Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Steady breaths. Steady breaths.
Pat controlled his breathing as he walked briskly down the sidewalk. Sweat dripped from his head and his heart raced from nervousness. His vision darted around at the suburban houses on either side of him, fearfully scouting for murderers, or snipers, or axe-wielding maniacs. Every time he heard a car approaching behind him, he would look over his shoulder, in case that driver planned on running him over.
His eyes met with a neighbors, who, while watering his front lawn, smiled and took his right hand out of his pocket. Pat froze momentarily, anticipating his neighbor to pull out a gun, or a throwing knife, or a really, really sharp boomerang. But his neighbor just gave him a wave. Drenched in sweat, Pat walked faster and faster home.
Pat reached a four-way intersection, where he stopped. He glanced to his left, then his right, then his left again, making sure that there wasn't a single car in sight for miles. He was about to cross when he noticed two pigeons standing across from him on the other side of the street.
The pigeons were fairly normal looking. Both were gray colored, with small beaks, dumb-looking eyes, and greenish-purple necks. One pigeon, the one sitting on the road, was a bit plump, overweight for pigeon standards. The other, which was standing on the sidewalk, looked more rugged, with ruffled, disorganized feathers and a scar running down its beak. It looked like a pigeon that went through the Vietnam War.
Pat loved birds. Just seeing the two happy birds hanging out on the asphalt road calmed Pat down. He smiled as the War Pigeon helped out the Obesipigeon by throwing it food from the sidewalk. Such a sight of animal cooperation brought a feeling of warmth and tranquility to Pat. As the Obesipigeon pecked mindlessly at the food provided by the War Pigeon, Pat's mind drifted into a pink, cloud-filled world of cute little kittens and warm little mittens. Inner bliss.
Until a motorcyce came careening across the intersection at upwards of a million miles an hour. The motorcycle did not just kill Obesipigeon. It vaporized it. It did what a steamroller would do to a feathered wad of gum. In a blink of an eye, Obesipigeon went from being a fat, happy pigeon to a cluster of feathers, a puddle of blood, and a single pigeon leg.
Pat gasped, attracting the attention of the War Pigeon, who was apparently unaware of the human watching him. War Pigeon's black, beady eyes stared unwavering at Pat's face, which dripped with sweat. War Pigeon carefully analyzed Pat, committing even every detail to memory before flying off into the sky.
Pat shook in fear. He was a witness to murder. And now he's gonna be taken out. Trying to act as if nothing happened, Pat crossed the street as normally as he could, but his legs were too wobbly and shaky, making him look more like a puppet made out of Jello. His heart started racing as he passed the puddle of blood. When he reached the other side of the street, Pat started running.
He ran down the sidewalk, panicking. He ran and ran and ran and ran until he heard a sound to his left...
"Coo, coo."
Pat's heart dropped like a rock. He looked slowly to the left.
On the chimney of a house stood War Pigeon, staring right at him. War Pigeon cracked the knuckles of his feathers, intimidating Pat.
"AAAAAAAAAGH," Pat screamed as he started running again. He ran and ran and ran until he ran through a puddle, splashing water everywhere. A single drop of water entered his mouth, which was agape from screaming. Pat skidded to a halt and started gasping and sputtering. He looked down at the puddle that he stood in to see the dirtiness of the water. But the first thing he noticed about the water wasn't the massive colonies or bacteria or the dead possum floating in it.
It was the reflection of a pigeon's head protruding from the side of his neck.
War Pigeon was standing on Pat's back.
"JESUS CHRIST!" He yelled as he swatted away War Pigeon. Pat did not just run home. He sprinted. He sprinted the entire rest of the six-mile walk to his home. He did not stop for anything. Not to look both ways before crossing the street, not to strike small talk with his neighbors, not to report the dead body lying in the middle of the road with injuries that appear to be pigeon-inflicted. He did not stop.
By the time he got home, Pat was soaked to the bone with perspiration. He felt like his legs might just fall off from the colossal buildup of lactic acid in his muscles. He rested his shoulder against his wooden front door, gasping for air. His head spun in all directions. He could barely think, let alone notice the person approaching him.
"Hey Pat, you okay?" the person asked. Pat nodded in between breaths. He would have been paranoid about who this person could be, but he was too exhausted to even care at this point. Pat took five, six, seven sets of rapid inhales and exhales before he finally turned to look at the person next to him.
And Pat screamed.
The guy talking to him wasn't a guy at all. He was a reverse centaur, only instead of a horse upper body, he had the body of a large pigeon.
"You... you cool?" The Pigeon Man asked Pat, unintentionally flexing his massive biceps as he did so. But Pat couldn't take it anymore. He threw his door open, fell backwards into his house, stood up, slammed the door shut, locked the door, propped a chair against the doorknob to prevent anyone else from entering, closed all of the windows, shut all of the curtains, went to his bedroom, dove into the bed, and curled up into a shivering, paranoid ball.
"Oh god oh god oh god oh god," Pat chanted over and over and over again as if saying the words enough times might cause divine intervention, might cause him to be saved from the torture of the War Pigeon. But this pseudoprayer was no use. He had already been targeted by the War Pigeon. And when the War Pigeon wants someone dead, they always, always, always end up in a shallow grave, or with cement shoes, or a job at McDonalds. And Pat would be no exception.
Because War Pigeon was a master of his craft. War Pigeon had been through this routine a million times before. War Pigeon had zero empathy, zero emotion, zero tolerance, and zero failure rate.
War Pigeon was already right outside of Pat's bedroom window. War Pigeon was flexing his massive biceps. And he was holding a murder axe in his left arm.
Pat shook in fear. He was a witness to murder. And now he's gonna be taken out. Trying to act as if nothing happened, Pat crossed the street as normally as he could, but his legs were too wobbly and shaky, making him look more like a puppet made out of Jello. His heart started racing as he passed the puddle of blood. When he reached the other side of the street, Pat started running.
He ran down the sidewalk, panicking. He ran and ran and ran and ran until he heard a sound to his left...
"Coo, coo."
Pat's heart dropped like a rock. He looked slowly to the left.
On the chimney of a house stood War Pigeon, staring right at him. War Pigeon cracked the knuckles of his feathers, intimidating Pat.
"AAAAAAAAAGH," Pat screamed as he started running again. He ran and ran and ran until he ran through a puddle, splashing water everywhere. A single drop of water entered his mouth, which was agape from screaming. Pat skidded to a halt and started gasping and sputtering. He looked down at the puddle that he stood in to see the dirtiness of the water. But the first thing he noticed about the water wasn't the massive colonies or bacteria or the dead possum floating in it.
It was the reflection of a pigeon's head protruding from the side of his neck.
War Pigeon was standing on Pat's back.
"JESUS CHRIST!" He yelled as he swatted away War Pigeon. Pat did not just run home. He sprinted. He sprinted the entire rest of the six-mile walk to his home. He did not stop for anything. Not to look both ways before crossing the street, not to strike small talk with his neighbors, not to report the dead body lying in the middle of the road with injuries that appear to be pigeon-inflicted. He did not stop.
By the time he got home, Pat was soaked to the bone with perspiration. He felt like his legs might just fall off from the colossal buildup of lactic acid in his muscles. He rested his shoulder against his wooden front door, gasping for air. His head spun in all directions. He could barely think, let alone notice the person approaching him.
"Hey Pat, you okay?" the person asked. Pat nodded in between breaths. He would have been paranoid about who this person could be, but he was too exhausted to even care at this point. Pat took five, six, seven sets of rapid inhales and exhales before he finally turned to look at the person next to him.
And Pat screamed.
The guy talking to him wasn't a guy at all. He was a reverse centaur, only instead of a horse upper body, he had the body of a large pigeon.
"You... you cool?" The Pigeon Man asked Pat, unintentionally flexing his massive biceps as he did so. But Pat couldn't take it anymore. He threw his door open, fell backwards into his house, stood up, slammed the door shut, locked the door, propped a chair against the doorknob to prevent anyone else from entering, closed all of the windows, shut all of the curtains, went to his bedroom, dove into the bed, and curled up into a shivering, paranoid ball.
"Oh god oh god oh god oh god," Pat chanted over and over and over again as if saying the words enough times might cause divine intervention, might cause him to be saved from the torture of the War Pigeon. But this pseudoprayer was no use. He had already been targeted by the War Pigeon. And when the War Pigeon wants someone dead, they always, always, always end up in a shallow grave, or with cement shoes, or a job at McDonalds. And Pat would be no exception.
Because War Pigeon was a master of his craft. War Pigeon had been through this routine a million times before. War Pigeon had zero empathy, zero emotion, zero tolerance, and zero failure rate.
War Pigeon was already right outside of Pat's bedroom window. War Pigeon was flexing his massive biceps. And he was holding a murder axe in his left arm.
Author's Note: This idea actually came from a Tumblr post, where a person saw a pigeon throw food on a road, which lured another pigeon right into an incoming car. I can't remember whether or not the guy that saw the murder became paranoid though. But it doesn't matter.
Heh. War Pigeon. That name strikes me as funny. If you can't already tell, I sort of have a thing for birds. You probably noticed that, since this is I think the third story that emphasizes birds? I don't know.
I originally had more planned for this story. I wanted it to be a two-part murder mystery, where you first find Pat's dead body and I describe a bunch of clues around the house that help you figure out what happened to him. I wanted to put a ton of coincidences in the story that would make it seem like one person killed Pat when in reality it was a damn pigeon, but I ended up being so busy with school that I only had ONE FREE DAY to work on this. And even then, it's not really a free day because I'm technically skipping out on Calculus homework to write this. But that's okay.
OH. This blog is almost a year old now! Wow! It seems like it was just 11 months ago that I first decided to carry through with this thing. Amazing how almost a year could feel as short as 11 months. Wow. Here's to a great year of writing, and hopefully many, many more in the future!
*glasses clink together*
Heh. War Pigeon. That name strikes me as funny. If you can't already tell, I sort of have a thing for birds. You probably noticed that, since this is I think the third story that emphasizes birds? I don't know.
I originally had more planned for this story. I wanted it to be a two-part murder mystery, where you first find Pat's dead body and I describe a bunch of clues around the house that help you figure out what happened to him. I wanted to put a ton of coincidences in the story that would make it seem like one person killed Pat when in reality it was a damn pigeon, but I ended up being so busy with school that I only had ONE FREE DAY to work on this. And even then, it's not really a free day because I'm technically skipping out on Calculus homework to write this. But that's okay.
OH. This blog is almost a year old now! Wow! It seems like it was just 11 months ago that I first decided to carry through with this thing. Amazing how almost a year could feel as short as 11 months. Wow. Here's to a great year of writing, and hopefully many, many more in the future!
*glasses clink together*
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