Fiction

This is a short story I wrote for my writing fiction class. The poem at the end was written by my cousin Francis. Enjoy:


Prompt: Two people meet in a park and sit down on a bench. After a brief conversation one of them discovers a dead bird.

I feel numb. At this point I don’t know if it’s the cold outside or inside that’s slowly breaking me down. The numbness is spreading from frozen fingertips deep into my chest. I ache. The waves rush onto the beach and my mind is flooded with memories. The way the light caught his hair, golden, framing his face. I try to forget the pain. The way his carefree laugh would escape those lips. I can’t let go. I can’t let the tides of time sweep him away.
A bitter sun rises, illuminating the park on the seaside. It’s all too familiar, except for the lone silhouette sitting on the bench. I had hoped to be by myself this morning. I can feel the water soaking into my worn tennis shoes as I continue down towards the bench. I’ve never been here alone before. The figure on the bench doesn’t seem to notice me. I dare a glace at the face. He’s old, with sad eyes, and weathered wrinkles. He sees me staring and slowly lifts a bony hand, beckoning me to join him on the bench. I can feel the pounding of my heart against my rib cage and my feet are suddenly stuck to the ground. Next thing I know I find myself seated alongside the leather-faced man. I have nothing to lose now.
The water is rhythmic and seems to stomp rather than dance when it greets the rocky shore. Shivers trickle down my spine as I feel an icy stare. I turn to face the forgotten man. Even his eyes are cold, bluer than the swaying sea, brimming with countless stories. His piercing blue gaze robs me of my secrets, so exposed in my broken eyes. He must know somehow. Discomfort lodges itself in my throat and I quickly look away. The cold is creeping up my legs, chilling me more than before. I remember that everything is real.
Waves of relief wash over me as the man hobbles up from the bench. I venture another peek. He is stooping over something very small. I notice that he is all skin and bones as he turns back towards me, catching my stare. He has something cradled between his fingers. The man stretches out his arms and opens up his palms. I feel pain. A dead bird is nestled between his hands. It could have been sleeping if it wasn’t for the broken wing. I should be repulsed, but it’s beautiful. The morning light catches a feather. It’s the same golden color of the hair I once knew so well. Neither of them were ready to leave this world.
The weathered man smiles at me with his leather lips and sad sea eyes as he turns to the waters edge. Loss is wrenched between my lungs. It makes it hard to breathe.
My eyes remain locked on the strange man with the dead bird. I catch my breath and I forget the cold for a second as he lifts his aged hands to the cloudy sky and opens them wide. Life rushes back into the broken body and, in flurry of feathers, flies away. Disbelieving, I blink my salty eyes and look again. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. The old man must have gone off into the fog and the tiny bird is nowhere to be seen.
I’ve heard that grief can do this to people. Play mind games with them. Make them see things that aren’t real. I think it’s cruel. I trace my way back home as the disillusioned sun rises in the sky. My thoughts mix with the damp air, torturing me with the memory of loss.
When I get home, there is a small folded piece of paper on my doorstep. My numbed fingers unfold it to find a golden brown feather and small cramped writing that reads:

Light gone from eyes
That lovingly held the world
Shining now elsewhere

Beautiful bird has
Flown to heights unimagined
I hold this feather.