David Eagle dot Net

I keep trying to think of a plot, and I’m paralyzed.  I think about Neil Gaiman, I think about William Gibson and Stephen King and then I throw a few ideas around, and if I’m not directly stealing something then I can only come up with really interesting sort of peripheral ideas.  Whatever.  NaNoWriMo isn’t until November.

Today was my first Father’s day.  I’ve gotten the barest glimmer of what it means to be a father, and I have even less tolerance and patience for men who abuse that post than I had before my ‘glimmer’.  And it was pretty thin to begin with.  The only thing I can figure is that some people are sub-human.  Only animals are supposed to eat their young, but is there a big difference between eating your offspring and debilitating them by discouraging or abusing them?  I can’t even imagine…it’s sick.

Anyway, on to the work.

The sound of a match striking, if slowed down, is almost a tearing sound.  It’s as if the strike pad and the matchhead when combined, work like magical relics.  With the correct degree of force, the right speed, and maybe a whispered incantation, they tear the veil separating our world from a world of flames.  Flame is lured through this rip by the fuel offered in the body of the matchstick, because fuel must be in short supply in the flame-world.  In this way, I think, the match is lit.

That seems like the hard part, but it’s really not.  Next, you have to multiply the flame.  Flame to cigar, and then the barest inhalation…There’s certainly a lot of technique involved.  If you can get the cigar to light, it’s smooth sailing.  Well, not totally smooth, you have to keep it lit, which is a challenge, and get your wife to let you sleep in the same bed that night, which might be even more challenging…I digress.

The old man does all of this in one fluid motion.  Sitting on a bench, in the park, watching the birds fight over something inconsequential.  He motions to them, chuckles, and in the slump of his shoulders there is a truth; these birds are miming the entire human experience.  Here we sit, fighting over the castoffs of greater men, and the greatest of these fight over pieces of a world forgotten by gods who’ve got better things to worry about.  And so we hurtle through blackness, bickering over paychecks, corner offices, nations…scraps of bread.

What else, besides these battles, is there?  What can birds achieve?  They fight for scraps, as do we.  We are twins, both species fighting for sustenance, and perhaps, a little glut.  Trying to live as long as we can on this rock, forgotten by the gods, trapped, with our inherent humanity our limiting factor.

The old man tosses more bread to the birds.  They coo and warble, and he coos, and warbles, and they look at him for a moment, their small beady eyes locking on his, recognizing kindred nature.  He nods, encouragingly, coos again, and they turn away, the moment passed, their frenzy for bread resumed.  The old man leans over painfully and grinds his cigar out on the sidewalk.

"Perhaps tomorrow", he sighs.

Then he rises, slowly, spreading mottled pigeon wings towards the sun, arches his back, and LIFTS .