(Here I am, and here is the sixth chapter. Enjoy!)
Chapter 6
The three things he carried, the three weights on his shoulders, the three bits of home he would bring with him. The night was in its full darkness, his empty lair lit by a lone candle. Chuck could only carry three things—he was familiar with this rule—for he had to follow it many times. How many times has it been? Twice this year? Three? Maybe five?
But this was always a relapsing difficulty. He always let his exuberance, his spontaneity, lead him away from the flock. The speed that rocketed him past the others in the battlefield left him far ahead, alone, breaking the cobwebs on the wooded path. And he would be the one to slip through, at a carelessly fast pace, into the barb of a venomous spider; causing him trouble, causing his Flock trouble, because he didn't take the extra thought of moving just an inch. Just an inch more, and everything would have been right. Who can dare say the world is all random? He cursed at God.
He dawdled with his steps, his placement of the items, carefully in the canvas bag, hoping to extend his time at home just a little longer. Should I bring this? Maybe I will take something else. This is too heavy. But all this time he was filled with internal guilt; he was to be gone, and he dismissed the idea that his presence would be welcome. Every minute he strained the wing that reached to touch home just a little more, to touch the sweet clamors and smells and comforts that made him feel warm and fuzzy. But a cold wind pierced this dream, and the outstretched wing warped and tore from integrity. The open wilderness was where he belonged. The wing was no longer painful as he took his belongings and left in the night.
After a longer than usual day of mundane chores, Matilda headed to blues' cave for a belated tuck-in. Fast asleep already. The only children of the Flock were always good sleepers, a welcome blessing for her and notably the unloving male birds of the Flock who didn't want to raise a child (or children, for that matter). Oh, how they grow up so fast. She watched as their bodies rose and fell in synchrony-the first, the second, the third-wondering if this moment would ever end, the blues would grow up, they would be strong, they would be brave, she would get old, she would be alone, her job would be done.
Then devilish thoughts burned through her contentment. She needed to save the children from being monsters. From growing to be the callous, heartless, blood-boiling, weapons of destruction that their milieu set them to be. She needed to avenge the monsters who trod their muddy footprints over the young ones' conscience. Bomb, the explosive bastard, he deserved more. As much as Bomb would suffer, she would never extinguish the devil's flame without smothering her burning heart, burning for the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, who watched over her as they picked her brain. Why did you leave so soon? What have I done wrong? The forlorn mothers' anger would smother the devil's fire in Bomb's heart.
Oh, forgive me, Jay, Jake, and Jim, if you have to see this. Go away. Be safe. You must learn to be strong and independent.
(To be continued)