Swallows: microfic

Once upon a time, I wrote something for 101 Fiction. And then I went over by fifty-three thousand words. Just kidding. It was only a couple dozen. I liked it, though, and so here it is:


Swallows

A swallow beat its wings to cool the suffering Christ on the cross, and here, only two thousand years later, is that same swallow: winging its sharp-flighted way into Africa come October.

I left the City huddled in a wool coat and scarf, discarding them at the gate in Mombasa. I leave behind autumn in the park, and coffee shops, and charging stations. The official exchange rate: a piece of your soul. I leave my camera, too.

If it remembers me, the bird does not show it. I throw up my hands. The sun consumes my patrician nose, crisps my lips, and still the swallow ignores me. Here it is spring, and I fall to my knees, a phoenix waiting for rebirth. Before the ants have eaten me, perhaps, the bird will show me the same compassion it gave Christ. Until then, I am ever the betrayer, condemned like it to roam this earth, singular among its fellows.


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101 Fiction is open for submissions to the next issue; the themes are 'winter' and 'undead.' Please write something.