An Angel's Calling: An Angel's Calling

By Myra Kaur

"Growing up, you are taught a plethora of words used to express how you feel. Literature is a type of art that uses these words to create visions, to explain what can't be explained in simple terms. It is an art that some will find confusing and others will find a home in" (pp.227).

An Angel's Calling is a book that holds the themes of friendship, fear, angels, visions, revenge, magic, and loss. Khalid (16), our protagonist, finds himself in the middle of a big scheme of events. With every loss, there is a gain; and with every gain, there is a loss. While Khalid loses his family, his sense of peace, and his connection to this world, he also gains insight into a magical world, finds everlasting friends, and gains more confidence. And how or why does he gain and lose these things? Well, it all begins when Khalid starts to see flashes/visions of upcoming events. It is then that he meets a shadow who introduces him to the world of magic. Khalid soon finds out that things are not quite right. Once some deep secrets are revealed to him about why he came into the magical world, his purpose becomes clear. He needs to save the magical world. But save it from what? You may ask. He must save this world from something known as the Feno Bracelet. A bracelet so powerful that it can induce or take away fear completely. With this one bracelet, everyone can be brought to their knees. But what's so important about Khalid, why does he need to destroy it? The simple answer is his blood ... But to understand the answer, well, I guess you'll have to read the book for that part.

His journey will take you on a roller coaster and help you escape reality. Though be aware, this book does contain hidden truths about the world we live in, all you have to do is look for it and it will be clear.

When choosing the right book for yourself, dear reader, you might ask why should I read this book? And the answer to that is if you enjoy immersing yourself in a world full of possibilities and magic, this is the right book for you. If you enjoy the found family trope, this is the right book for you. And if you enjoy books with a complex and deep backstory, this is the right book for you.

Still not convinced? Here are 5 more details to determine if this book should be your next read:

Genre: Magical Realism>Fantasy>Fiction

5 Words to Describe the Book: Meaningful, Emotional, Thought-Provoking, Easy Readability, and Adventurous

POV: First Person

Target Audience: Ages 12+ and Fantasy Lovers

Khalid is a character worth getting to know

 Bonus, here's another quote from "An Angel's Calling":

"Thinking too much is like a disease that you can't touch, can't see, can't smell or feel but it can do much harm" (pp.53).

 

Happy reading! I hope that you found your next magical read!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Myra Kaur
• Release date: Jan 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781777606060

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lonely Thoughts

My thoughts often are a war of fear and courage. In one way, my thoughts flood me in despair, thinking of all my deepest, darkest fears. Snakes, spiders, heights, speaking in front of others, death—all this does not scare me. I’m aware of these things; they are of no surprise. I fear the unknown. I often have gut feelings, which is why when I can’t feel what is about to happen, it worries me. In another way, however, my thoughts also give me the courage to face challenges. One challenge being the arguments of my parents; nothing is ever good enough for them.

My mom, Tia Hartley, grew up in a small one-bedroom apartment in Vancouver, British Columbia; her life was the very definition of poverty. At present, she still has numerous amounts of student loans to pay. Throughout her schooling, Mom gave a lot of attention to her studies. In fact, she majored in world cultures and minored in Indigenous studies. Education is a big deal for my mom and slacking in any way for any subject is not allowed.

She has beautiful long, thick, straight, black hair and eyes as deep as the oceans that carry life. Her skin tells the story of her First Nations heritage; it has a glow to it, a radiance really. She leads her life on a healthy path. Being fit at forty years old is a supreme principle to her. Her timid behaviour might fool people at first, but they soon realize the brave Aries she is. Sun signs, horoscopes, and astronomy are things Mom is very fond of. 

On the other hand, there’s my dad, Luther Hartley. He majored in philosophy and minored in geography; the university was where Mom and Dad first met. Mom had helped Dad in mathematics, and from there, they fell in love. I know, what a story, right? 

Dad is what some might describe as logical; he doesn’t put his faith in silly things like horoscopes, or tarot readings. Unlike my mom, he gave my brother and me the choice of education; his belief is, If you’re forced to do what you don’t want to do, it’s not worth doing. 

My dad looks threatening with his height towering over mine, as he is six-foot-three. His soil-coloured dark brown eyes make for a serious stare, and his pale skin gives an icy look. His hair is minimal, and like his eyes, a rich earthy brown. Dad is a large forty-two-year-old man who is truthful and humorous with his dad jokes. I must say, at times he has no limit with his word count; it’ll take from day to night talking about a topic he finds of interest. It doesn’t take much to impress him; just a handful of compliments and he’s sold. Between my mom and dad, I feel like I can rely on my dad more, as I can have clear, calm, and mature conversations with him. There’s only one topic that he and I disagree upon, the idea of power or magic or the supernatural. Regardless of our differences, Dad is a good listener, open-minded, and nonjudgmental. I do love my mom; it’s just different when talking to her as opposed to talking with him. 

Sometimes, I wonder how these two ever fell in love. The way I see it, they share no common ground. It feels as though, for the past few months, they have fallen out of love. Mom doesn’t like the way Dad spends his money on buying lottery tickets, and he doesn’t appreciate the constant comments she makes about saving money. Dad doesn’t admire the yearly subscriptions to a random astronomy website, and Mom does not cherish the constant lectures on philosophy.

Each day, my thoughts carry my broken pieces; when I’m torn between their continuous bickering, I comfort myself.

My brother, Marcello—who is younger than me by five years—and I are not very close. He’s a typical eleven-year-old, all he does is eat, sleep, play basketball, and repeat. He too possesses rich, coffee-coloured brown eyes like our dad, not to mention how he overshadows other kids of his age. His hair is a light ash brown, wavy, and short; it lays on his head like a perfect painting. Truly, he’s like another copy of Dad, whereas I am the copy of Mom when it comes to looks. 

We often fight about small things like if he stole my video games or if I stole his controller. Besides the suspicions of theft, I do applaud the surety in his words. I can imagine him having a great career as a lawyer, how his every word is reassuring his claim and leaving no room for error. I mean, he already is a professional at sneaking away from trouble. He may as well use his skills for meeting one with justice. Ultimately, his name suggests that he is a warrior, so why not one of integrity. 

As I said, my mom majored in world cultures, which inspired her to choose a name from two cultures she focused deeply on besides our own. Marcello is an Italian name for boys, which translates to young warrior. And my name is derived from the Arabic language, a name that means endless or immortal. My name is Khalid.

Chapter 2

Rain, Rain, Follow My Way

The loud tapping noise of the heavy rain slid down the window seal as if it were tears. It rains frequently in Tofino, British Columbia; it’s a beautiful place with many beaches. Even though I don’t appreciate the pouring rain I hear in the mornings or the afternoons or even during the pitch-black nights, I do enjoy the sunny weather and the warmth that soaks in skin deep.

Dark clouds roll in slowly, making their presence known. Surely, a great storm is arising, I can feel it. I grab a bowl of cereal and take a seat at the bay window while staring out into the distance. Even though I don’t like the dripping rain, I do like the ocean waves, the sound, the colour, even the smell. There’s the sound of the waves slamming against the rocks, not to forget the seagulls that roam around in search of food. The smell of salty ocean water mixing with seaweed, seashells, and life brings me a sense of relief. With each bite, I glare at the ocean waving back and forth, touching and leaving the sand. 

It’s common for my brother and me to take care of ourselves. As far as I can remember, I would help my brother and myself get dressed and ready for school. After school, I would help him finish his homework and then proceed to do my own. Dad is a university philosophy professor, and Mom teaches her mother tongue, first-level Kwak’wala to high school students. The language is spoken by very few, which is why, in an attempt to revive this part of the culture, Mom teaches others what she knows. This allows us less time to spend as a family; at first, I was sad, but now I guess I’m kinda numb to this feeling. 

I hear Marcello thumping down the stairs, mumbling the words to a rap song. He puts headphones in and bops to the beat. His hair is a mess, as if he just woke up and didn’t care about his appearance, but this is far from the truth. All day he thinks about what he can do to get more people to like him. As if nearly thirty people from his class were not enough.

His red and white shirt, imprinted with his favourite number twenty, carries wrinkles. Dark blue jeans and dirty white sneakers are his preferences, wearing them almost every day of the week. I wonder at times if he and I are really brothers; he’s sporty, and I’m not; he’s a force to reckon with at video games, and I barely make it to level four of any game. An eleven-year-old is drowned in popularity and a need for acceptance from others, and I, on the other hand, am an average sixteen-year-old soaked in fear. Fear of tomorrow’s tale of unknown events that I might not be able to foretell with my strong gut feelings.

Marcello glances my way then quickly asks, Hey, what’s for breakfast?

I reply with a firm, Cereal, cereal is for breakfast. Now eat fast. We’re already late for school. 

He gives a swift cold-eyed look as if he were trying to silence me with it, but I care too little to say anything. 

You know we have ten minutes before the bus comes, right? 

Yeah, I know, and ten minutes isn’t a lot. 

Where’s Mom and Dad? Let me guess, they already left for work. Disappointment dances over his face. Today he’s going to receive his first award for his good habits and behaviour. 

I know it’s not a very big award in this house, but he wants Mom and Dad to be there, and I feel bad for him knowing that they’re going to be a no-show. I falsely assure him, Don’t worry about it. I’m positive that they’ll come, so just relax and enjoy today. 

He gives a slight smile while pouring himself a bowl of cereal and making his way to the kitchen island. I can tell he knows that I’m lying. 

With food munching in his mouth, he says, Thank you and ... I umm ... may have kind of broken your video game? 

Giving very little information as to how he broke it, he rambles on. I didn’t mean to, it kinda just happened, but hey, if you look at the bright side, now we both can have the game. You get one piece, and I get the other. 

Oh, you’re so funny, I responded with a small eye roll and proceeded to wash my dishes. 

The time is 8:00 a.m., and I rush Marcello to finish his food, grab our bags, and speed through the door unnaturally fast. The bus comes rolling in, honking three times, making a path in the mud, and standing out with its bright yellow pigmentation against the dark grey of the sky. Perfect timing, I think to myself. Lightly, I give him a little push and trip on a step myself. I go to Quill’s Secondary School, which is on the way to Marcello’s school. The bus, piled with high school students, carries one elementary boy. This is because my mom and the bus driver—Edi, short for Edison—are good friends. The school my mom teaches at is further than the ones my brother and I study at. For this reason, Edi drops him off at his school, which is only five minutes away from mine.

Marcello and I sit at our usual seats, the ones right next to the door. I sit along the window side, keeping my thoughts to myself and looking out at the muddy road just as the bus starts to move. 

The clouds are getting darker with every second. Yup, there definitely is a storm coming today, I whisper under my breath. A strange feeling of something bad is going to happen rushes upon me. My eyes shift from one detail to the next, the wind blowing through the leaves, the muddy trail turning into a paved road, then there’s the subtleness or the calm before the storm. The rain is slowly coming to a halt, but I know it’s not for long. Soon it will rain heavily, like rocks falling from the sky, and there’ll be electricity throughout the dark clouds. Again, I shift my attention to the other people on the bus, glancing at the seats behind me. 

My classmates—what to say? There are about six major groups: the quiet loners, the athletes, the popular girls, the sci-fi/horror/supernatural lovers, the mediums (people who are somewhere in between popular and unpopular), and the academics. Then there are also what I like to call the minority groups, for example, the exchange students’ group. There’s also the occasional group of kids who went on a criminal path, drinking, smoking, bullying, not to mention being bullied. Roman Oxford, the oldest seventeen-year-old in our grade, belongs to this category; his name is also a synonym for one of my fears, my troubling thoughts. He sits in the last seat of the bus to keep an eye on everyone. And I swear I’ve seen him trying to sell a white substance before, but I’ve never had enough confidence to call him out on it. If I do, he might send his pack of mutts my way, and I don’t want that, which is why I keep to myself. Though if he ever says or does anything to the ones I care for or gets physical with someone with less power, I won’t give it another thought. 

Scenarios play in my head as if I’m watching a movie; I imagine him teasing my brother and me being the hero, punching him in the gut or maybe just giving him an intense stare like my dad does with his dangerous brown eyes. I quickly scatter this thought; it’s not right to think of violent situations, even if he is rude and decides to not filter his mouth. Plus, my eyes are not a deep brown, rather a simple coal black. I guess the eyes are not to blame for the lack of intimidating looks, if only I were equipped with more confidence. 

Roman smirks and calls out to one of my classmates, Chase Alexander. He is sort of a quiet person and is no stranger to bullying. He has gone through a lot since he had come out as gay in grade six.

Hey, Chase! What are you dreaming ’bout? I bet you’re thinking about our math teacher, huh? Roman hollered. 

Chase replies calmly, No, I’m thinking about our English teacher ... and how he didn’t teach you very good English, or maybe you just didn’t learn very well. 

Whether his reply is witty or not, many people chuckle to support him. I can tell that Roman is planning to get revenge for that comment; but I also know that he can’t get physical. Last time he did, he got suspended for a month. One more strike will get him expelled from the school.

The bus stops, and on comes one of the most popular girls, Ramira Chavez. She moved here from Puerto Rico a couple of years back. I know for a fact that Roman has a big crush on her and seeing that she doesn’t care for him the slightest bit visibly upsets him. She’s a sweet, popular girl who is compassionate towards others. I don’t know much about popular girl groups, but from what I notice, there’s a sort of queen bee, and the rest are her followers. I may be wrong, though, I always see Ramira and her friends obeying and looking for acceptance from Julia Mendes. Unlike Ramira, Julia’s not very friendly. She wants popularity, good looks, and fame; this must be the reason she tries to make other girls look bad or less than her. I might have a little crush on Ramira, but I’ll never tell her; she probably doesn’t even know that I exist. 

She takes a seat next to Julia in the middle section of the bus. Roman, Julia, and her friend group gaze at her; she’s wearing a black, knee-length sunflower dress with a thick-knit, light caramel coloured cardigan, and a pair of red sneakers. Her hair is short and jet black, hazelnut coloured skin, and beautiful blue eyes. My thoughts rapidly change, as the bus is only two minutes away from Marcello’s school. As an older brother, I make sure he has everything ready to go. 

I whisper, We’re almost at your school. Do you have your bag ready? Also, don’t forget to thank your teacher for giving you extra time on the homework.

Yeah, I got my bag, and I will, he whispers back. 

The bus slowly stops in front of his school, and Edi calls out, Have a good day, as he waves back to her while running out of the bus to hurry inside the school. It starts to pour again, gradually increasing with every minute. 

My school is now only five minutes away, so I begin thinking about today’s classes. First is math class with Mr. Kade, who is easygoing. Today in class, there’s going to be a test. I feel prepared; math is a strong suit of mine. The equations are quite simple, finding x, Pythagorean theorem, those kinds of things. Then I have French; apart from this, I learn Kwak’wala at home from Mom. After this is English and finally science. Grammar and spelling are not my forte, but I’m not terrible at it either. Ms. Garcia is one of those hard graders, but I’m a good student ... okay, fine—an okay student. She seems to be in her own world sometimes. For example, once Roman came twenty minutes late and then ditched after five minutes, and she didn’t notice him coming or going.

Out of all the subjects, science does not speak to me; I breathe the air of art and live my life in my stories. I believe there’s more to life than what meets the eye. There’s too much mystery to overrule the possibility of something else, a different kind of being, or an animal that is yet to be found. 

I’m not saying I necessarily believe that there are wizards with long white beards and pointy, purple hats with moons and stars or that someone can wave a wand and get anything they want, but there is something magical about this universe that I can’t describe. Intuition I guess, strong intuition. I don’t know what’s out there, I don’t know if magic is real, but I do know there are unexplainable things that truly feel magical. 

Once, when I was seven, I wanted a treat from this ice cream truck that already drove past my house. I imagined it coming back, so I focused on the rear of the truck, staring at it intently. It turned around, and the elderly man in the ice cream truck gave me free ice cream. Again, I understand that it could’ve been because he had seen me in the mirror and felt bad for me, but a stomach-turning feeling tells me otherwise. 

Another time, in grade five, I forgot to study for my French test. Panic rushed throughout my body as I trembled with the thought of failing. I focused on the idea of all the papers getting lost. I didn’t know how this would happen, as my French teacher is a very organized person, but I believed that somehow these papers would get lost. The next day, the teacher announced that she misplaced the tests, and she couldn’t remember where they were. I know it could’ve been a coincidence, but these things are always happening to me. 

There have also been some crazy incidents like when I get angry. Marcello once spilled soda all over my homework that took me three days to do. I went to the kitchen to cool myself down, running my hands under cold water. I focused deeply on the water, and sure enough, it began to become colder and colder until there were small pieces of ice. This incident frightened me, which is why I try my best to not get angry.

The other time I got very mad was when Roman bullied a third-grader. I didn’t take my eyes off of him, and I wanted him to trip on his own feet. Two steps forward, and Roman had his face to the concrete ground, beet red. He wasn’t badly injured, just embarrassed. 

The bus finally arrives at school. Dismissing my thoughts, I get up to thank Edi and head for the big, blue doors. The green, wet grass is uncut, and it brushes up against my legs. My jeans turn a darker blue with the added water, and my wavy, ear-length hair slightly dampens with the clouds’ cries. Stepping inside, I smell of rain, my cheeks rush with blood, and my hands frost with cold. I quickly hide my hands in my pockets. My black shoes hold mud, leaving a trail of my footprints behind me. I’ll have to find something to clean that with. After all, it’s the right thing to do. If not, then I can at least thank the janitor for cleaning the mess I made. I look at the time and hurry to class. I’ll just have to thank the janitor later.

Chapter 3

Blank Mind

The bell rings, and Mr. Kade welcomes the students with a smile. I make my way to my assigned seat, the first row, next to the door, far from the window, and midway from Mr. Kade’s desk. The tables are set up in four rows, six columns, plus one extra desk on the side for anyone who disrupts the class. Mr. Kade’s desk is in the middle of the classroom and often has a mess of papers.

His clothes and way of speech remind me of my grandad—a knitted vest, a maroon-coloured dress shirt, black trousers, formal black shoes, and oval glasses.

Behind Mr. Kade’s desk sits a whiteboard that says, Test today, rest tomorrow. Put your phones into the basket on my desk. 

Of course, like always, he forgot to follow his own instructions as there is no basket. 

Mr. Kade, you forgot the basket for our phones. Where should I put it? 

His eyes light up. Oh, I see, thank you for reminding me! Ah ... let me get that basket right now. 

I look around to catch most of my classmates gazing at me hatefully. I lower my eyes and hear someone call out, Nice going, idiot. 

I shrug it off as I don’t want an unnecessary fight. Laying my bag under my desk, I take out some supplies for the test. 

The clock shows 8:35 a.m.; class has officially started, and the teacher hands out the tests. I look at it briefly to see how many questions there are and instantly feel the wave of panic overcoming me. I studied day and night, I understood the material very well, and I just have to go blank now! All I have to do is focus, imagine myself passing, and getting a good grade. Though, the only thing is, I can focus on almost everything but this test right now. The loud ticking of the clock turning every second, the rain tapping on the window, the leg-shaking of the girl sitting beside me, the smell of Mr. Kade’s coffee. Everything but this test. 

Roman, who is sitting in the back of the class, whispers to his friend to show him the answers. Cheater, I scream in the walls of my secure mind. Normally, I would finish the test first and have spare time to look over it again, but today’s odd.

Ten more minutes, Mr. Kade announces. 

I didn’t realize how quickly time flew; it took me almost twenty minutes to just look at the test. The first part is multiple choice, so I circle all the Cs, hoping I’ll get at least a couple of them right, then there’s a written portion. I break into a sweat and answer what I can, leaving what I can’t. Dumping my head into my hands while staring at the paper, loads of thoughts flow through my mind.

What are Mom and Dad going to say? What if I fail? My overall grade will drop by so much. I’m not even good at sports. Math is the only subject I’m good at. Why can’t I just focus?

Mr. Kade calls out, Time’s up, pencils down. 

With a deep sigh, a cold sweat, fear in my voice, and disappointment written on my face, I hand the papers to him doubtfully, praying for good marks. The bell rings, which means it’s time for French class. What’s strange is that I still feel like something bad is going to happen, as if this test isn’t enough.

A weird yet known feeling twists in my stomach, and my skin burns with the thought of someone’s eyes watching me.

For a brief second, I forget where I am, as if my mind just blanks out, kind of like an overheated computer.

School? Home? 

The bell rings again, and students rush to their classes, bumping into one another. 

I’m definitely at school.

Generally, by the second bell, I would already be in class; if not, I would be running at this point. But I don’t run. I just walk quietly without any clue of what’s happening. 

"Bonjour, Khalid," I hear a voice say; it’s my French teacher. 

I stare at her for a moment and forget to greet her back; I simply walk past her, nodding vaguely. Slowly, the noises in the room start to fade, and the sound of the rain becomes much louder. I lock my eyes on the window, on the cold rain, the dark clouds, and the electric weather in the sky. Once more, I can’t think straight. 

The visuals and sounds make me hazy, sleepy, but most importantly, blank! 

Ramira taps me on the shoulder. Hey, you know the class is over, right? 

I look around and sure enough, the class is empty. Nothing but vacant desks, chatter from the hallway, and Ramira’s expression of is this kid okay? Time has been feeling weird today.

In a dismissive tone, I answer, Yeah, thank you. 

I get up from my seat, grab my bag, and throw it over my shoulder. 

Ramira calls out to me as I begin to take a few steps towards the door, Hey ... what class do you have next? We can walk together.

Her voice carries tension, and I wonder why she would want to walk or talk to me, but I smile and reply, Uh, well, it’s lunch right now ...

She blushes as she realizes, Oh, right! Sorry.

As she walks past me, I call out, If you want, we can have lunch together.

Hesitantly, she informs, I already told Julia that I would have lunch with her ... sorry.

That’s all right. My cheeks turn red with embarrassment. 

But after lunch, we can meet up and go to class together.

I nod. Sure.

Ramira showing an effort to get to know me distracts my mind from the test for a while, but the thoughts don’t just disappear. 

When the bell rang, I met up with Ramira and made small talk. I’m not the best, but I’m not the worst either. 

She asks me about my next class, and I nervously smile while replying. I have English next, what about you? 

Art, but it’s on the way to the English wing. 

Nice, I have art next semester. So ... Pausing momentarily, I ask, Not that I don’t want you to, but why did you want to walk with me today? I thought you follow— Backtracking on my words, I continue, I mean ... I just—never mind. 

Ramira’s eyes twinkle from the light in the hallway. She mumbles, It’s just that you’re so quiet. I wanted to get to know you a little more. She brushes her hair behind her ear and looks away into the distance. I can tell she’s nervous; I just don’t know why.

To be honest, her answer is not what I expected. Instead of joy, I feel obscure and confused. My head starts to ache, and I abruptly end the small talk with her. 

Brushing my hair with my hand, I say, Well, my class is here. I’ll see you later. I don’t give her a chance to say goodbye; I simply walk away to my English class.

Ms. Garcia sits at her desk with her arms crossed while microwaving coffee as she glares at everyone with a stern look. The strange feeling hits me again, a suspicion of ominous occurrences. 

Ms. Garcia has her classroom set up in groups of four; she never cares for assigning seats as it’s a first-come-first-served basis. I prefer the seat in the back of the class. It’s calm, peaceful, and quiet. Usually, at this table group, I would find Chase, Julia, Jason, and myself. Jason is one of those athletics guys who tries to make sports references whenever possible. He uses his looks to dazzle girls and get his homework done. He’s a typical guy with short chestnut-blond hair, bluish-grey doe eyes, blushed cheeks, crystal-like teeth, and branded everything.

My thoughts dissolve with Ms. Garcia’s monotonous voice. Put your phones away. I don’t want to see or hear them. Today you are going to explore your creative side. Write a two-sentence horror story. When you are done, brainstorm for the persuasive essay; it must be at least three pages, and it’s worth 10 percent of your grade—due next Friday. You may begin.    

I tuck my phone into the front pocket of my bag and fling it over my chair. A two-sentence horror story sounds interesting, but I just hope I don’t start blanking out again. I raise a brow and think of what I can write about; school is scary, nightmares are scary, the stares parents give when their child doesn’t do their chores is scary. I take