A Murmuring of Starlings

samsmith1971 (69)in The Ink Well • 3 months ago (edited)

"Oy, stop touching me! Get over to your side!" James yelled, gesturing fiercely to the imaginary line dividing the backseat of his Mom's ten-year-old SUV. Thomas bolted upright, his eyes darting forward, catching his mother's disapproving glare in the rearview mirror. Her left eyebrow, raised in all its bushy glory, stared him down. "I'm on my side, James! Stop whining!" Thomas retorted, while daring to walk his fingers across the middle seat of no man's land, knowing his mother's line of sight did not extend that far. In a moment of blind rage, a small balled fist caught Thomas on the cheekbone, and the boys blurred into a melee of hands and feet.

Exasperated, Martha sat hunched over the wheel, trying to hold space for herself. She cracked open her window, took a deep breath, and blew wisps of hair from her face. Then she twisted the rearview mirror towards herself and stared at her reflection. She prodded at her face and traced the lines around her eyes; not even her retinol cream with added vitamin C could lift her countenance today.

Calvin was still away. She missed him and resented his absence. Most days she hated his job more than he did. It put a distance between them and left her carrying the responsibilities of parenthood. She had been up since 6 am, juggling work between school runs. Two bickering children was the last thing she needed. What she needed, what they all needed, was a break, or... a distraction. She looked through her window, seeking solace in the world that lay beyond the confines of her car. And then she saw him. "Hey, guys! Look, the man in the window is back!" All eyes moved as one toward the first-floor window of the apartment block on the street corner.

"Do you think he's lonely, Mom?" Thomas asked, meeting the man's gaze and waving in earnest in his direction. James, quite taken with the festive lights adorning the walls of the apartment block, declared, "I think we should get him a Christmas present!" Martha was still considering what both boys had said when the trail of cars behind her honked their horns. She sighed, and shifted out of neutral, edging forward a few car lengths before re-engaging the hand brake. Suppressing a yawn, she returned her attention to the man in the window. He waved at her, and she caught herself returning the gesture, but she still had no answer to her children's questions.

Miles gazed out the window of the first-floor apartment overlooking the tree-lined street and community park. His eyes followed the long queue of cars back to the roundabout as he kept vigil. Every afternoon, around 3.45 pm, the steady procession ground to a near halt, and he caught a glimpse into the lives of their occupants - parents, children, the odd dog - all sharing the same space and time on the afternoon school run.

As the vehicles snaked down the road, he picked out those filled with young children and waved, hoping to catch their attention. The connections, however fleeting, meant something to him, but as quickly as they arrived in his space, they left; a mish-mash of laughter and tears cresting the hill, leaving the afterglow of red taillights in their wake.

As the traffic cleared, his thoughts returned to the two boys from earlier, their faces squished against the rear side window of their mom's white SUV, jostling for real estate as they waved furiously in his direction. They were two of his regulars, and the thought of their daily shenanigans made him smile, accentuating the crinkles around his eyes. He hoped Santa would be good to them, even if they were a handful for their mama.

He cast his eyes to the west. Winter was coming and the days were drawing in, scattering blue and violet rays across the sky before embracing the yellow and orange glow of the late afternoon. A low hum filled the air. Miles embraced the familiar and hypnotic symphony through the open window. A murmuring of starlings rose from the woodland over the park and into the dusky evening sky. A few weeks before, their glossy feathers would have caught the last of the light, shining iridescent blue and green as their wingtips sought community with each other, the closest six or seven matching each other for speed and agility. Now, sporting new plumage after their early Autumn moult, they took flight with the setting sun. The golden orb, completing its arc, sank low on the horizon, blushing the deepest red. Unapologetically, it left only naked silhouettes, but as the murmuration twisted and turned in the fading light, adorned with winter's gift of white-flecked feathers, the starlings transformed into dancing stars in the night sky - a synchronised spectacle of thousands of wings beating on the wind. It was one of the purest expressions of community that Miles had ever seen.

He stepped back from the window, lost in thought, then, feeling a light tug on his trousers, lowered his arm slowly towards the young child bouncing on his tiptoes by his side. He gently ruffled the mop of soft dark curls that met his hand. "Granddad, who were you waving to?" Miles turned to meet the curious bright eyes of his four-year-old grandson, scrutinising his every move. "Just a couple of children, Henry." "Do we know them, Granddad?" "No, we don't," Miles paused, "but I don't think that should stop us, do you?"

"Come back to the table. If you spend any more time at the window your food will get cold." Miles crossed the room and sank into the chair beside his daughter. His grandson pulled himself up into a chair next to him. Turning to face Sylvie, Miles spoke softly. "Do you know that their faces light up when I wave to them? I want to reach out and show them that the world is not as alien and unfriendly as it may sometimes seem." Sylvie smiled, before returning her attention to her roast dinner.

Thomas pulled the two ends of the bright red ribbon into a bow, while James stuck a wad of tape over the top of the envelope holding the card, securing it to the neatly wrapped cookie jar that Thomas had made in Design class. They had filled it with freshly baked gingerbread biscuits. "There! All done, Mom!" James announced, his face beaming. "Now all we need to do is drop it off!" Martha watched as her children tripped over each other down the hallway. She looked at the Calendar and smiled. This time of the year was all about family and connection and, to top it off, Calvin would be back today. She grabbed her keys and followed her children out the door.

Miles stared at the 24th circled on his calendar. It was Christmas Eve. He heard the doorbell chime and shuffled his way to the entrance of the apartment. As he drew closer, the familiar sound of his daughter's voice reached his ears. "Hey Dad, we're here! Merry Christmas." He pictured her laden with parcels. She loved Christmas as much as her mother. When he opened the door, a wave of nostalgia wafted in; the perfect balance of nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and allspice. Every year Sylvie made her mom's favourite Christmas Day dessert. She insisted. Miles knew it wasn't just about the pie. It was about the memories, and he loved her for it. "Merry Christmas, my darlings," he whispered, squeezing them both tightly, before stepping aside to let them in.

He was about to close the door when he saw the neatly wrapped parcel tied together with a bright red bow. An envelope was affixed to the top. His eyes flicked back and forth along the length of the corridor. He had only moved here a few years before and didn't know many people. He picked up the parcel and deposited it on the dining table. Intrigued, he opened the envelope to find a handmade card.

To the man in the window...

Thank you for being one of the few constants in our life. Your presence always brings a little joy to our day.

From a tired mom and her two young bundles of energy in the white S.U.V. at 3.45 pm.

PS: If you have nothing planned for Christmas day, we'd love to have you over for lunch. Feel free to message me on the number below.

Miles steadied himself, closed the card, and prepared to open the gift, taking great care not to tear the wrapping. He pulled the paper back revealing a small glazed pottery jar. Turning it over in his hands, he admired the rough imperfections in the design, before opening the lid to reveal the baked cookies. He took one out and bit into its slightly chewy centre, releasing the spicey warmth of its flavour. Then he sat down at the table and leaned into his chair. The cookie tasted like home. Memories of the kind of love that went into creating this exceptional gift consumed him. A salty stream gathered in the puffy creases of his eyes. Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, the table swam back into focus together with its centrepiece - three bunches of freshly cut flowers in a glass vase. His gaze shifted to the three empty chairs around the table.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the warmth of his wife's hand nestled within his own, or catch the sound of his daughter clattering away in the kitchen. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the tinkling of his grandson's laugh bringing his apartment back to life. It was hard to accept that they were gone; that tragedy had struck so soon after the loss of his Evelyn. Most days, it was easier to imagine that they were still there.

He heard the ping from the kitchen and got up to retrieve the TV dinner from the microwave. At least tonight he had cookies for dessert! He finished his meal and picked up the card again. Then he reached for his phone and typed out a brief message.

Thank you for the lovely cookies. Your kindness is so appreciated. I have plans for tomorrow, but perhaps another time. Merry Christmas, from the man in the window.

The next morning, Miles rose early. He made some sandwiches and a flask of tea and placed them inside in a carrier bag with a packet of peanuts. He took the three bunches of flowers from the vase on the dining table, affixed a small Christmas tag to each of them, and headed out to the local church in the village. The Memorial Garden was quiet. He sat down on a bench, shut his eyes and allowed the warmth of the morning sun to wash over him. His memories came in waves, ebbing back and forth. He had been blessed with a beautiful life. With his wife, it was the natural order of things that one would survive the other. One cannot defy the aging process forever. In many ways, despite his sadness, Miles was happy that he had survived her. At least she would never have to endure the pain of loss he felt each time he rolled onto the cold side of the bed. His daughter and grandsons' passing had been more cruel and unexpected; the result of a DUI driver getting behind the wheel and losing control at the roundabout. That day Emergency Services had taken too long.

Sitting on the bench, a familiar birdsong broke the silence, bringing him back to the present. He opened his eyes and spied a lone starling squeaking and warbling in a nearby tree. As the church bell chimed for midday, Miles laid down his flowers, unwrapped a sandwich, and opened his flask of tea. Christmas lunch with his loved ones. In all his years he had never missed one.

The starling swooped down from the tree and landed a few feet away. It hopped tentatively towards him, willing crumbs to drop from his mouth. Miles opened the bag of peanuts and placed a handful in the middle of the bench. The bird made short measure of them before retreating to the safety of the tree, where it whistled and chattered as it flitted from branch to branch. By nightfall it would take flight, seeking and finding sanctuary with its flock. There was a time for everything.

Miles took one last sip from his flask and put his half-eaten sandwich away. He knew he needed to test his wings again. It was time. He pulled out his phone and, taking a moment to steady his hands, typed out another message.

There's been a change of plans. If it's not too late, I'd love to join you for Christmas lunch.

This story is in response to The Ink Well fiction prompt #127 window. It's been another effort stretched over months. I have come back from time to time to revisit, rework, and re-edit. It's not ideal but at least I'm writing. The ending changed half a dozen times over the past month alone. I'm not sure the present ending is the best of them, or whether the overall balance is there, but it's the ending that worked enough for me this evening to place my final full-stop and hit the publish button. As I read it one last time, I consider that it may still be a tad sentimental. I'm not sure anymore. Perhaps I've just spent way too much time chasing my tail on it. I was starting to feel like it was holding me hostage, so tonight, I let it go. I need to move on to the next one!

Header image of 'Starlings at Sunset' created in Canva Pro using:

Image 1 by drakuliren
and
Image 2 by rakesh sharma

Colours in Nature - The Changing Colours of Sunset

How to spot a starling murmuration

The Charms of Starlings: A Tale of Intelligence, Adaptability, and Beauty

Dreemport banner used with permission of @dreemsteem and @dreemport and designed by @jimramones

#inkwellprompt #teamuk #thealliance #vyb #proofofbrain #slothbuzz #fiction #ecency #neoxian

3 months ago in The Ink Well by samsmith1971 (69)

$12.59

Sort:

Trending

[-]

agmoore (74) 3 months ago

I have come back from time to time to revisit, rework, and re-edit

The story has the mark of a patient and careful writer. You have lived with this story, which probably why the characters come to life under your guidance.

The ending changed half a dozen times over the past month alone.

My son used to tell me, when I wrote stories (I do so rarely now), that I should leave it alone, that I was teasing the story to death. But you can't say that to a writer. Until it feels 'right' it's not done.

To me, this story is definitely done. But I'm not in your head, I haven't lived with it. I don't think you should follow the man to the children's house. I don't think you should let us see the children as they receive his acceptance. I think what you have done, leaving a message, is perfect.

Sentimental? No. It is full of sentiment. Not the same thing. It took me a while to realize the family was dead, but that's the point, isn't it? The house is pregnant with memory. Now, with the invitation from the two children, perhaps he is ready to start living in the present. At least for Christmas day.

A really well-written story that shows craft.🌺

$0.03

2 votes

[-]

samsmith1971 (69) 3 months ago

Thank you for your kind and considered feedback, my lovely. Your words are very encouraging to me. It makes me feel that I am at least on the right path!

Until it feels 'right' it's not done.

👆 THIS!

Although, I understand what your son was saying. I have been told on several occasions that I should not seek to be such a perfectionist with my pieces. That it is better to write regularly and keep hitting the publish button. I struggle with that so much! Some nights I open my laptop and simply reread what I wrote the few days before and apply another edit. I may do a partial rewrite with fresh eyes. The story may not progress in terms of plot, but it progresses in terms of tightening the narrative, adding foreshadowing, doing more research, etc. I always edit as I go. It's just my process lol. I think I enjoy the research and editing aspects as much as the initial write 😂

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I appreciate you 💗💗

A Murmuring of Starlings

Hello samsmith1971!