The Dead Man

The dead man walked through the marketplace with bowed head.  All averted their eyes.  He could have stolen, had he wished.  Who would stop a dead man?  Indeed, the goods he traded would not be touched until they rotted or were stolen by those more desperate than wise.

He paused at the landing-place.  Men, women, and children launched into flight beside him at every moment; his own wings hung in tatters on his back.

To fly is to live.  To lose one's wings is death.  This is the law.

The dead man shuffled back to his cave in the cliffside.

Ozymandius Plans Ahead

Ozymandius felt the wind in his fur as he plummeted. The curvature of the Earth was visible, far below.

"What's all this, then?" said a dark form, swooping in. Swiffin, Prince of Birds, was currently an oversized raven.

"Well, it was going to be flying," said Ozzy, "but it isn't working out."

"Cats can't fly."

"Right. I was going to fix that. Can you help me land?"

"And why were you learning to fly?" Swiffin cocked his head.

Ozzy thought. "Definitely not to catch birds and eat them."

There was a pause. "I suppose that counts as subtle, for cats."

Murderess

The blinds were closed.  Outside, the crowd rustled and murmured and flapped, jostling for places on the windowsill and gutters.  Less fortunate individuals clung to the telephone wires, waiting for their chance.

They never raised their voices.  Anything above a whisper would set off the whole lot of them, cawing and croaking.  She cringed when she heard the scuffling in the chimney.  A sooty lump of a bird fell into the grate, crawled out, coughed.  It struggled to the old woman’s feet and collapsed by the couch.  Far overhead, rheumy eyes opened.

“Welcome back, Grandmother,” Shona said from the table.