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In a crowd like this, a woman walking alone with a hawk poised on her heavily gloved hand hardly merits a second look. The fair is swarming with faux royalty who sweat profusely under the Southern California sun in their velvet and brocade, minstrels plinking reproductions of ancient instruments, belly dancers (Were there belly dancers during the Renaissance? she wonders.), morose jesters in suspiciously goth makeup and, of course, tourists.
She stops for a moment to get her bearings. She doesn’t want to be too conspicuous. She could probably circle the fair a dozen times without attracting undue attention, but prefers not to risk it. It would be disastrous if one of the handlers from the Winged Predators show were to notice her. She’ll only have one chance at this, one chance to get it right.
She intends to get it right.
She saw Robert approaching the fair entrance an hour earlier — Robert, so tall and lean and breathtaking in his jeans and button-down shirt. As he paused at the ticket booth, a gust of wind tugged at his dark hair and she felt a pain so crushing that for a moment all she could think about was locking herself away from it by carving hieroglyphics into the pale skin of her thighs. (Focus! she scolds her weaker self.) With the wind in his hair, he had leaned down and said something to the small woman by his side. The other woman laughed and touched his chest.
There might have been some doubt about her plan until then. She could have changed her mind at any time up until that moment. Now, nothing could dissuade her.
It was the scars, Robert told her when he ended it between them. She pointed out that falconry was not without risks. Not those scars, he’d responded. It wasn’t the thin lines on her forearms or the one on her shoulder. It was the scars on her thighs, those silvery Rorschach patterns by which he judged and pronounced her damaged.
She suddenly spies Robert by a refreshment stand, a head taller than the crowd around him. His date is still glued to his side, naturally. Sluts do that. They find men who don’t belong to them and coax them away with their flawless thighs and untested hearts, and then they lean on those stolen men in public like the small brunette was doing to Robert at that very moment.
Stepping partially behind a vendor tent that seems to breathe, she unhoods the Harris hawk on her wrist. The bird blinks rapidly a number of times before settling its expectant gaze on the woman.
She pulls the hawk to her chest and strokes its mahogany pinions. The large bird is the same color as Robert’s eyes, fiercely dark and shot with amber. She turns so the hawk is looking in her lover’s direction. The hawk knows him. The hawk witnessed the woman’s love for him, was there to hear the sounds of ecstasy they made together and was there to hear the woman’s sobs after he left her forever.
Lowering her lips to the bird’s auditory meatus, she sighs an endearment. For a moment there is nothing else, just the communion between them before she unclips the tether. She holds out her arm and turns to walk away as soon as the bird’s mercilessly powerful legs launch from her glove.
The screams begin almost immediately. Random cries of bystanders, the shrill screech of what can only be Robert’s slut and Robert’s own screams. Above it all she hears the beating of the hawk’s wings, the hushed shwap, shwap, shwap of a four-foot wingspan. She lowers her head to hide her smile as she walks casually against the throng of fair-goers who rush to the scene of confusion.
Sirens fill the air by the time the woman reaches the parking lot. She leans against the side of her car, feeling the sun-heated metal burn the back of her thighs. Her smile doesn’t falter. She understands real pain and by now so do Robert and his woman.
The emergency vehicles come to a stop outside the fair entrance, vomiting personnel and equipment while the wheels are still rolling. Before the gurney is able to force a path into the wailing crowd, she sees the hawk rise overhead. It wings away from her, toward a line of trees surrounding the grounds. It disappears for a moment, then reappears, banking left on unseen currents and unerringly finding its way.
The hawk is waiting in the branches of the acacia outside her window. She pulls her car into the garage and lets herself into the house. The bird, its talons sticky and hung with grotesque ribbons (Trophies, she thinks happily.), flutters into the living room as soon as she opens the French doors.
The hawk drops an orb into her palm, a small, reddened orb with a faintly pink banner dangling from it. The woman turns it over and smiles.
The iris is the color of a Harris hawk pinion, fiercely dark and shot with amber.
Deborah Winter-Blood is a writer, dog mom and displaced California Valley Girl. Her work has appeared in various print and online publications over the past 30 years. She’s recently completed her second novel.
GD Star Rating
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27 Responses to “BIRDS OF PREY • by Deborah Winter-Blood”
Comments
« IN THE KEY OF LOVE • by Amanda Hayter | Home | ONE AFTERNOON IN GENEVA • by Ramon Rozas III »
July 28th, 2010 at 12:53 am
Another difficult one to rate.
A story of sadistic vengeance, there’s little sympathy for the ‘wronged’ woman – it didn’t do much for me, I’m afraid.
The almost uniform length of most of the paragraphs didn’t help, either.
The characterisation was strong though, and the change from the past to present tense as she unleashes revenge is effective.
July 28th, 2010 at 1:27 am
I liked the description of how sluts act. The story was a bit gruesome, but felt complete.
July 28th, 2010 at 3:24 am
I liked this story. I don’t think the wronged woman cares for sympathy – no offence meant.
Is that a typo in the 4th para – thing, should it be think?
July 28th, 2010 at 3:46 am
The vivid writing just may come back to haunt me next time I’m at a Renaissance Festival. In one word, Bravo!
July 28th, 2010 at 4:29 am
Two prejudices kept me from really enjoying this story: I hate present tense except in special circumstances; and I’m really tired of stories about girls or women who cut themselves (if I was interpreting that correctly).
Like your insane protagonist, I guess we’ve all thought about having a trained hawk rip somebody’s eyes out. Actually pulling it off would take some real luck, but what are we if not dreamers?
We both used a Renaissance Fair as a setting; maybe we could start an anthology!
July 28th, 2010 at 4:47 am
I like how this story has a very dark form of payback to it in such a unique way. Good job.
July 28th, 2010 at 4:49 am
Eye. Ripped. Out. Ewwww …
July 28th, 2010 at 5:14 am
So, the guy dumps her because she’s mentally unstable and he ends up getting his eye clawed out. Kind of harsh. No sense of justice (I know. In real life there isn’t always justice) and I ended up feeling more sympathy for the guy than the girl. But…
The story doesn’t leave you feeling meh. The scene is vivid and the bird is glorious. Wonderful writing.
July 28th, 2010 at 5:36 am
WOW! If I say anything negative, will I get my eye plucked out? I find this story very difficult to know what to think, probably to the author’s delight. I agree with another reviewer about the vividness of the scene. Beautifully done. The foreshadowing was creeping me out every moment of the way. It as Interesting and thought provoking on the nature of revenge.
July 28th, 2010 at 6:19 am
Hell hath no fury, they say.
Love this story. The harshness of the emotion, coupled with the sheer horror of the attack, was like a bloody train wreck you just had to watch.
The moral of the story is – be careful of the heart you break. You never know what could come flying your way.
July 28th, 2010 at 7:09 am
Well-crafted, Debi. Four stars for a tale of vengeance.
July 28th, 2010 at 7:37 am
Vividly written, with some nice touches, but I didn’t find it particularly believable (even Harris Hawks, popular with falconers because of their intelligence, are unlikely to be trainable to pluck out an eye) and the fact that there’s no sympathetic character to be had makes it a cold and faintly unpleasant read in the end.
July 28th, 2010 at 7:43 am
This is a very well-written story, I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it didn’t do much for me. Not every story needs a sympathetic protaginest, but I didn’t feel much for the guy she was going after eithier. I guess I thought neither of them were real winners, so I didn’t care. Nice ending with the eyeball plucked out though.
July 28th, 2010 at 8:27 am
I have to jump in here early in the day just to say how thrilled I am by your comments. It’s wonderful when readers tune into exactly what we’re trying to relay. Not a sympathetic character in the story except for the bird – YES!
Thank you all very, very much!
July 28th, 2010 at 9:28 am
Thing/think typo corrected; thanks, Rumjhum!
July 28th, 2010 at 10:14 am
I was torn by this one (which is kinda ironic in retrospect). The writing is vivid and fresh, but I saw the ending coming halfway through. It didn’t exactly disappoint me, because the writing remained strong and true, but it didn’t “Wow” me either. I look forward to reading more from this author.
July 28th, 2010 at 11:01 am
Wonderful writing, great imagery, predictable ending. I, too look forward to more from this writer.
July 28th, 2010 at 11:09 am
This writer has already given us some wonderful writing in the past. Her “Miracle of St. John” is high in the top ten and was a fantastic write from early in the year.
July 28th, 2010 at 1:16 pm
[...] http://www.everydayfiction.com/birds-of-prey-by-deborah-winter-blood/ Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)Well, yay me!Another Bloody story on Every Day FictionI love the smell of electrons in the morning Posted in Short Fiction, The Craft, Uncategorized | Tagged every day fiction, flash fiction, hawks, revenge, short story | Leave a Comment » [...]
July 28th, 2010 at 3:34 pm
I love your range! Both the woman in this story and the woman in “Miracle of St. John” were wronged by their men yet their reactions and methods of coping are so different -yet both believable. I always love reading your stories.
July 28th, 2010 at 4:40 pm
Thank you all again, very much for your encouraging and constructive comments.
July 28th, 2010 at 5:40 pm
I loved every syllable.
Nice hook to start
Nice hook to finish.
Great story…..Hmmm….wishful thinking ???
5 big stars….the size of the moon tonite
July 28th, 2010 at 6:12 pm
I will definitely remember this story next time I’m watching the raptor show at the zoo with my kids! Well done!
July 29th, 2010 at 12:10 am
I am reminded of a variant of an old saying I once heard, I think on a T-shirt:-
If you truly love something, let it go free. If it does not come back, hunt it down and kill it.
July 29th, 2010 at 8:18 am
What an excellent writer you are, Debi!
July 29th, 2010 at 3:59 pm
So tickled by this story. Loved it…Cheers!
August 12th, 2010 at 10:48 am
hi ya. well written but i didn’t get the hawk’s ability to attack one specific person in a crowd of hundreds. i guess i don’t know hawk behaviour. and can you delve more into the motivation to hurt oneself and then expand that to physically mar others? that seemed a bit undeveloped. keep writing. best. laura