Wingbound by Aaron Hwang
A man and a pigeon sat on a rooftop. That is the man sat, and the pigeon hopped about, lazily. They resembled each other to a certain extent.
The man talked for a while, and the pigeon ignored him. It was old enough to know which people were dangerous and which were not. This man became very excited sometimes, but he wasn’t dangerous. He just stood and pointed at things you could see from the rooftop. Sometimes he convulsed and called out “Hahahaha,” as if trying to contact some other human on a rooftop far away. Sometimes the convulsions were softer, and he put his face in his hands.
The pigeon wondered if he had any bird seed. There was an old man at the park who had bird seed, but maybe that was a different old man.
This man sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the building. He was still talking to the pigeon and to himself. About disappointment, and love, and feathers, and loneliness. None of it meant anything to the pigeon, of course. The pigeon just preened itself and occasionally cooed.
Far below, the horns of cars were like exotic birds. You could almost make out the voices of people, or the patterns of the roads: rigid and rectangular. The pigeon wondered if it might find some berries to eat on that tree across town. But the sun was hot, and to fly would be tiresome.
Finally, the man stopped talking, and just looked down at the street far below. He looked up at the pigeon, which looked back at him. The man asked the pigeon whether he should do it. It took a hop towards him, and then another, and, for a moment, it almost seemed as if it might reply.
Then came the breeze. The pigeon spread its wings and flew, off into the distant sky. And the man stood up, teetering on the building’s brink, and watched it go.
Edited by Kara Mercer
A man and a pigeon sat on a rooftop. That is the man sat, and the pigeon hopped about, lazily. They resembled each other to a certain extent.
The man talked for a while, and the pigeon ignored him. It was old enough to know which people were dangerous and which were not. This man became very excited sometimes, but he wasn’t dangerous. He just stood and pointed at things you could see from the rooftop. Sometimes he convulsed and called out “Hahahaha,” as if trying to contact some other human on a rooftop far away. Sometimes the convulsions were softer, and he put his face in his hands.
The pigeon wondered if he had any bird seed. There was an old man at the park who had bird seed, but maybe that was a different old man.
This man sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the building. He was still talking to the pigeon and to himself. About disappointment, and love, and feathers, and loneliness. None of it meant anything to the pigeon, of course. The pigeon just preened itself and occasionally cooed.
Far below, the horns of cars were like exotic birds. You could almost make out the voices of people, or the patterns of the roads: rigid and rectangular. The pigeon wondered if it might find some berries to eat on that tree across town. But the sun was hot, and to fly would be tiresome.
Finally, the man stopped talking, and just looked down at the street far below. He looked up at the pigeon, which looked back at him. The man asked the pigeon whether he should do it. It took a hop towards him, and then another, and, for a moment, it almost seemed as if it might reply.
Then came the breeze. The pigeon spread its wings and flew, off into the distant sky. And the man stood up, teetering on the building’s brink, and watched it go.
Edited by Kara Mercer
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