When he sees her, she’s holding a funeral for a chaffinch. It died of cold, she tells him, patting the soil. They can’t store fat. It weighs them down. Captivated, he suggests hot chocolate; when she counter-proposes sex, he’s lost.
Her appeal’s distinctly avian—small bones, quick movements, bright eyes, sharp little face. Three years later, she kills him (I’ve met someone else, I’m leaving now, bye). Lying on the kitchen floor, all the blood leaking out of his warm mammalian heart, he longs to shed his coat of fat and fly after her, tearing her to shreds with his talons.
This takes a fascinating and surprising turn. Lovely and subtle double layers of possibility.
Great story. I love her “sharp little face” and what it conjures up in the context of the story.
Great stuff. I’d love to see this expanded into a longer piece. The imagery is very strong and, for me, this will work even better in an uncompressed format.
Wow. I didn’t see that coming at all. It is spare and doesn’t waste a letter! Chilling.
Love it. To the point. Chillingly precise. Survival is all that matters.
Wow! This on really packs a whollop, Casandra! I agree with some of the above comments, especially the one about liking to see this extended into a longer story.