Breakfast, then airborne. My wings slash into the crisp air, catch a draft, glide me over rows of buildings whose windows glisten in shards of morning sunlight. I scan the street below for a subject.
Blue wool suit, briefcase.
I’m leagues beyond my colleagues—those mindless cretins who randomly splatter windshields, statues, park benches. I’m an artist, an aerial Jackson Pollock, my masterpieces carefully conceived, brilliantly executed.
I dip my wings and plummet, unloading just as I pull out of the dive. The man below curses, takes out a tissue, wipes at the white spot on his suit.
Ars gratia artis.
Scott Bogart says
Very nice work. At first I thought this might be a story told from a drone pilot’s POV, but I like this much better.
Patricia Stott-Prince says
just a little wonder as to what it was.. such a happy bird..must have been fun for him..
Scott Brian Blanke says
I guessed it early, but still enjoyed.
Tom Baldwin says
K Raghunathan says
liked the POV!!!
Julian Grant says
Nice ending. ?
One creature’s art is another’s … 🙂 Well done.
DAVID HIGHAM says
What a wonderful story well told. I was once the victim of your protagonist (or maybe his grandfather) two minutes before an important interview.
Loved this! Different and well-written!
Kelly Louisa Balliu says
Great stuff 🙂 The birds had the last laugh!