A Day Of Faces Read Online Free
Author: Simon K Jones
his mouth and biting down, his jaw clenching hard.
All his feathers fluttered as if in a breeze and he grimaced in evident pain. His left wing arched upwards, stretching into the perfect double-arc insignia that adorned every building owned by wings. The other wing flexed but didn’t respond, hanging limply and still bleeding. He cried a muffled cry and sweat appeared on his forehead as his face turned red and his breathing intensified. There was an alarming series of cracks and both wings jerked, then shivered uncontrollably for a few moments, followed by another, longer series of rending cracks.
I was so consumed by the behaviour of his wings that I almost missed the two wounds that had opened up on his temples, large slits that were growing in size, blood pouring from them as something started to protrude out of his head. As in, actually poking through the skin, from the inside. His face was a contorted mask of agony, basted in sweat and saliva.
Another sharp crack and the wings collapsed to the floor. At first I thought he’d simply relaxed them, then I realised with a jolt that they were no longer attached. Both had fallen away, separated from his body, the bloodied stumps where they had connected to his back clearly visible. Feathers drifted away from the frames like autumn leaves.
The ordeal seemed to last forever but can only have been seconds. Before me was the same man, but no longer winged. He’d impossibly changed type and was now a bovid, complete with curved horns emerging from his skull. The wooden trowel dropped from his mouth and he sat gasping for breath, before lifting his head up and staring at me from a blood-streaked face.
“Let me guess. You didn’t see that one coming, right?”
nature
ˈneɪtʃə/
noun
inborn or hereditary characteristics as an influence on or determinant of personality.
A month passed. 8 In the short time I had with Cal, that first month was the best. Before it all got complicated and crappy and people started dying. I never liked that shed or that garden, but I sometimes want to just be back there, like those early weeks.
I kept going to school, so that everything seemed normal. After dark I’d wait until my dad was asleep, then sneak out with some food and we’d talk into the night, trying to figure out what to do next. Trusting him didn’t come easy, what with the image of that cop falling off the roof still fresh in my mind.
“I was born twenty five years ago,” he’d said. “If you want to know whether you can trust me, go to the records office. Look up my genodate.” He’d pleaded for me to allow him to stay in the shed, hidden away, at least until I’d checked out his story.
Truth is, I didn’t have any real alternatives. Here was a guy, bigger and older than me, who had transformed from wings to horns right in front of me, shrugging off a bullet wound like it was nothing. Some of the feathers still fluttered about the shed when the door was opened, even though we’d disposed of the wing carcass before it started rotting. Having a graveyard out the back turned out to be really, really handy.
On the way to the records office I’d thought about the rest of his claims: that he’d grown up in an orphanage, having been rejected by his parents. I’d always wondered why my parents hadn’t given me up; they certainly didn’t seem to have ever enjoyed having a child. Cal had gone to an orphanage out in the countryside somewhere nice and quiet. It sounded pretty great - I’d always wanted to be taken away to an orphanage when I was growing up. Better to be among kids close to your age, rather than attempting to forge familial ties with your actual parents, who you had nothing to do with, least of all genotype. My dad was a fluffy little thing, about as far removed from my scaly squamatan nature as was possible.
The orphanage had treated him well, right up until the point it burned to the ground. That’s when it had all gone wrong. The stress
All his feathers fluttered as if in a breeze and he grimaced in evident pain. His left wing arched upwards, stretching into the perfect double-arc insignia that adorned every building owned by wings. The other wing flexed but didn’t respond, hanging limply and still bleeding. He cried a muffled cry and sweat appeared on his forehead as his face turned red and his breathing intensified. There was an alarming series of cracks and both wings jerked, then shivered uncontrollably for a few moments, followed by another, longer series of rending cracks.
I was so consumed by the behaviour of his wings that I almost missed the two wounds that had opened up on his temples, large slits that were growing in size, blood pouring from them as something started to protrude out of his head. As in, actually poking through the skin, from the inside. His face was a contorted mask of agony, basted in sweat and saliva.
Another sharp crack and the wings collapsed to the floor. At first I thought he’d simply relaxed them, then I realised with a jolt that they were no longer attached. Both had fallen away, separated from his body, the bloodied stumps where they had connected to his back clearly visible. Feathers drifted away from the frames like autumn leaves.
The ordeal seemed to last forever but can only have been seconds. Before me was the same man, but no longer winged. He’d impossibly changed type and was now a bovid, complete with curved horns emerging from his skull. The wooden trowel dropped from his mouth and he sat gasping for breath, before lifting his head up and staring at me from a blood-streaked face.
“Let me guess. You didn’t see that one coming, right?”
nature
ˈneɪtʃə/
noun
inborn or hereditary characteristics as an influence on or determinant of personality.
A month passed. 8 In the short time I had with Cal, that first month was the best. Before it all got complicated and crappy and people started dying. I never liked that shed or that garden, but I sometimes want to just be back there, like those early weeks.
I kept going to school, so that everything seemed normal. After dark I’d wait until my dad was asleep, then sneak out with some food and we’d talk into the night, trying to figure out what to do next. Trusting him didn’t come easy, what with the image of that cop falling off the roof still fresh in my mind.
“I was born twenty five years ago,” he’d said. “If you want to know whether you can trust me, go to the records office. Look up my genodate.” He’d pleaded for me to allow him to stay in the shed, hidden away, at least until I’d checked out his story.
Truth is, I didn’t have any real alternatives. Here was a guy, bigger and older than me, who had transformed from wings to horns right in front of me, shrugging off a bullet wound like it was nothing. Some of the feathers still fluttered about the shed when the door was opened, even though we’d disposed of the wing carcass before it started rotting. Having a graveyard out the back turned out to be really, really handy.
On the way to the records office I’d thought about the rest of his claims: that he’d grown up in an orphanage, having been rejected by his parents. I’d always wondered why my parents hadn’t given me up; they certainly didn’t seem to have ever enjoyed having a child. Cal had gone to an orphanage out in the countryside somewhere nice and quiet. It sounded pretty great - I’d always wanted to be taken away to an orphanage when I was growing up. Better to be among kids close to your age, rather than attempting to forge familial ties with your actual parents, who you had nothing to do with, least of all genotype. My dad was a fluffy little thing, about as far removed from my scaly squamatan nature as was possible.
The orphanage had treated him well, right up until the point it burned to the ground. That’s when it had all gone wrong. The stress
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