Writing for Fun
March 2022
Conflict - Pete Norman
The water surged from four jets, powering through a perfect arc until gravity scattered the liquid perfection into a myriad of fragments which exploded onto the rocks like water bombs. The only way to avoid this barrage was to take up a position midway between the streams where the bombs were less violent.
There was a fifth, central jet, which fired directly upwards and, at the moment that the jet finally weakened and gravity took control, the breeze captured the falling water, dispersing it into a fine mist through which a rainbow struggled constantly to secure a hold in the rapidly morphing pattern.
He loved this place but he always made sure to select the dead point midway between the water bombs where he could languish in the curtain of cool mist. Today was especially enjoyable as the sun was beating down relentlessly and he felt as if he would melt in the extreme heat.
He stepped down the rocks; his legs steeped in cool water from below and his body refreshed by the cool mist from above. Luxury . . . absolute, sumptuous, luxurious perfection.
There was a sudden blur of movement, the staccato beat of a dozen wings surging upwards in a flight of frenzy . . .
. . . but he had heard it all before, he had always surrendered to the herd paranoia, he had always circled the sky with them in meaningless ever decreasing circles before finally settling back on the fountain once more . . .
. . . but this time the moment was far too perfect to succumb to their ridiculous panic.
He leant forward and took a deep fraught, lifting his head to allow the cool water to flow down his burning throat . . .
. . . and then he saw it . . .
. . . a dark shape in the clear blue sky above . . .
. . . a dark shape growing larger and larger and larger . . .
He cursed his stupidity. He drew back his wings and dug deep into the misty air. He powered away from the fountain . . . away from the talons of extinction which were racing downwards towards him.
He flew in a blind frenzy. He flew harder than he had ever flown before. He flew as if his life depended on it – which it most certainly did. He flew towards the safety of the familiar home rooftops.
He did not look back – he needed every ounce of his energy and concentration to fly.
The dark shape swooping down on him levelled out its suicidal drop, it’s phenomenal speed closing on him faster . . . and faster . . . The home roof was close. The other pigeons were lined along the tiles. A dozen eyes watching his fate – dumb with horror – fascinated by the fatal drama which was unfolding before them but grateful that it was happening to someone else . . .
He hit the roof like an Exocet missile, his feet buckling, tumbling, twisting, collapsing on the shiny red tiles . . .
Seven hearts paused; fourteen lungs held their breath; fourteen eyes watched in abject terror as the peregrine swooped low across the terrified birds before finally disappearing over the rooftops, into the distance, searching for easier prey.
The pigeon’s body, pressed against the hot tiles was dangerously overheating, almost hot enough to explode . . .
. . . but he could live with that.