Illustration by Thomas Futrell © 2006
Illustration by Thomas Futrell © 2006
Bird-Catching
by Clif Mamund © 2006
Like night-crawlers in freshly tilled soil, Cedric and his fellow hooligans only came out after dark. They owned the streets along London’s West India Docks after sundown and they made sure everyone knew it. Occasionally, the local Bobbies would run the boys off the wharf, but the gang always returned.
Most evenings, the teens entertained themselves playing a game called ‘Bird-Catching.’ The boys would stake out a street corner near the clutch of pubs and restaurants at the far end of the fishing wharf. There, lined up along the boardwalk, Cedric’s crew pointed out women passers-by awarding each a score between one and ten. The prettier the ‘bird,’ the better the score. High-scoring women were greeted with wolf-whistles and jeers. As the ratings descended, the treatment became more crude and humiliating. For the lowest-scoring women, the harassment culminated in a purse-snatching. Those who fought back suffered a severe beating. The same fate awaited any nearby male foolish enough to come to the woman’s defense.
One particularly foggy evening, hopped up on cigarettes and plum brandy Cedric had nicked from his parents’ liquor cabinet, the boys slithered through the streets looking for trouble. It didn't take them long. Only minutes after they took their places along the wharf, a tall woman with long jet-black hair appeared out of the fog. Her slender legs strained against a tight skirt and stiletto heels.Eager, the boys began shouting and whistling at her. Instead of being intimidated, the mystery woman smiled, struck a pose, and waved a red silk scarf at them as if to say “Here I am, boys. Come get me.”
Rising to the bait, Cedric and the others headed down the boardwalk toward her. In response, the woman turned and began to walk briskly away. The boys picked up the pace. She broke into a jog. They started to run. She threw off her shoes and ran as fast as she could into the pea soup fog. The boys shouted in delight and sprinted after her.
Cedric was the first to realize the mistake. He tried to stop, but his momentum was too great. One minute he heard the clatter of worn wood under his feet. The next, he was hurtling through the air on a downward arc. Shouts of glee were replaced by screams of panic as, one by one, each of the teenagers plunged 15 meters off the end of the wharf to the concrete loading dock below.
At sunrise the next morning the boys were found in a lifeless heap. But they weren't alone. Strutting silently in a circle around the twisted bodies was a single blackbird sporting a splash of red feathers along its neck.
THE END
Clif Mamund is the author ego of an inconspicuous cubicle monkey
currently working in the mid-south region the United States.
