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.
Iām leagues beyond my colleagues—those mindless cretins who randomly splatter windshields, statues, park benches. Iām 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.
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.
Scott
just a little wonder as to what it was.. such a happy bird..must have been fun for him..
I guessed it early, but still enjoyed.
Loved it!
liked the POV!!!
Nice ending. ?
One creature’s art is another’s … š Well done.
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!
Great stuff š The birds had the last laugh!