The bird lady
Night was quickly approaching, and the doves had already taken to the air. She watched them from her spot by the parkade, and listened to their gentle cooing, and wished that she could be so free, to spread wings and go where the wind would take her.
She had been living in the parkade for over a month now. The doves had followed her all the way from Cliff's Edge, her previous home. She had been forced to leave: winter was far colder by Cliff's Edge, and the snow tended to fall in great white sheets. Her journey had been long and arduous, and the doves had been there every step of the way. She welcomed their company, because it was the only company she had.
A small dove landed on her shoulder and cooed softly in her ear. It ruffled its feathers, then took to the air once again. They had grown accustomed to her, she knew. To them, she was just an oversized dove, wingless and beakless but a friend nonetheless. They never judged her or ridiculed her because of the way she looked, or talked, or lived. They just accepted.
She gazed up wistfully at the Buniard Building and noticed there were a few lights on in some of the apartments. Still early, then. Some of them were probably having supper now: families eating around the dinner table, or couples snuggled warmly infront of the television set, eating their T.V. dinners. The doves were her companions, her family. And the Buniard Building was her television set.
Through it she experienced the lives of its inhabitants. She learned to love some of them, and hate others, and often she caught herself rooting for one member of a family or another, and hoping things would come out right for them in the end. The day Mrs. Parkins suffered a heart attack she had been there, watching in horror, worried and angry at the injustices of life. Tonight Mr. Parkins was alone at home, pacing, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, moving like a caged animal - restless and lonely. Somehow she knew Mrs. Parkins had passed away. Perhaps it was the way he slouched, as though he had given up hope, or the way he had stopped brooding, as though there was nothing left to hope for.
She turned her gaze back to the doves, and saw them painted against a full moon. The moon was larger then she had ever seen it before, and took up a large portion of the night sky - a beacon among the tiny stars, and she was reminded of the story she had read in one of the papers, about a space shuttle that would soon be launched from Cape Canaveral and put the first man on the moon. How ridiculous it seemed, to spend so much money and effort to get to the moon, when there was so much suffering right here on Earth.
A chill wind started to blow. She heard its dismal howl, and watched as it overturned old carton boxes and sent newspapers skittering across the cold cement like mice. A plastic bag rolled down the road, hopping and creeping as though it possessed a life of its own. She started to shiver, and hugged herself tightly. She got up and brought a trash can from the parkade, filled it with the newspapers she had found that day - the Herald and the Boston Globe and the New York Times - and lit a small fire.
Startled by the sudden heat, the doves took to the air, and just when it seemed they would go up to the trees to roost for the night, they returned to her outstretched arms, and pecked at the bread crumbs she held in her hands.
As her gaze drew back to the Buniard Building, she had a strange premonition. Just as she had known that Mrs. Parkins was dead, she knew that something was going to happen tonight. The feeling was vague and far off, like a mirage in the desert, and she wondered if perhaps - and just like the mirage - it was a matter of wishful thinking. Did she want something to happen? Perhaps looking up at the Buniard was not enough, perhaps she longed for something more, something real. Something that would happen to her for a change.
Soon the feeling passed, leaving her cold and tired.
Young Vanessa Lewis was out by her bedroom window, gazing at the sky, and, in another apartment, Mr. Parkins was still pacing restlessly. Vanessa was a strange girl, but one of her favourite people to watch. She was forever arguing with her parents, like teenagers will, and sneaking off in the middle of the night. She spent long hours at her bedroom window, watching the doves, admiring their grace and beauty, not knowing that she herself was being watched.
Time passed, and soon even the sight of the pretty, wistful girl was not enough to keep her interest, and her gaze drifted, as it tended to do, back to the doves. They were acting strangely tonight, moving in short, abrupt movements, taking to the air and then returning, not remaining in one place for too long. Restless, she thought. Maybe they, too, felt that something was going to happen tonight. She would worry about that another time, though. It was getting late.
"Come," she whispered, "we'll find a place to rest this tired body of mine."
The pain in her back had returned with the cold, and she found it difficult to walk. She made her way to the park nearby, the Royal Grand park, a small sign stated, although it was far from royal and hardly what she would call grand. She made her bed in the lush, wet grass, and lay beneath the stars, and waited for sleep to take her. Around her the doves cooed and pawed at her clothing, perhaps looking for a last scrap of bread before they went up to roost.
But she felt restless, and sleep did not come quickly. She sat up and shivered slightly, and her eyes were drawn once again to the Buniard. Something was going to happen tonight. The realisation excited her. It was a warm feeling inside of her, as though a candle had been lit in her belly. Her eyes sparkled with a life she thought she had lost long ago.
And that's when she saw him, silhoutted against the night, running. With a violent shudder the warm feeling was ripped from her, and in its place was only dread. Something bad was going to happen tonight. Something unspeakable.
She had been living in the parkade for over a month now. The doves had followed her all the way from Cliff's Edge, her previous home. She had been forced to leave: winter was far colder by Cliff's Edge, and the snow tended to fall in great white sheets. Her journey had been long and arduous, and the doves had been there every step of the way. She welcomed their company, because it was the only company she had.
A small dove landed on her shoulder and cooed softly in her ear. It ruffled its feathers, then took to the air once again. They had grown accustomed to her, she knew. To them, she was just an oversized dove, wingless and beakless but a friend nonetheless. They never judged her or ridiculed her because of the way she looked, or talked, or lived. They just accepted.
She gazed up wistfully at the Buniard Building and noticed there were a few lights on in some of the apartments. Still early, then. Some of them were probably having supper now: families eating around the dinner table, or couples snuggled warmly infront of the television set, eating their T.V. dinners. The doves were her companions, her family. And the Buniard Building was her television set.
Through it she experienced the lives of its inhabitants. She learned to love some of them, and hate others, and often she caught herself rooting for one member of a family or another, and hoping things would come out right for them in the end. The day Mrs. Parkins suffered a heart attack she had been there, watching in horror, worried and angry at the injustices of life. Tonight Mr. Parkins was alone at home, pacing, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, moving like a caged animal - restless and lonely. Somehow she knew Mrs. Parkins had passed away. Perhaps it was the way he slouched, as though he had given up hope, or the way he had stopped brooding, as though there was nothing left to hope for.
She turned her gaze back to the doves, and saw them painted against a full moon. The moon was larger then she had ever seen it before, and took up a large portion of the night sky - a beacon among the tiny stars, and she was reminded of the story she had read in one of the papers, about a space shuttle that would soon be launched from Cape Canaveral and put the first man on the moon. How ridiculous it seemed, to spend so much money and effort to get to the moon, when there was so much suffering right here on Earth.
A chill wind started to blow. She heard its dismal howl, and watched as it overturned old carton boxes and sent newspapers skittering across the cold cement like mice. A plastic bag rolled down the road, hopping and creeping as though it possessed a life of its own. She started to shiver, and hugged herself tightly. She got up and brought a trash can from the parkade, filled it with the newspapers she had found that day - the Herald and the Boston Globe and the New York Times - and lit a small fire.
Startled by the sudden heat, the doves took to the air, and just when it seemed they would go up to the trees to roost for the night, they returned to her outstretched arms, and pecked at the bread crumbs she held in her hands.
As her gaze drew back to the Buniard Building, she had a strange premonition. Just as she had known that Mrs. Parkins was dead, she knew that something was going to happen tonight. The feeling was vague and far off, like a mirage in the desert, and she wondered if perhaps - and just like the mirage - it was a matter of wishful thinking. Did she want something to happen? Perhaps looking up at the Buniard was not enough, perhaps she longed for something more, something real. Something that would happen to her for a change.
Soon the feeling passed, leaving her cold and tired.
Young Vanessa Lewis was out by her bedroom window, gazing at the sky, and, in another apartment, Mr. Parkins was still pacing restlessly. Vanessa was a strange girl, but one of her favourite people to watch. She was forever arguing with her parents, like teenagers will, and sneaking off in the middle of the night. She spent long hours at her bedroom window, watching the doves, admiring their grace and beauty, not knowing that she herself was being watched.
Time passed, and soon even the sight of the pretty, wistful girl was not enough to keep her interest, and her gaze drifted, as it tended to do, back to the doves. They were acting strangely tonight, moving in short, abrupt movements, taking to the air and then returning, not remaining in one place for too long. Restless, she thought. Maybe they, too, felt that something was going to happen tonight. She would worry about that another time, though. It was getting late.
"Come," she whispered, "we'll find a place to rest this tired body of mine."
The pain in her back had returned with the cold, and she found it difficult to walk. She made her way to the park nearby, the Royal Grand park, a small sign stated, although it was far from royal and hardly what she would call grand. She made her bed in the lush, wet grass, and lay beneath the stars, and waited for sleep to take her. Around her the doves cooed and pawed at her clothing, perhaps looking for a last scrap of bread before they went up to roost.
But she felt restless, and sleep did not come quickly. She sat up and shivered slightly, and her eyes were drawn once again to the Buniard. Something was going to happen tonight. The realisation excited her. It was a warm feeling inside of her, as though a candle had been lit in her belly. Her eyes sparkled with a life she thought she had lost long ago.
And that's when she saw him, silhoutted against the night, running. With a violent shudder the warm feeling was ripped from her, and in its place was only dread. Something bad was going to happen tonight. Something unspeakable.
posted by Edan Barak at 12:33 PM
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