Vulture

A man is not walking. What is this?

Walk, the bird whispered wetly. Get up. Walk. It swabbed it's bald brow and waited for the man to listen to its magic or not.
The man, moving man, living man, did not.
And what was more--a smell, sweet, so sweet, so heavy and musty and ill to any other, but only sweet to the bird, was coming from that sweat licked head of his.
What's this, now? The bird craned its bald head to follow the man's progression. What is this what is this? Beneath his feathers, his stomach rumbled eagerly. Come now, come, I am forgiving, but this is unforgivable, the bird whispered, its lips drying and hardening as the man moved on and on.
When the bird descended, the man threw his arms and fell back. The bird faltered in its path but swung around for another assault.
What are you doing? The man cried out.
Give me that sweet head of yours, the bird replied, the sound whistling through its cracked mouth.
No! The man replied fiercely. It is mine!
It is dead; the dead are mine. Give it to me. And those legs, too.
I am walking, am I not? I am talking, am I not? This head lets me talk and these legs let me walk. They are living, you wretched bird!
But why aren't your legs talking? Why aren't your words walking? They are dead, fleshman, if they are not doing these things.
I could not make them if I tried!
Then they are even more dead to you, the hopeful bird said, winging lower and lower. Give them to me; they will be useful to me. They will fill four bellies tonight, strengthen sixteen muscles by morning, and be burned in the beats of eight wings by noon.
The bird dove. The man clutched at his face with one hand and beat the bird off with the other. He felt as if he clutched at a strange rock, heavy on his shoulders and under the sun.
Where are you going? The bird asked.
I am running. I have committed a crime, and now I am running from the law. I do not know where to.
What are you thinking?
I am trying to think of a place where the law will not find me. Where I will not feel guilt.
You will die before you find this, the bird informed the man. Look, part of you has already died--your legs cannot speak and your head cannot walk. You have forced them to do one thing too long, and now they have forgotten that they are interchangeable, as all your organs are. Soon they will pull away from your body, as any organ that becomes fixed must. They will never walk or talk or beat or pump again. But give them to me and they will push and burn and fly and, in these moments, remember when they talked and walked and pumped. The bird made lazy, patient circles above the man. Now use them or I will use you.

The sun was hot. The day seemed endless. The law seemed infinite. So the man conceded. And after three blinding hours of pain, he forgot every word he said, including their agreement, and when a stranger passed by, he cried out for help. The bird did not look up from his work; he continued to dive at the man, turning his silent legs to talking blood that pumped beneath his dark feathers.


Dear every author who's work and images I've mutilated for my own purposes this quarter:

Hope you don't mind. I'll try to be kinder in the future.

Sincerely,
ThisCat