Tuesday, May 1, 2012

The Feathered Man

Through the crowd I saw a flash of purple; it streaked toward the door, through a curtained threshold and over the stage before it disappeared. Around me the dancers danced in black and white; feathered masks covered their eyes, and I saw no one I recognized. Under a lamp the record player skipped.

I followed; as I broke out of the crowd the door swung shut. Down the hall I was directed to the roof, where the air was still. ‘Where is she?’ I called out; above, the sky was a black dome with a single pinprick instead of stars.

‘There’s been no one out here all night,’ said a man in a bird mask, standing next to two women by the edge. In their hands they held cigarettes and glasses of red liquid.

What kind of place is this? Is there is a world below the roof’s edge, or are these feathered few all that’s left?



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