Flash Fiction for #whimword – Glamour

Stewart perched on the arm of the sofa and heaved a great sigh. He was becoming despondent. All of his romantic overtures to the beauteous Moira had come to naught. His friends had started to laugh at him; at first in huddles when they thought he wasn’t looking, but now openly. 

“Mate,” his best friend Barry stretched out one leg and examined it distractedly. “Just admit defeat.”

This ruffled Stewart’s feathers somewhat. He hopped over to the mirror to examine himself. 

“It’s a matter of principle now.” He said, inflating his chest to its broadest. 

Barry nibbled at one of his feet. 

“She’s friend zoned you. That’s what it is.”

“Bloody has not!” Stewart turned back to the mirror and concentrated hard. “I’m bringing her back here tonight. Making her a chilli. Netflix and chilli.”

He laughed at his own pun.

“Maybe that’s why you’re not getting anywhere mate.” Barry said. 

I’ll leave a window open.” Stewart, ignoring his friend, hopped into the air. He crowed the music of the glamour. There was a crunching, stretching, tingling, blue-ish sound. Notes flew and sparkled around him. 

He stumbled the landing slightly, now a six foot tall, very naked human. 

“I hate that bit.” Barry cooed to himself as he shuffled to face the other way. 

From outside came a raucous flapping and cackling. Stewart cursed loudly and strode over to close the blinds. A stretch of telephone cable dipped slightly, swayed, as dozens of plump feathered bodies landed on it, shuddering with laughter. 

“Oh look lads, it’s breakfast.” Cawed the ringleader; Graham. 

Stewart clapped his hands over his genitals rather too quickly, then winced. He was still getting used to having one of those. 

Barry shook his wings out in disdain. 

“Bloody Pigeon Gods. Messing with humans and the like.”

He watched Stewart fall over twice trying to pull jeans on, and once whilst tying shoelaces, which is a difficult thing to do. 

“T’isn’t sanitary if you ask me. Ought to be a law against it.”

Stewart threw him a glare and gathered his things. He didn’t bother to reply; Barry knew full well what the ancient laws decreed. He left the flat, with Barry screeching after him. 

“You know, most pigeons think they’re vermin!”

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