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Variant Feathers
May. 8th, 2011 04:53 pmTitle: Variant Feathers
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bardiphouka
Rating: G
Genre:Fiction
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1380
Prompt: “good omens”, first line: “There was a spark”, “verisimilitude”
A/N: This was written for week #1 at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
brigits_flame, the advanced level.
There was a spark. The Peregrine preened for a moment as she watched it before taking flight. For the first time in weeks it appeared to be a day made for sunshine and she was going to take advantage of it. Her wings spread out,the white parts of her under-wing bright in the morning light. Between that and the barring she looked like a monochromatic rainbow in the morning as she headed toward the higher buildings around her.
It was not that she knew about weeks. Or days, or hours, any other unit of time. The truth is that she may not have not known about rain or sun as specific functions. What she knew was flight and the freedom of flight. She could hang almost motionless in the sky far above downtown and then dive at speeds up to 320 Kilometers per hour. Sometimes there would be prey at the end of the dive but sometimes it was just the pure exhilaration of feeling the air and speed surround her.
Far below her, just out of range of the water spray of the Tyler-Davidson Fountain, a man set his load down to watch. It was something that had become a habit for him over the last few weeks. What really amazed him is that few people seem to even know that such wonder was in the downtown area. Most people just moved from one point to another, regardless of the weather they moved through. Certainly they never paid attention to me as he stood just off Fountain Square, with his old Simon and Patrick 12 string in his hands and a battered hard shell case festooned with stickers of bands or previous destinations or quotes at his feet, a few coins and his last US dollar as a means to prime donations. Hopefully people would not notice that the coins were Loonies and not Golden Dollars. He had already been involved in a conversation this week about the rights and lack of for immigrants.
But generally people passed by, and if they heard him play it was more their hearts or an old memory that heard and led to the dropping of coins or even a folded bill at times. He noticed the bronze light gauge strings were getting brittle again. Others may not notice but he did. As did his fingers, as they danced or fought with the strings up and down the neck of his old guitar. As he looked up at the sky he could not help but chuckle. He had bought his guitar in a vintage guitar shop in Victoria, the previous owner someone from Toronto who had moved west to make his fortune as a busker. And here he was, busking on the South side of the Great Lakes with not much more luck himself.
He bowed his head in mid chord as someone dropped a five in the case. Looking up he saw his falcon as her spread wings carried her from one building to another. He sighed and shook his head as he segued from Tin Angel to High Flying Bird. His falcon. He knew better, but could not help himself. Beauty was beauty and many was the day where watching her had been what kept him going from song to unheard song. Even though she probably did not notice him any more than she knew about time.
There was a spark. He looked over and saw his other distraction for the day. It was a large raven whose wings were an incandescent black in the mid morning sun. Looking into his paper bag he pulled loose a scrap of roast beef from the sandwich that he has busked for yesterday and tossed it to the ground. The raven hopped over in a sort of invisible obstacle race before taking the meat and sliding it down his throat with no grace whatsoever. It was one of the things that made him smile.
He had a sudden thought. He had been here for almost a month and had never seen the raven actually fly. In a moment he would hop back up on his perch, and then the higher one, and then the highest that made him feel safe from the crowds. Perhaps that is why the raven also seemed to spend so much time staring at the Peregrine Falcon as she flew far above the streets. Perhaps they were both destined to remember the feel of Freedom without being able to regain the Truth of it.
On the other hand, the Raven seemed content with his lot in life. He seemed to have an inerrant ability to find a place where the traffic did not flow but the occasional scrap of food did. He also seemed to always find a perch where he could track the flight of the Falcon. Apart from tracking her, or the possibility of food, he could spend hours immobile, some sort of avian Zen master in a sheen of shining black.
For a moment his fingers started moving into a reel before he remembered this was no stage. Those days were behind him. He did not notice that he still curved his fingers just ..so when riffing down the neck to avoid catching the strings on a wedding band he had not worn for years. A wedding band he had actually given thought of replacing with a new one. But like the raven, he was fated to appear a great deal freer than he was. He carried an image in his heart that sang through his songs with just the whisper of might have been.
There was a spark. He saw the glint of afternoon sun off the light rack of a police cruiser which was circling the block too often for his liking. He waved to the soaring Peregrine Falcon and and the Raven pecking at something with an eye toward the skyline. Then he took the scattering of bills and coins (along with the bible tract left by one person who stared accusingly and left without saying anything)out of the case and slid his beloved cedar Simon and Patrick into the case. He would count the money later, for now if he wanted to be free as his falcon he needed to move on.
There was a spark. The raven seemed to notice the light as it glimmered off the latches of the guitar case and then went back to watching the Peregrine falcon who climbed through the ripples of wind toward her nest. An observer would have noticed that the nest was gradually growing slightly less cohesive. It was a situation which had existed since her mate had died last season. Since then the nest had lost its importance and all that existed for the falcon was the flight and the dive.
Far below her nesting space on the tower, the busker rambled off, wondering if he had collected enough money for a glass of cider. Or at least a cup of tea. Herb tea sounded good. And whistling a song of freedom he moved on, toward the flat where he had waited for the sense of loss to fade. With luck this would be one of the nights where dreams of her would fill the emptiness with memories of shared freedom. In some dreams he would trace along her wings instead of through the hair she had grown to waist length. And then his fingers would sprout feathers and,like the Falcon of his day hours, they would soar far above the city.
The Raven spread his wings and within the iridescent black rainbow his wings created, flew to the highest point in the city where he could watch over the falcon, listen to the busker's dreams and stutterstrut among the baubles he had collected of what was the truth of Freedom.
Author:
bardiphouka Rating: G
Genre:Fiction
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1380
Prompt: “good omens”, first line: “There was a spark”, “verisimilitude”
A/N: This was written for week #1 at
brigits_flame, the advanced level.There was a spark. The Peregrine preened for a moment as she watched it before taking flight. For the first time in weeks it appeared to be a day made for sunshine and she was going to take advantage of it. Her wings spread out,the white parts of her under-wing bright in the morning light. Between that and the barring she looked like a monochromatic rainbow in the morning as she headed toward the higher buildings around her.
It was not that she knew about weeks. Or days, or hours, any other unit of time. The truth is that she may not have not known about rain or sun as specific functions. What she knew was flight and the freedom of flight. She could hang almost motionless in the sky far above downtown and then dive at speeds up to 320 Kilometers per hour. Sometimes there would be prey at the end of the dive but sometimes it was just the pure exhilaration of feeling the air and speed surround her.
Far below her, just out of range of the water spray of the Tyler-Davidson Fountain, a man set his load down to watch. It was something that had become a habit for him over the last few weeks. What really amazed him is that few people seem to even know that such wonder was in the downtown area. Most people just moved from one point to another, regardless of the weather they moved through. Certainly they never paid attention to me as he stood just off Fountain Square, with his old Simon and Patrick 12 string in his hands and a battered hard shell case festooned with stickers of bands or previous destinations or quotes at his feet, a few coins and his last US dollar as a means to prime donations. Hopefully people would not notice that the coins were Loonies and not Golden Dollars. He had already been involved in a conversation this week about the rights and lack of for immigrants.
But generally people passed by, and if they heard him play it was more their hearts or an old memory that heard and led to the dropping of coins or even a folded bill at times. He noticed the bronze light gauge strings were getting brittle again. Others may not notice but he did. As did his fingers, as they danced or fought with the strings up and down the neck of his old guitar. As he looked up at the sky he could not help but chuckle. He had bought his guitar in a vintage guitar shop in Victoria, the previous owner someone from Toronto who had moved west to make his fortune as a busker. And here he was, busking on the South side of the Great Lakes with not much more luck himself.
He bowed his head in mid chord as someone dropped a five in the case. Looking up he saw his falcon as her spread wings carried her from one building to another. He sighed and shook his head as he segued from Tin Angel to High Flying Bird. His falcon. He knew better, but could not help himself. Beauty was beauty and many was the day where watching her had been what kept him going from song to unheard song. Even though she probably did not notice him any more than she knew about time.
There was a spark. He looked over and saw his other distraction for the day. It was a large raven whose wings were an incandescent black in the mid morning sun. Looking into his paper bag he pulled loose a scrap of roast beef from the sandwich that he has busked for yesterday and tossed it to the ground. The raven hopped over in a sort of invisible obstacle race before taking the meat and sliding it down his throat with no grace whatsoever. It was one of the things that made him smile.
He had a sudden thought. He had been here for almost a month and had never seen the raven actually fly. In a moment he would hop back up on his perch, and then the higher one, and then the highest that made him feel safe from the crowds. Perhaps that is why the raven also seemed to spend so much time staring at the Peregrine Falcon as she flew far above the streets. Perhaps they were both destined to remember the feel of Freedom without being able to regain the Truth of it.
On the other hand, the Raven seemed content with his lot in life. He seemed to have an inerrant ability to find a place where the traffic did not flow but the occasional scrap of food did. He also seemed to always find a perch where he could track the flight of the Falcon. Apart from tracking her, or the possibility of food, he could spend hours immobile, some sort of avian Zen master in a sheen of shining black.
For a moment his fingers started moving into a reel before he remembered this was no stage. Those days were behind him. He did not notice that he still curved his fingers just ..so when riffing down the neck to avoid catching the strings on a wedding band he had not worn for years. A wedding band he had actually given thought of replacing with a new one. But like the raven, he was fated to appear a great deal freer than he was. He carried an image in his heart that sang through his songs with just the whisper of might have been.
There was a spark. He saw the glint of afternoon sun off the light rack of a police cruiser which was circling the block too often for his liking. He waved to the soaring Peregrine Falcon and and the Raven pecking at something with an eye toward the skyline. Then he took the scattering of bills and coins (along with the bible tract left by one person who stared accusingly and left without saying anything)out of the case and slid his beloved cedar Simon and Patrick into the case. He would count the money later, for now if he wanted to be free as his falcon he needed to move on.
There was a spark. The raven seemed to notice the light as it glimmered off the latches of the guitar case and then went back to watching the Peregrine falcon who climbed through the ripples of wind toward her nest. An observer would have noticed that the nest was gradually growing slightly less cohesive. It was a situation which had existed since her mate had died last season. Since then the nest had lost its importance and all that existed for the falcon was the flight and the dive.
Far below her nesting space on the tower, the busker rambled off, wondering if he had collected enough money for a glass of cider. Or at least a cup of tea. Herb tea sounded good. And whistling a song of freedom he moved on, toward the flat where he had waited for the sense of loss to fade. With luck this would be one of the nights where dreams of her would fill the emptiness with memories of shared freedom. In some dreams he would trace along her wings instead of through the hair she had grown to waist length. And then his fingers would sprout feathers and,like the Falcon of his day hours, they would soar far above the city.
The Raven spread his wings and within the iridescent black rainbow his wings created, flew to the highest point in the city where he could watch over the falcon, listen to the busker's dreams and stutterstrut among the baubles he had collected of what was the truth of Freedom.
