Flightless Bird

The other day a tiny bird flew into the french door window.  It was not harmed but I wondered what caused its mistake.  It hopped a bit then flew off.  Later an ostrich rammed into the front door, knocking it off its jam.  The door fell inward, kicking up carpet dander.  The ostrich stood, dazed and swiveling its head upon that impossibly long neck.  I sat, frozen on the couch, hoping the ostrich's eyesight was movement based.  Its massive eyes sported long, wiry lashes that were, at once, feminine and disturbing.

Moments passed and the ostrich began to step into the room, neck and legs somehow locked in sync.  It goose-necked across the floor and turned into the kitchen, from whence came the sounds of pilferage.  Pots clanged and thudded on the linoleum.  Plastic and paper bags were ripped open, their contents sprayed across counter tops.  All the while the long, deadly talons slipped and skidded over slick surface, the beasts massive body slamming into appliances, voiding warrantees.  

In a panic I leaped from the couch, hurdled the fallen door and raced outside, wishing I had a way to shut the animal in.  Instead I ran to my car and sat in the passenger's seat, absent-mindedly locking the door.  Sounds from the house brought neighbors to their stoops.  I waved them away as best I could but they seemed to take my gesticulations as a form of greeting and waved back smiling.

The door-less jam left the house looking derelict and from it emerged the bird, clearly confused by the modern layout of my home, my half-hearted attempt at Feng-Shui.  Mothers gasped and wrangled their children inside quietly.  Their mouths started sentences that could not be finished.  "What the Fuuu?" and nothing else.

Rick snuck upside my slightly open window and whispered "What the Fuuu?" and nothing more.

I whispered back, "Try not to move.  It can't see you if you're still."

Rick cocked his head.  "How do you know that?  I don't think that's true."  He stared blankly at me.  A tiny wince affected his eyes and then they went blank, losing focus and for a moment the world was a frozen frame, a snap-shot of Rick's slack face and right palm pressed against the window.  His mouth opened slightly and emitted a thin red line of blood which trickled down his chin.  Then his palm slid slowly down making a rather annoying rubbing sound as it went.  And then he fell away dead and in his place stood the murderous fowl.  It flapped its mostly decorative wings, raised its round head high, stretched itself as tall and wide and menacing as possible and let out a terrible, booming roar that shook the window glass and froze my heart.  The ostrich turned its head sideways and stared one-eyed directly into my meek soul.  The gaze of predator and prey.  It slowly pried open its foul, bloody mouth and let out a shrill hiss that fogged the glass between us.

What I saw of the bird's body was a rocking back and forth and without a view of its legs I knew it was tearing Rick's body to shreds with razor-like claws.  Then the head, one moment staring through me, the next whipping down upon its kill, tearing flesh, raising back into my view, tossing up its head to swallow crude chunks of my neighbor.  My friend.  Again and again it battered its vicious beak into the bloody pile, less a man with every blow.

Motivated by survival, I slid to the driver's side and shakily fished the keys form my jeans' pocket.  The engine fired and the ostrich screeched in protest and battered its messy head against the window, leaving a large spiderweb of cracks where it had impacted.  I let out an involuntary sound.  Something between a baby's cry and a dumb and unintentional "Whuh?"

The bird swung its neck and head back to prepare for the final blow when I found myself suddenly driving away.  Someone had come and put my car in drive while I was busy panicking.  I looked forward to see the car eating up the road that lead away from my house.

It is all in the rear-view now, the incident.  I barely reflect upon it .  I never returned to the neighborhood.  The rear-view.  That's where trauma is best left.  Just a squat rectangle of mirrored glass.  A wisp of what was.  What can never be again.  And in those very last moments of an otherwise perfect early-Spring morning, gazing hypnotically into that rear-view for the last time, I saw the ostrich, legs driving hard and neck bent low as it dragged the remains of a good man (held together by clothing alone) into the gap-toothed snarl that had once been my front door.

THE END!

Reviews

[Sami Khalil]

Some courageous but murderous big birds. I love the intricate details with the emotions evident. Fear, anxiety and losing sanity set in when we are faced with these situations. Our logical mind fled away in a panic. I felt the helplessness of the writer. Marvelous.

[Phillip W Parsons]

Thanks, Sami! As I was settling in for my morning writing a small bird Did softly hit the window, and so started the story. I was as surprised as any reader when the narrative moved to the fantastic. Those are the lucky moments in writing when you feel the adrenaline inspiration taking hold. I've had countless throw-away sessions from the same process but once in a while...
Thanks so much for the review!

[Sami Khalil]

All good my friend. Excellent.

[Beccy]

It this was a painting, then for sure, the artist would have to be Dali.

Both imaginative and brilliantly left field.

Beccy.

[Phillip W Parsons]

I wouldn't go so far as Dali, but thanks so much for the review! The glad you enjoyed it!

[Myra Fellows]

Voiding warranties. I howled.
Cujo and Christine?
I loved how first it was just a little bird that just incidentally bumped into the window and then minutes later BIG BIRD.

[Charles Miller]

WTF? An ostrich in West Seattle? Ostriches are not normally predators, but what a great story!