It flew for fun. It was purity released and it flew straight and true. Its feathers were heaven and goodness shone from its wingtips. People looked up from their work and smiled as it passed them. A flash of glory, a white jet of hope. Halcyon days to come, drenched in peace. Everywhere it flew it dropped feathers of redemption on the cold grey landscape.
The white dove sped on. A rarer and rarer site in England, it seemed to be racing time, outpacing extinction, but only just.
It whizzed across fields now. A buzzard stirred from its perch on a telegraph pole but the huge raptor was incapable of catching such a fine prey as the incalculable dove. So on it strove.
The landscape changed now as the road widened. Countryside turned to village and village turned to town. There were lamps to avoid and intercrossing wires chained buildings together. And the traffic. The traffic hummed everywhere.
The bird banked sharply and swung into space. Then, its body thudded into a window. Stunned, its beauty twitched on a black step. The brown boot of Pap Frung came down on its belly and forced its stomach out through its beak.
Skelhorne helped him over the remaining stair and into a warm reception. "Come along girl," barked Frung to the spinster at a desk before him. "He needs to see me."
The air in the room changed now and the woman said nothing in return. She fixed her eyes on Frung and pressed the intercom firmly, as she had done time and time before.
"Pap Frung to see you, doctor."
An audible intake of breath came through the loudspeaker. Time stood still.
Eventually; "Send him through, Miss Semple."
-----
This piece is an old story, part of a larger tale about Pap Frung that I started writing with my friends Paul Craven and Tom Allen. If we finish it, I will post it somewhere. I include this today, because I have man-flu and am not up to writing.
10 comments:
I actually came to comment on a previous story but I opted for this one. The work as a whole must be fascinating. Your overall writing is consistently of good quality and I think I'd like to link to you.
Hello again from across the pond (and the states for that matter, here in sunny California). I've already linked to you :) I figured I'd just leave a comment here because its Saturday, aka your day off. I was just impressed, what you did with Dante there. The Vita Nuova is an important collection and marks Beatrice's first appearance before The Divine Comedy . It contains intense imagery, such as the demon of love consuming Dante's immolated heart, and because I understood that, it lent a kind of magnitude to your work.
My primary influences are Hugo (my extrapolation of human ideas, i.e. Romanticisim), Joseph Heller (in terms of stylized humor), a touch of Ayn Rand, not much but a few things, and last (and probably mostly) William Faulkner. I feel "The Sound and the Fury" is unparalleled, although his other works aren't nearly as good (still good though!). I think you could also say Emily Bronte had an effect on me, given any romanticism I display tends to be accompanied by a kind of dark gravity. On the other hand, I'm still very young and have a lot more to read, and the more I read the more I'm change I'm sure.
So I guess I would ask you what your influences are? Your writing is clearly above average, and I want to hear about the technical side of it?
Also, I would like to refer you to the post in my blog entitled "It Is". I feel that I really spread my wings on that one and would be curious to see how you, especially, dissect it.
Once again, your work resonates with me. I would like to be able to read more of this piece. Hope you are feeling better.
Every time I come here to your page, there's some odd connection. Once per visit.
This time: I just killed a bird in a story as well. The one called "Blood" (in the uncut reels/prose blog)
Granted this is not new writing from you, but as always, it's still funny timing.
Incidentally, I saw the death coming a mile away, but I was still delighted by the flight of this dove, even knowing its time of glory was to be cut short. Incalculably enjoyable writing.
Hope you're feeling better.
get well soon
Hope you flu is better by now. Here in Mumbai, India, doves and pigeons are everywhere, making nests (and making love and babies, too) beneath windowsills and eaves.
I like Dahl's children's fiction (esp. The Magic Finger and Belinda) as well as his stories for grown-ups. In fact, you earlier story DRYING OUT reminded of one by Dahl, where a man turns into a bee after being fed bee-stuff by his wife (I've forgotten the title, though). Fascinatingly grotesque, though slightly harsh on women. (and I feel both these stories are somewhat similar to Kafka's Metamorphosis).
I just finished reading Jhumpa Lahiri's new book of not-so-short stories UNACCUSTOMED EARTH. She is an American of Indian origin and a very good writer, though of a different genre from yours.
Thanx for visting my blog. I have added your blog to my list of favourites.
hope you feel better, Mr. Bernard. Don't let your flu stop you from writing :)
Hey Paul!
Well I can see I'm a little behind in reading.
Actually, I am collaborating with someone right now on two more songs.
Drink orange juice...it always helps me. ;)
*sarah*
This reminded me of a white albino hare we used to go and look for in the country round our house; when we found it, it crouched low on the field as hares do, thinking it was brown and was camouflaged against the mud. Of course it stood out as clear as day, and we loved watching it, watching us, an incredible white creature on the brink of extinction too. Thanks for the memories! M
Thanks everyone, for the best wishes. Am feeling much better now.
Cheers.
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