Here is the first few paragraphs of a short story I am writing called Newborn (working title).
Dying. Not even half an hour old and already on his way out of this world. Doctors and nurses moved around him in slow motion while a figure watched at the end of the bed. Golden armour encased the figure, wings lying folded and tucked away on his back. Some may call him an Angel, but this would be wrong.
The doctors don’t notice the figure, some go through him, most avoid the spot where he is stood but they don’t know why. The figure moves independent to time, he appears to move normally compared to the slow going of the doctors.
The ECG monitor showed a decreasing heart rate, the new born is nearly dead. The figure looked from the monitor to the babe, extended its arm and placed its hand over the baby’s head, the tiny head fitting into the centre of its palm.
The figure let out a cry of pain, a scream of defiance, because it shouldn’t be doing what it’s doing. It is a Guardian, meant to guard the dead on their journey to The Other, it is forbidden to bring people back.
Head snapping back as he roared, the figure started to shake violently, its essence breaking up. Its golden figure starts to break away into a mist that flows into the baby. It seeps into his mouth and nostrils, absorbs through the pores on its skin.
Then there is nothing. No figure, no mist.
No life in the baby.
Time started to normalise, the doctors and nurses gathered around the body. As one of the doctors started to call time of death, the heart monitor kicked in again. Beep… Beep… Beep…