Spontaneous combustion must be the kind of death dreamed up for those guilty of animal cruelty, particularly those of the avian variety. A revenge tactic the victims’ loved ones and whatever Powers That Be have settled on- during their infrequent board meetings held where oxygen is thin. Why did you think birds take such pains to fly out of earshot (although often defeating the purpose as their emotions tend to outweigh the need for volume control)?
To properly repent, they decreed, you had to experience all aspects of living as a hunted bird, not just the pain but also the necessity of flight. This would allow you to taste the bittersweet lifestyle of those you had tried to rub out, and possibly feel a glimmer of guilt for the bloodshed, but only after it would be too late. And so, thirsty for irony, your fragile being takes center stage in this scenario the birds have so carefully sculpted. There you are, healthy, maybe happy, but with an unfortunate hatred for things with wings.
You are sitting in your favorite loveseat, the one near the window so when you sit you can see the dust rising from the cushions and dancing like stardust in the afternoon sunbeams. You pat the dog, wonder if he needs to go for a walk, but you really should finish the library book waiting in your lap so you decide against it.
Suddenly the dog takes off sprinting down the hall and slips on the kitchen floor you just waxed that very morning as the book’s plastic covering fuses to your disintegrating legs as you hold up melting tendons to the spaces your eyes used to occupy as you squawk and flap your arms and your skin flakes and fizzles like singed feathers and for a second you are a Firebird. Trying to soar.
No comments:
Post a Comment