Bird
Day Nine of A Dozen Days of Magical Realism
You might think birds are a little less threatening than Sirenhead, but if you do, I invite you to take a peek at the South American harpy eagle.
I swear, that creature haunts my dreams. Of course, on the other end of the spectrum, we’ve got my canary, Marmalade, who gets irritated at visitors and tries to do the whole “spooky-vulture-flexing-his-wings” thing, and only succeeds in looking adorable.
Which direction will you take the prompt?
Murmuration
Born in summer, the last to hatch, she was a mama’s bird if there ever was one. The smallest titmouse in the nest, she was beak-fed throughout the summer, enjoying the choice morsels her adoring daddy-bird saved just for her. Her first winter passed as she nestled into her mother’s feathers, roosting warmly in their snug hole in the oak tree, escorted back and forth between the safest birdfeeders in the prettiest winter gardens. When spring came, she delighted in helping to feed her new little brothers and sisters. All was joy and birdsong, and her second summer passed away with the breeze.
But autumn came, as it always has, and the little titmouse was no longer the baby of the brood. No trills of “Peter, peter, peter!” had caught her fancy over the balmy vernal mornings, and she was unspoken for. In the crowded roost, she got beaks-full of feathers instead of fresh air.
What to do? She had no mate, nowhere to call home. The sun hurried through the sky, the dallying nights grew cooler. When she found an empty birdfeeder, the squirrels scolded her for being late to the party. If titmice had tears, she would have cried a puddle.
Grey November, with its tired sun and lazy clouds, always threatened rain. The little dun bird alit hopelessly on a desiccated pumpkin patch. The raucous exclamation of a crow startled her, and she readied to fly, but the shadowy form crouched over her and blocked the way.
“Caw! Why don’t you flock?”
“Who, me?” she twittered. “I can’t, I’m alone.”
“Do you not know the way of winter?”
The little tit trembled in answer.
“Follow.”
He flapped across the field and she struggled to keep pace. Just across the road foraged birds of all kinds, wearing brown and gray suits and picking scattered gems of red and blue corn. Her tiny heart beat an impossible staccato as she shyly pecked a golden seed.
Suddenly she was arrested by an electric jolt that flew from her dainty claws to the tips of her wings. She shook her feathers and leaped into the air, simultaneous with a thousand other birds. No—not a thousand—a single bird as big as the sky, and she saw through a thousand eyes as if they were one, turned and pivoted in a thousand ecstatic directions at once, exploding every movement into a ballet that transcended distinction between titmouse and robin, crow and starling. As one self, they inked an ephemeral masterpiece on the grey November sky.
When the electricity died away, she floated down with her flock to feast on the field.
Your turn! Comment below! If you need a refresher on the rules of this party game, check the invitation!
The cool, late autumn morning air greeted Astrid as she stepped onto her back porch— hot tea and a journal in hand. Slow, deep breaths grounded her senses as her eyes scanned the view in front of her. The warm morning sun peaked out from above the mountains casting celestial glitter on glassy lake before her. Peering into the lake mimicked glancing into another realm as omens that flew above reflected for closer viewing below. She breathed with the calm of the morning and opened her journal.
Slowly and with intent, she dated the page and penned a single word on the line below. A gentle, content smile graced her face. Closing her journal, she sipped from her cup and permitted her eyes to embrace the view before her. The sun rose higher and the woods around her began to wake up. Far off, she heard moose calls and replies while closer to her cabin came the sounds of squirrels and baby birds waiting impatiently for their breakfast. Somewhere between came bubbling and splashing from the fish in the lake that rippled before her.
This was her heaven.
Perhaps a hundred miles away, two hikers returned to their car, loaded their gear, and headed down the main road after a few nights of camping. The winding mountain road took them to a small town where they could refuel their car. They thought nothing of the singular crow that perched atop the gas station roof.
The hikers entered the store and jovially greeted the owner whose name, Casper, lay embroidered in gray thread on his black shirt. Waters, protein bars, and fuel were purchased before the men headed back towards their jeep. Their joyful conversation was cut short as a massive swarm of crows attacked them from behind. The convenience store manager called 911 as the men failed fatally to fend off the fowl.
-
Peering into the sky, Astrid smiled as a recognizable figure flew overhead. Her familiar, a crow, came back with something shiny in his talons. After releasing a silver and obsidian ring into her hand, Casper perched himself on the small coffee table. Smiling, Astrid pointed him towards his reward— carrion laid neatly by a tree.
"Murder," she wrote.
Something I wrote really quick today, but may come back with something else.
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An old man sat on the bench feeding the pigeons. His cane leaned against the bench next to him, his bag by his feet. Another man, about his own age came and slowly eased himself down on the bench beside the first, cane and bag joining the others. He nodded briefly at the first man. "Frank."
Frank nodded back. "Bill."
They were silent for a time, Frank continuing to toss birdseed every so often. Finally, Bill spoke. "How's the wife?"
"On a fitness kick. Can't drink beer anymore."
Bill winced and nodded. "Yup, Cathy's the same. The beer went out with the ice cream." Despite his words, though, his body relaxed. "No one to hear then." Those were the safe words after all.
Frank threw some more birdseed. "Just us and the birds."
Bill laughed and his eye twinkled. "You know, my grandkids were jabbering the other day about some old 'meem-me'. Talking about how birds don't really exist and that rich people use robots that look like birds to spy on people."
Frank considered the pigeons in front of him. One stumbled over a tiny rock, another ran around in circles. "Not the smartest robots then," he chuckled. The two made a few more pleasantries then both got up and started walking slowly out of the park leaving the pigeons squabbling behind. It would have been hard to tell that they had exchanged bags when rising from the bench.
It was noticed by Ryan who was sitting at his laptop, three cities away in a high-end, exclusive coffee shop. He chuckled to himself, and his table-mate, Josh, looked up from his own laptop. "Whatcha got?"
"Two old geezers who think the old 'switch at the bench' still works."
Josh joined in the laughter. "I bet they didn't even used RFID blocking on their bags.
Ryan grinned. "Nope. We got everything."
Josh shook his head. "Man, who would have thought that using robotic pigeons would actually work"
"Against agents like these, we hardly need them!" declared Ryan.
Josh huffed. "Boomers."
Three blocks away, the top of Bill's cane vibrated slightly. He didn't look down, but gave a couple taps with his index finger, listening for a moment. Frank noticed. "It worked?"
Bill nodded. "Yup. They downloaded that Trojan right well."
Frank shook his head. "Do they really think we wouldn't notice the robot pigeons?"
"They didn't even think about the possibility of deliberate disclosure," said Bill as he rolled his eyes.
Frank huffed. "Millennials."