Hello, November

Man of Red Skies: write

11/19/18

Suddenly a single bird flitted down from the red sky. It had a long scythed beak, curving the air around it. Humidity leached from its wings--feathered lank and gray, slicked to its body, fanning out, and fanning in again. It landed on the pavement, casting its shadow over a man who sat on a bench.

He had been sitting there since the weak sun rose. He had been waiting and watching. His hair was white, his face weathered by patience. For as long as he could remember, he lived to see the birds. He held out a hand of seed and other things, offering them to the emptiness that panned through the dead city.

And sometimes one came. Sometimes one didn't. But sometimes an entire flock, two flocks, every flock of this dying place, came to see the man.

Sometimes he ran out of things to offer. Sometimes he didn't. Either way the birds stayed. They stayed with the old man until the slivered moon joined the clouds in the sky. And then they left, fluttering, gliding, soaring away. Where they came from the man never knew. But it didn't really matter, did it? Where they came from? Because they came to him, comforted him, filled the blank red skies.

And the man didn't know what he could be more grateful for, if not that.

The scythe-billed bird presently nuzzled the man's hand, nudging for offerings. His fist unfolded, revealing nothing.

He had not brought anything. Never before had this happened.

The man gasped. A distant look stole into his eyes, precarious. But the bird stayed with the breaking man until the night came. Then it leapt from the ground, spreading its wings, and receded into the sky.

NOTE: I wrote this from a prompt--I picked three random cards out of a prompt bin. They all had strange drawings on them to spark inspiration. The one I liked the most showed an old man with glasses and a cane sitting on a bench, while weird birds spiraled out of a reddish sky. I had to start my write with "suddenly", as well.

--KingfisherBirdLady