Jack Macaw

a bird-man in a gutter with rabies.

It was dark out, as usual. Jack had his hat back on his head, ready to take on the world as soon as his leg healed, again. He couldn't count how many times he'd been hit into the gutter, legs broken or spine twisted. He'd lost teeth before, but never this many at once. It broke his spirit a little more each time, exponentially. He smelled something foul coming toward him. It wasn't a garbage truck slowing down to further insult him. He was glad. It was just a bag of rotting fast food drifting with the rain's current. He picked between his feathers for a mite or two, but none could be found. Even in hard times there had been mites to cheer him up. They were always up for conversation. Not today. He was completely alone.

The End

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