Clarice surfed the Internet as she lie back on the mound of pillows on her bed. It was Sunday morning and she was feeling rather lazy. The week had been stressful and she didn’t sleep well last night. She went to bed early, but woke at 11:11, again at 1:11, and again at 4:11.

She jolted upright. What’s with all the elevens? During the night the she hadn’t clued into the times on her alarm clock, but suddenly they were front and center. She typed “meaning of 11” in the search box of her browser. All the results that came up were about messages from angels. She read a few articles, but none of it really resonated with her. Horse pucky. She read another article about signs that your angels are nearby. Again, she shrugged and thought “whatever.”

Clarice wasn’t religious by any means. Angels were something that her mother talked about when she was a child. Astrology was complete hogwash. She wasn’t very superstitious, but sometimes, although she’d never admit it to anyone, she caught herself throwing salt over her right shoulder when she baked. She wasn’t too sure about a god, but did feel somewhat spiritual. Her idea of a higher power was the universe, the connectedness of everything in it, and nature. Now, nature was something to revere. She always felt safe and connected when she sat under the great oak tree in her back yard.

After another hour of reading, she got up and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. The phone rang. She turned toward it and it stopped. One ring. How strange. She checked the display, but no call had registered.

English: A single white feather closeup. Deuts...
White feather. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

She took her coffee back to her room and stripped the bed so she could wash the sheets. She decided to flip the mattress; it had been a while since that was done. When she lifted the mattress, there was a white feather. How the heck did a white feather get between the mattress and box spring? No matter. She set the feather on the dresser beside her coffee mug and headed for the laundry room.

As she lowered the lid and set the dial of the washing machine, she heard some say “Clarice.” She whirled around. No one was behind her. She peered into the hall outside the laundry room. She was home alone, so she knew she wouldn’t see anyone. She shivered slightly. Weird.

Back in her bedroom, she fetched her coffee from the dresser. There was the feather. She sat on the edge of the bed and studied the feather. She had no feather pillows. She laughed out loud. No pet bird. No cat to drag in dead birds.

Chocolate. She sniffed. She smelled chocolate. She didn’t have chocolate in the house; she was allergic to it.

She blew out a breath, her bottom lip out so her bangs stirred in the breeze she created.

Repeating numbers. A feather. Someone calling her name. Odd odors. The Internet articles mentioned all these things as signs that angels were near.

Angels?

Really?

Nah.

Maybe?

# # #

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