Bird Man

Surely, Sam was dreaming.

He rubbed his eyes hard before squinting into the mirror again, jaw going slack.

Holy shit.

Yesterday, Sam had been an ordinary seventy-eight year old man.

Today, he was a goddamn bird.

There, sprouting ridiculously from his back, were two long, feathery black wings.

“What in the hell is this?” Sam barked at his reflection. He rolled his shoulders, nearly gaping as his wings ruffled ever so slightly.

He must have died. That was the only thing that made sense. He must have died and gone to some weird, fucked up version of purgatory where regular men become oversized ravens.

Damn it, he never should have had an affair with that nurse while married to Alessia—bless her soul.

Sam decided to go out for a stroll to clear his head. He was seeing things—he had to be. He was just being delusional. A delusional old man.

With his chin held high, Sam ignored the fact that he was out and about without a shirt. Not because his wings prevented him from putting one on—surely not! It was a hot summer day, and he wouldn’t be the only one.

He ignored the incredulous stares he was getting from people around him. Nosy fuckers, as always. It was nothing.

It was nothing.

The sound of a loud honk sent him flinching. His head whipping, he spotted a small boy in the street, staring right into the headlights of a car in front of him.

His body moved before he did. He felt his shoulders roll, and then he felt himself shoot off the ground, his wings pumping powerfully as he soared forward and swooped the child off his street.

“Wow,” the kid panted out, his face aghast. “A bird!”

Sam’s face fell back into a scowl.

Goddamn it.