It’s been a long while, but I’m finally getting myself back into my writing groove. Moving house (country) sapped my fiction juices away for the duration; I feel they might be returning. Whether they are back to pre-move levels or not remains to be seen (read).
I am marking my return with a very short flash fiction piece for #fridayflash. Other #fridayflash contributors were asking where I’d got to. I’m still here and thank you for asking after me. Comments always welcome.
When Robert was a toddler he discovered that chasing pigeons was more fun than almost anything else. His aunt, something of a self-taught psychotherapist, assumed his behaviour was an effort to escape the over-bearing clutches of her sister-in-law; but in truth, in was all about the birds.
Robert continued to chase pigeons with an escalating degree of intensity, often resulting in painful collisions: town-square fountains, bicycles, and thorny shrubs, for example.
During a family outing to a picturesque fishing harbour – one famed locally for the quality of its crab cakes sold from a pier-end shack – Robert chased the most beautiful pigeon he’d ever seen. He chased its metallic iridescence along the harbour wall. He chased as he’d never chased before. He chased, ignoring his mother’s anguished shrieks and his father’s stern commands. He chased with increasing joy; joy which rose within him as he neared the terminal velocity of a nine year old.
Unable to perform the bird’s last minute aerial manoeuvre, Robert chased his elation over the edge, plunging into the ocean.
Within moments, he found the close deafness of the water a comforting change from the endless noises and voices he was used to enduring, and so, quite reasonably, he resolved to remain under.
Briefly distracted from his efforts to stay submerged by the distorted image of a pigeon flying just above the waves, Robert was reminded of his new aquatic ambition by the flickering lustre of a passing school of mackerel.
With any luck, he thought, kicking down into the depths, I’ll develop gills of my own.
© flyingscribbler 2013