FICTION SHORT / SHORT: Boris the Owl
It was a painfully warm October. Boris, the obese Barn Owl, managed to lodge himself between the two highest pieces of intersecting wood in the rafters. Dusk was slipping into it’s evening coma and soon the thick blanket of night would be stretched across the farm. Boris was stuck. He was hungry. He had climbed to the top of the barn both socially and physically because he had spent the last few months terrorizing his fellow animals. He kept the pigs under control by swooping and clawing them in the early morning. The owls, and other birds had all been repeatedly pecked until they nested elsewhere. The rumors swirling around the farm were crippling everyone with fear. Some said he picked up rabbits only to drop them on tractors and varying machinery for fun. Boris was a bitter owl. The highest perch was too small for him but it was his. So he forced his body into his seat of honor. The October heat had created an onslaught of field mice reproducing of which he feasted on nightly and sometimes went back for thirds. Now, as the darkness crawled over the hills, Boris wiggled but to no avail. He knew his fate. No one would rescue him. He had isolated himself. He had punished others. He was alone. Now death would come for him, slowly, as he starved watching the sun and moon trade places.
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