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- #981
Fanci Feathers Marans
Chicken Tender
I ended up reading this again and realized how little editing I did. There's a lot of repetitiveness, and the part where he crashes into the fire escape is really glitchy... The first couple paragraphs that I wrote when I wasn't so stressed are good, though.I think this is an appropriate place to post this and then disappear.
Warning: long storie is long.
Other warning: copy and paste removed italics...
“If humans could fly, we would consider it exercise and never do it.”
He perched on the windowsill of a ninth-floor apartment, armed only with flipflops from Target, and Chicago Bulls hoodie. The sky was still black, and just grey enough to puke out some early morning mist, most which trickled down his feathers and stained his wings an even dingier brown than usual. He shivered. Maybe he should just take a taxi to work today. It was getting to be a taxi-ish time of year… but could he afford it? Was it cold and rainy enough?
While he fought with himself back and forth about whether to fly or not, a tiny gryphon that looked a lot like an alley cat with according pigeon features landed on the balcony below. He blinked and leaned over the edge to watch the creature crawl into a potted plant, which looked more like spindly sticks now, and hunkered down. “Aha!” the wingman trumpeted, startling the bird, “Birb has made a decision for Gage! Gage will not fly in the rain, either.” he said stupidly, and turned to the window from which he’d come, and lifted up.
Of course, that window was stuck, I mean why wouldn’t it be? Cold, wet, and two minutes from being late for work? Yeah, just peachy. Gage lifted again, only to jerk too hard on one side and make it even more stuck. He sighed, waddled in his still-squatting position back to the puking sky and the traffic lights lighting up the foggy mist on the main street two blocks over. A breeze brought another shiver, and the first real rain drops. Below, the pige-gryphon thing had buried happily in its pot of earth.
The wingman frowned at it as a drop of wet rolled off his hair, “Stupid bird,” he said, mostly of himself. He swiped his dark hair back, spiking it up a bit as he did so, and then wrung the rain from his hand. That’s when he heard a door slam, and someone rush to the dumpster far below. It looked to be a normal human, but from this far it was hard to tell. Whatever it was, the humanoid must have really hated the rain, because they didn’t even bother to make sure their trash went inside the dumpster. Instead, they threw it in the general direction, did a 180, and rushed back into the La Quinta Inn, just on the other side of the alley below..
Gage’s lip twitched. There was no way the trash truck was going to bother picking that up… and a lot of it looked to be paper, loosely tied into bundles with one having burst open with colorful pages flying everywhere. For about the hundredth time that month, he wished he had eagle vision to go along with the wings like so many other wingmen got, or at least a more unique bird species to add some spice to his wing coloring. But why did he want to look at trash? Just let someone else take care of it. He had to get going, else he wouldn’t be able to pick up a nice coffee and still make it to work on time.
Seconds passed. The wind whistled in his ears and pierced his jacket and mostly-bare feet. Still, his wings wouldn’t move, and his eyes stayed glued on the stacks of paper. No, go to work. Go get good coffee and not have to drink the cheap stuff at work… Gage, no. He thought to himself, at the same time wondering why this bothered him so.
“Gahhh,” he growled, breaking at last and leapt off the building with his attention still glued to the papers. Maybe if he did this quick, he could still get to the coffee place before the guy that took forever and a day to order anything did. Something made a squeak as he leapt, probably the pidge-gryph that had fallen asleep to the pattering rain. He grinned as it flapped off, its wings making an odd whirring sound as it did so. See you later, bud.
He let himself freefall as long as he could, just feeling the wind through his fingers like a hand out the window of a car- except this was more like going sixty miles an hour and your whole body was out the window and the wind is pressing against your face and your nose making it hard to breathe. In all of this, Gage closed his eyes. One second, two, three stories from the ground he opened his eyes and wings. Beneath the feathers, his second arms struggled slow his decent, feathers gripping the air. Exactly halfway through the dive he remembered he had worn flipflops and no soft landing spot in sight.
…Oh crud this was a bad idea.
He stroked against the wind, struggling to get any traction with his wet feathers. “Stop stop-” He coasted down in a swooping motion, coasting right into the lowest rung of the LaQuinta Inn fire escape. He hung there a moment, still bent over the railing and making small, pained squeaking noises before he rolled forward and dropped heavily onto the metal platform. Gage most definitely would not do that again.
Lying on his back, trying to get his wind back, he realized the fading stars. He was running out of time. By now he could care less about the garbage, but he had lost his vantage point for flying to work. It would be so much harder to take off from the ground. Groaning, he rolled over, taking care not to pull feathers. The papers were still there, but they weren’t blowing away like he thought they would. In fact, they looked more like booklets, or children’s books. Why would someone have so many of these?
Gage sighed as he noticed the dented fire escape railing and hoped no one would notice. Carefully, feebly, he hopped over it and lofted the rest of the way down. He landed on the closed side of the dumpster and glared down at the books that had cost his arms, legs, and most of his internal organs several bruises. The covers were brightly colored, but not like one would expect of a kid’s book. It didn’t matter, thought. All he had to do was put them in the trash where they belonged and be done with it.
All he did was hop down from the lid of the dumpster, but that was all it took for his left flipflop to break. He kicked it off, thinking he would fix it in a minute. Or just leave it there. Whoever left these papers would have done so. He crouched beside the stacks, examining it the colorful pages, fat raindrops cratered the front cover like tiny asteroids across the illustration’s chest and flowing red cape as he hoisted a car above his head. The booklet was almost like a magazine, heralding the gossip of these fictional people.
His eyes glanced over the title and frowned. “What’s a ‘superman’?” he thought aloud as he pulled the weird little book from the broken stack and turned the front page for answers. Just then someone coughed. Gage nearly jumped out of his skin, flying back ten feet. Someone moved from the shadows below the fire escape towards him. Oh crud, he probably thinks I’m going through the trash! A hundred excuses all danced on the tip of his tongue, but none of them seemed to want to come out.
“How can ye not know what a comic book is?” It was an old man, probably in his late forties and sported untamed greying beard, stained clothes, and dark eyes that bore a striking resemblance to those of an old Bloodhound.
Gage swallowed the lump in his throat and relaxed a bit, realizing the man probably would not say a word about his sudden interest in one man’s garbage. Still, his mind whirred with polite excuses to leave, but all he could get out was, “W-what?” he stuttered as the stranger shuffled up to the second, un-broken stack of books and examined the top cover.
“These are probably older than you are… the fool prob’ly didn’t know what they were, either.” He reached down, hooked a finger in the string holding the stack together, and lifted it up with a disgruntled huff. Running his thumb over the text, he shot a questioning glance at the wingman, “You really never heard of Superman?”
Edging closer to retrieve his left shoe, Gage shook his head, and without a hint of snark asked, “Why does it matter?” For a split second holding the flipflop in his hand made him realize that he could use it to smack the guy if he needed to, but this issued a mental eyeroll. You have fists, too, you idiot! he chided himself.
The man froze at Gage’s words, as if that innocent question shocked him more than the most sadistic ‘no’ could have been. He took a deep breath, “Did they not teach you anything in History?”
The wingman flinched, “Well, you kind of have to pay attention for them to do that. Look, as much as I’d love to stand around and talk about my grades and trash, I really should be getting to work-”
“These were made to introduce your kind to the people, don’t you understand? I mean, they may have been a fad, but surely they weren’t that easy to forget? Here,” the old man said, holding out the stack of books to Gage, which was received with much hesitation, “educate yourself on them. Do some research, they might even be worth something.”
Though it was slight, a shadow cast across his face at the term ‘your kind,’ but it was quickly replaced with unease as the man approached him, “Erm… thanks. I think.” This was the best thing he could think to as he accepted the bundle, shifting the comic from the first stack to his armpit. Worth something? What does he mean, somebody just threw them away! Struggling to be polite, he asked, “What are they, exactly?” he said awkwardly and started to edge away, “I-I mean, I thought they were magazines.” He was so going to be late right now.
Much to Gage’s distress, the man started to gather the second bundle together and retie it, as if he intended to give him that bundle of garbage, too. “They’re stories. Things to make the Original humans believe you would be heroes, even though…” he coughed, “they’re a good read. Short, quick- I think you’ll like them.” He said, and then did exactly as the wingman feared and handed him the second bundle. Gage opted to roll the first comic up and stuff it in his soaked hoodie pocket to receive the second stack ruefully.
“Look, it was nice meeting you, but I really should go now. I’ve already been late twice this week and my boss’ll have my head if I’m late again.” he said, edging away again and spreading his wings in a gentle indication that he wanted to get the heck out of this stress-ball situation with a weird guy feeding him bogus history lessons and gifting him trash in a back alley. Weird guy seemed to comply, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and nodding. His wrinkled eyes offered a small smile before he turned away and disappeared completely.
Gage’s eyebrows shot up at the man vanished in plain sight. Okay, so apparently the ‘your kind’ wasn’t actually... yeah. Grrr, where am I going to get rid of these books? He clutched the stacks tighter, just in case the guy was still watching, and spun away and ran out of the alley. Even with a running start, he may not be able to get him aloft fast enough to get above the buildings. Within a hundred feet, he got his feet off the ground and coasting above second street.
Below, umbrellas bobbed back and forth on their way to anywhere. A blue one with a small U.S. Postal sticker on it had a horse’s rear -blanketed with matching attire- sticking out beneath it, indicating that Mr. Leon the centaur was delivering the mail per usual. Further down the street, a Siren was busking in her usual nook out of the wind and rain. Gage didn’t seem to notice any of it, lips moving without words as he practiced his apology for when he got to the pancake house. Maybe Sara would let him in the back door and he could get to work without anyone noticing he’d been gone, but that was too much to ask for.
Amid all these thoughts, something itched at the back of his mind. Something back there in the alley bothered him, but what was it? His mind was silent for a moment, allowing him to focus on external things, like the one comic in his pocket about to fall out. Both hands full, he tried to push it back in, but it was already starting to unroll and one of the corners hung on the fabric. He decided to try and take it out and just hang onto it with the one free finger that he had. Of course, that didn’t work, and as the pages fluttered in the wind, his fingers started to slip.
There it went. Not only did it have to fall, -which might have been okay, because he had planned to throw them away later, anyway- but the spine of the book had to land squarely on someone old guy’s head. The grey-hair immediately turned and squinted up at the sky, eyes landing directly upon the culprit. Gage pulled up and sputtered an apology as he landed as lightly as he could on the sidewalk beside him, his left shoe falling apart again. “Not a problem,” the man said, offering a dentured smile while he fiddled with something in his pocket. “Say, isn’t that one of those hero books?”
As the wingman bent to pick up the now-soaked comic, he shrugged, “I guess so.” Wait, hero books? Then he remembered what had bothered him so. They’re stories. Things to make the Original humans believe you would be heroes, even though… Was that word supposed to mean something more than the literal meaning? Was that what a ‘superman’ was? Was there some kind of unfulfilled potential hidden in these pages?
Gage was about to offer a final apology, but the old man had already gone on his merry way, still fiddling with the thing in his pocket. It looked like a chain, perhaps a wallet? It seemed weird for an old guy to have one of those, though. Shrugging it off, he picked up his shoe, fixed it, and hurried along the sidewalk. He tried his best to keep his wings and paper bundles from knocking into people, with little success.
The rain started to fade, however, and through a hole in the clouds the sun peeked its meager face out. He didn’t notice, yet again lost in thought. The man on the soaked cover had been lifting a car, which was normal enough, but he was also depicted saving someone. Gage hardly could see a normal guy like himself saving the day, but maybe there was something else he could do? Just as an idea formed, he shook his head, freeing a few droplets from his hair. No, that was ridiculous, starting something like that. But… it wasn’t such a bad idea.
Maybe he wouldn’t throw these books away after all.
