When he got home, Paul smashed the trash can with the front of his car and staggered over the dusty ground towards his trailer. Lying on its side, by the door, was an empty bottle of antifreeze, a small pool of luminous green soaking into the dirt. The entire trailer seemed to be rocking, expanding and contracting. Magpies with their beady eyes lined the top of his home. He needed to lie down and rest his head. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
A sickly curtain fell over the world. The floor swayed beneath him. He could hear something like breathing and moaning. He crossed the trailer toward the bedroom. At the closed door he hesitated. The sounds seemed to be coming from the other side and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what was making them. His hand reached out, his arm elongating on its own, grasping the doorknob. He flung the door wide and stepped into his bedroom.
There was movement on the bed. Something was on top of his wife and she was bucking and moaning beneath it. He could see her face, pale, sweat glistening on her skin, back arched. The thing on top of her was a glossy black, flexing and shifting. His wife was mumbling something, words were spilling from her lips:
now I’ll poison you.
to make an ugly stew.
Over and over again, these words from her lips. The thing on top of her began to makes sounds like laughter, then it turned, its large, black and beady eyes staring accusingly at Paul, and its feathered wings opened.
Paul screamed. He flailed from the room. He ripped drawers open in the kitchen, pulling them free, spilling their contents clattering to the floor, until he found what he was looking for. He snatched the gun from the linoleum, nearly falling in the scattered silverware. He always kept it loaded, in case of intruders. He ran back to the bedroom and the handgun kicked in his hand, the blast deafening in the confined space. He fired again. Feathers and blood splattered over everything in the room. The bedroom was filled with hundreds of birds, and they flew at him all at once. He dived to the floor, rolled, and crawled away as fast as he could. He crawled to the door and spilled down the steps and into the hard packed dirt outside. He struggled to his feet.
He peered over his shoulder; the birds were still on top of his trailer, staring him down. He ran, his arms, and the gun he held, flailing over his head to keep the birds out of his hair.
Later, lost in the woods, birds swirling everywhere in the trees above, he used the gun to explode the cawing laughter from his life forever.
(Just something I'm working on. Thought I'd share. ;))