The eagle flew beneath me like a vibrant shadow. I almost stumbled, almost fell. Every feather of its most remarkable wingspan stood detailed, as though edged in moonbeam silver. Odd for a sunny day? But wasn’t it all?
The city basked in resplendent sunshine, the sort that misted the park grass and crinkled the discarded food wrappers. I’d always loved the juxtaposition of humanity’s desire to do right and the reality of doing wrong.
Cerulean seemed the order of the day with occasional bursts of cotton white. Gold glinted off every reflected surface, dazzling the drivers and spotlighting more misery than any one place deserved. There were so many pairs of dark glasses that I almost forgot everyone had eyes. They appeared happier for them and not just because they prevented a blinding.
I sauntered along the waterfront for a while, as I often did. There was a time when the schooners had sailed the river like gigantic swans, elegant and free. This was long gone, but its residual memory permeated my conscience, and when I closed my eyes, they were almost there. Almost, but not quite.
The church spires and clock towers stood out this day, as though reminding everyone of religion and time and daring them to make their choice. I chose the latter, but only because I’d sampled the prior and found it wanting. There was a great deal of brick on display and less wood than expected. This was not a passing phase. Where once pretty flowerbeds lined the area, now tarmac car parks proliferated. Where avenues of beech trees and rows of rowans decorated with red berries once danced beside the stagecoaches and cabs, now, double yellow lines and bollards. It just wasn’t the same.
I took two lefts and a right for no other reason than boredom and found myself bottlenecked in an alley not fit for rats. Loose papers blew around like confetti at a beggar’s wedding, and glass bottles clinked. Dustbins rolled like tortoises turned on their backs. A glance at the sky appeared as a tungsten fracture. The blue had gone, as had any remaining joy.
There was life in that place, ugly men that shed their detritus skins like snakes and slithered towards me. They were dirty creatures, desperate and gloom-riddled. When they smiled, their mouths looked rotten. When they sneered, I pitied their pain. Some were there by destiny, others by mishap, but many by choice. I hadn’t the time to discern which was which, so went for something dramatic.
The eagle flexed as a dramatic shadow. Wings so massive as to reach the street encompassed them. All they could do was weep, as had so many before them.
Sometimes, I hated the eagle. Those wings elicited such fear in others when they were only ever meant to fly. A fallen feather dissolved into ash. I stood on it and watched its atoms blow away.
The rest of the day dragged past. The hours stretched like uncut pasta, inedible and useless. There was a momentary respite when the sun made claret of the early evening; it drew a tongue-smacking response, but it was soon over and never felt real.
The eagle beneath grew restless. The creature yearned for the moon, for the calm of a celestial evening. As the streetlights flicked on to tangerine bursts of wretched illumination, even this dream stood in tatters. I needed to get higher.
I climbed a hill that stood as a carbuncle when it should have drawn all to it. A few trees languished there, interspersed with dead grass and a patchwork of scrub, as though reluctantly planted and not cared for one jot. A few scattered rocks added to the general malaise. It was barely any better than the city. Still, it offered a view.
Venus shone like a diamond set in an obsidian necklace as an opal moon rose to meet it somewhere on the chain. An eerie glow emanated from the city, deterring nocturnal visitors. Still, two were better than none. I lay back in the grass to some slight discomfort, watching and waiting as I wept.
Weeping was a trait that never deserted me. My mercury tears flowed unchecked. The eagle just shook them away.
Deep in the depths of the night, as I slept a restless sleep, it appeared. It wasn’t the eagle, not then. It was never the eagle. When the anger rose, and the bile bit like acid. When the sun was forgotten, and the moon revealed the truth. When the eagle’s shadowy wings had shed every midnight feather. This was the moment of revelation: I was never beneath an eagle, only ever above a bat.
The End
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Richard
Richard M. Ankers - Storybook 
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