Guest Blogger - Breanna DeSimone
I've asked the very talented, Breanna DeSimone, if she would be so kind as to write something for my blog. I recently became acquainted with Breanne through our shared affiliation with the #WolfPackAuthors writers group. She's a young, gifted, intelligent voice in the world of poetry, and has just started to enter into the arena of fiction writing.
When we first began exploring the idea of her contributing something as a guest blogger, I left it open for her to decide what kind of content she would offer. I did give her some idea as to the kind of stuff I usually post, but essentially, I told her that whatever she decided to do was alright with me. Quite frankly, I was a little nervous and excited to see what she would create for my readers. Afterall, I was trusting someone whose work I really wasn't that familiar with to entertain the folks who visit my blog. She decided on a short story, and I must say that I am very impressed with the quality of her writing. She's good. Actually, she's very good.
I'm glad I invited her to contribute... I think you will be too. So, without further ado, prepare to be entertained, as I present to you the writing talent of Breanna DeSimone --
The Way Birds Fly
Breanna DeSimone
It is a simple,
most elegant pattern. The dips and bickering. The change of directions and the
misplaced sense of time. The silhouettes simpering in the heavy air, preening
at the brilliantly dressed stars and flowing lazily against the tide of the
sky. That was the way she always knew birds to fly, like gleaming ladies at
graceful balls. The day she went hunting, the first time she watched the
dancing body stiffen and fall from the sky above, she realized that everything
beautiful was simply a lie.
She was crouched
on the ground, the strange scent of rot tugging at her nose. It reminded her
that Autumn had come in full force, the incessant rain curling the colorful
leaves into muddy brown husks of former beauty. Another lie. She knew exactly
where the bird had fallen. She could picture its limp body so vividly, but she
couldn’t move. She couldn’t face what she had done.
She cringed,
shaken out of her thoughts by a cold wind blowing through the branches above her.
She unfurled from the ground and picked her way carefully over the slick forest
floor. She stood over the bird, not quite looking at it. There was no blood.
Vaguely she realized that it must be soaking into the ground underneath the
soft plumage.
Absent mindedly
she bent over to cradle the fallen corpse in her gloved hands. She could barely
touch the poor thing. As she picked her way through the darkening woods all she
could think about was the bird in her hand. All she could think about was the
way it had danced before she shot it out of the sky. She felt disgust bubble up
in her and the acrid taste of bile worked its way into her throat. She took a
deep breath, softly leaning against a tree to balance herself. In that moment,
the sun finishing dipping below the horizon and the world settled into a hazy
dark gray.
She sat listening
to the noises of the night pick up. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance and
she could hear a subtle scratching close to the ground behind her. She felt
followed. She felt as though the whole world was leaning toward the corpse
hanging from her sweating hand. Subconsciously, she jerked away from the bird’s
lifeless body and winced as it hit the ground with a dull thud. Her mind so was
loud and a faint buzzing was beginning to manifest in her left ear. She had to
get home.
Still feeling
unbalanced, she leaned down and gently retrieved the torpid body. The buzzing
in her ear increased as she touched its crinkled feathers. She looked around.
The woods had gotten darker and she had not brought a flashlight, thinking she
would be home long before the sun set. She shuffled through the woods, trying
to ignore the fear pounding throughout her body. She focused on her breathing,
matching it to her steps. Right foot, in, left foot, out. Right foot,
in, left foot, out. When the moon had risen about a third of the way
through the sky, she was able to make out a soft light gleaming toward her from
ahead. She had made it home.
She entered the
house, shivering at the hollow emptiness that permeated through its gnarled
frame. She didn’t have much time. She walked into the entryway, stumbling on
the edge of the baby blue rug her mother had knitted so many years ago. A
violent sob worked itself out of her and she covered her mouth as if that would
keep the pain inside. Bracing herself on the living room door she paused,
unwilling to enter the room. She was in there. Forgetting the bird still
hanging stiffly from her hand, she clenched her fists until she heard a small
snap. She looked down in surprise. The force of the gesture had snapped its
neck.
She laughed, the
sound grating against the encroaching shadows. Throwing herself forward, as if
breaking through some invisible barrier, she entered the damp and heavy room.
She walked over to the small coffee table and laid the bird’s corpse across the
surface. She stared at it. It wasn’t right. She turned the bird onto its back
and stretched out its wings. Once it was laid out perfectly, she gently slid
her hands underneath it, removing it from the table. She turned to the corpse
stretched across the floor. Her mother’s hair was still dazzling, gleaming
blonde in the bits of moonlight that made it into the room. Her hands were flat
against the wood, her arms lying parallel to her body. The woman was incredibly
beautiful even in death.
Turning her eyes
to the lifeless face, she thought about how she had arranged her mother’s
features into a soft and lovely smile. It was so much better than the terror
that had shadowed those deep eyes and stretched those rose petal lips into a
grimace. She took a couple steps forward until she was standing silently over
her mother’s corpse. She knelt down, almost reverently and placed the bird
across her mother’s still chest. It fit perfectly; the bird’s back nestled between
her mother’s breasts. Its wings, when extended, stopped precisely at the curve
of her mother’s dainty shoulders. She brushed a strand of her mother’s hair
back into place and used her thumb to wipe away a bit of residual blood.
Perfect. She stood and backed away from the cold silhouette.
The house still
reeked of sickness. It had settled, seething, into the nooks and crannies like
some feral beast. She had watched her mother wither away into nothing, helpless
to do anything except hover and hope. Her mother had grabbed at her in terror
as death laid claim to what was left of her emaciated form. When the light had
faded from her mother’s beautiful eyes, she had lost all hope. She had decided
everything beautiful was a lie. The bird was a final tribute. A dead thing to
mark a dead thing. A lie to cover a lie.
Finally, she turned and walked out of the
house, picking a random path through the beckoning woods.
***
They found the body
in the heat of the summer. It looked horrible, partially decomposed but still
recognizably human. The stench was worse, drifting toward them from at least a
quarter of a mile from the abandoned house they discovered. The men figured
there had been a witch in those woods because of what they found on the body. A
bird, dead but not decomposing, lying on its back with its wings stretched
fully across the corpse. They were hunting men, not religious and certainly not
superstitious, but they were still crossing themselves as they left behind the
grief etched into that room. That pain had been a living thing, writhing
amongst the death and decay. Like the stretched-out body of the bird, it was
untouchable. A beautiful lie maybe, or a sort of truth that stood only for
something that had already been lost.
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