirror; I hear a thud.
The girl punches the table a couple more times before her heart gives in and her body goes numb—falling off to the side. Yolanda screams her lungs out. Of course, playing the reaper and fainting when death actually happens.
I'm serious—she fainted just now.
But I only have time to sigh before I have to sink my hand into the girl. The dead one, not Yolanda.
The fresher the soul, the more potent the call.
I search around, heart, brain, lungs—I can't find her soul. Her insides curl and twist around my fingers, but they’re all empty as can be.
Be it my (forced) lack of practice lately, or the dread of being in a confined room with Michael, I can't find the place her soul is hidden.
My hands hover frantically around her body, but I can't guess what this girl… OH. I feel something mushy and sticky in her ear. I close my palm around it and pull it out.
She loved listening to music, apparently. Her soul took the shape of a musical note, but with the stickiness and appearance of honeycombs. She loved bees equally.
“I'm sorry, boo,” I say as I place her soul in the crystal.
She won't be harmed, but this will confuse the hell out of her spirit. She’ll panic and call for help.
It stays still for a minute. Then the crystal starts changing colors—from bright red to dark purple.
A yellow speck whirs around; clinking against the glass, searching for escape.
I look up. He must’ve sensed it already. And he probably saw me standing here, too.
Above, the ceiling opens and I see fluffy clouds swirling—until they're just white strings travelling at the speed of light.
The room is flooded in gold light, enough to blind me.
Below, the earth is rattling. It sends me off balance into a dresser, then on the ground. Nothing else in the room moves. Just me, the spiritual weakened being.
And when I get up, the heavenly scorching heat slices into me.
Michael speaks before I can make out his frame:
“Why am I here, Thana?” he asks.
I see his golden eyes stare at me before anything else. No expression, no inflexion. Monotone contrast that dramatic entry too much.
I wince as the light dissipates.
His upper lip perks up and his nose creases. Told you—his default expression.
I scratch my nose, closing one eye and pointing at Yolanda, aiming a finger gun at her. “Take her power away.”
Michael blows a tired raspberry. “I can only exchange it.”
“Give her a third leg instead!” My hands shoot up.
“You still think you're so funny…” he remarks.
That’s it—I march towards him, sticking my finger in his chest chainmail. Armored… he’s so extra.
“I never stopped being funny!” I pause, just to narrow my eyes like a dog who’s about to bite. “They're God's orders.”
He shrugs. “And YOUR task.”
“And YOUR power. Just do it, Michael!”
He sweeps my finger off him, and extends his open palm. Like Yolanda did to demand cash.
I don’t have anything prepared, because I forgot about this stupid arbitrary rule. And he could forego it—we both know it—but chooses not to. Annoying.
I look at him a while. Maybe just to have him look like a prostitute demanding for pay. Maybe to think of a way to make him help. Maybe because I’m exhausted.
“This is my chance to be redeemed, and you're messing with it just because you're so fair!” I yell at him.
“And you can't solve it because you try to jump hoops and find loops,” he says—too flat again.
“You must be so proud of that line.”
Michael nods. He’s smiling wide, the disgust gone. What did I say? Only ever pleased with himself.
“So will…” I try to ask, but he waves his hand:
“Thana, it's not my fault you don’t follow protocol. If you want me to pull this out of her, I need something to replace it.”
I catch my forehead. I give it a couple slaps, to get rid of the violent energy before it spills onto him. “I have dirt on Gabriel.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he turns his head slightly, almost sticking his ear to my reddened forehead.
I sigh. I’m sorry, Gab.
“He bleached his wings.”
I chickened out. I didn’t give him the real gossip. Gabriel has a crush on Mary Magdalene, but I’ll be dead before I spill what I was told in confidence by a friend.
Michael takes a step back. Disgust carved on his face once more. He’s dissapointed.
“Everyone knows that, Thana.”
I look him in the eyes, before I bow my head. You can cut it, Michael.
I fall to my knees. I do not want to beg him of all. When I think of him, I relive that awful trial. Everyone goggling their eyes at me like I committed treason.
And his voice loops—”she should take on The List”. He could’ve stopped it. He could’ve just shut his mouth. But he was convinced I deserved worse punishment than what God already gave.
Michael is the reason I'm not a reaper anymore, but rather Heaven’s laughing stock. And the worst? He let crueler deities get away with nastier crimes.
But not me.
I clench my jaw and push through. My voice will not crack.
I tap the ground with clenched fists before I talk:
“I’m so tired, Michael. Before this task, you gave me The List; before that, I was Death's stand-in while she was MIA, but never got the recognition for it; and I was her water girl for centuries; besides, don't let me get into being the only plague reaper. Everyone else was too posh for that.” I pause, almost refusing to go on.
Still, there is little reason for him to care how overworked and underpaid I’ve been. He has to get something out of this. And all I have is a bunch of nothing.
“Give her a gift from you—I do not have anything worth giving anymore—especially something to replace a power this great. I will owe you a Favour.”
I close my eyes. I just gave the Archangel with a superiority complex the chance to steal my soul quota for the next century, or give me some of HIS shitty tasks after God is done with this punishment.
Or… whatever else he may want. And I’m bound to abide.
Regret creeps up my spine—is owing Michael any better than sticking around Yolanda for thirty years?
He grabs my shoulder to perch me back up. “Calm down with the begging.”
I frown, but he speaks again before I can: “I’ll do it—because there is something I need from you already.”
I close my eyes again, in defense. But he unclasps my shoulder and lets go of me.
When I open them again, he’s squatted down and his hand is inside Yolanda’s head.
He chants something—in that weird way Archangels speak in four languages at a time—and the woman opens her eyes, the sockets radiating white light.
When he’s done, he looks over his shoulder: “You’ll hear soon.”
He frowns for a second, but doesn't look angry. Confused? If I didn't know better, I'd say remorseful.
And just like that, he’s gone—golden glitter snowing over Yolanda.
I feel dirty. Dod he feel bad for me? Or regret doing me a favour? I do not need nor want Michael's pity.
I want to strangle him—and then give him a list of tasks that syphon the joy out of him, too.
I stare at the (still fainted, now golden) Yolanda. Reaching into the crystal ball, I release the soul. The musical note vanishes in the air.
I wipe my hand on the robe, but the material sticks to my palm. ”So… I have to go see God now, I guess,” I whisper absently.
Author’s Note:
This is not supposed to be one of my most reflective or deeper pieces. It's for fun and giggles. 😭
I really do hope you giggled. 🧚🏻♀️
But, I must admit, the fangirl in me kind of ships the narrator with Michael now.
Maybe I'll make a third part where they fight… and kiss at the end?
Or maybe she just kills Michael.
Or maybe he asks for… Ah, I won’t spoil the idea just yet.Lemme know if you'd read the next part. And vote what dynamic you'd love to see between those two. 🤭😩✨️
Also, I tried something new with the banner. Thoughts?
If you enjoy my fictional experiments, consider subscribing.
And if you can afford it — maybe feed my writing demon, too.
— The self-appointed Fairy Godmother of Substack 🧚🏻♀️
The narration is hilarious 😂
The only thing I can say is that maybe the pace is too fast? 🤔
I loved the characters and their dynamic but I did feel a little lost here and there. 😅