The Tale of Griffith McCarthy

Chapter 1

For many years, the park at Third and Harlem St. had remained unused and without visitors, and had grown overrun with thick green ivy, abandoned shopping carriages, and amateur photographers under the singular delusion that they themselves were the first and only Nikon-owning pedestrian to stumble across this deserted quarter-block of urban amazon. It was here, beneath an iron park bench with rotted wooden slats, shadowed by a towering mossy oak, that Griffith McCarthy lived the entirety of his life.

Griffith, of course, was a Peregrine falcon. He was two years old, almost an adult, and covered from beak to tail in a beautiful marble grey with brown spots on his breast and wingtips. His eyes were large black orbs ringed in baby blue, his talons were sharp and clever, but Griffith's best feature, in his opinion, were his wings. Every morning when he woke up, he'd hop out from under the bench and stretch out as far as his bones and tendons allowed, and watch the sun reflect off his shimmering feathers into the leaves above him, causing a the light to dance and jump around. It was his favorite way to wake up.

Griffith knew the whole park like the back of his claw, and he'd explore it every morning for new junk left behind by homeless or the art crowd. He'd jump up to the bench seat and across the broken water fountain, up a hanging tree limb and disappear into the park's miniature forest. One time, he found an old dog bed filled with beer cans, which he turned into his sleeping quarters. Another time, he dragged back a woman's purse so he could store bugs and trinkets in the many pouches and crannies.

Griffith loved his home in the park under the bench. He loved it so much, he never even cared that his left wingtip was broken, and he had been completely incapable of flying since his hatching.

Then he met Oswald.