Sunday, 11 June 2017


by R.S. Bohn

Pink eyed, the pigeon stares at me, head cocked. On the fountain edge, gray and black birds coo nervously, but this one is silent.

Next to me, a young woman in mourning dress says, "That one's the Devil. I saw it on the window ledge the day Stephen died."

Before I can tell her that albino pigeons aren't a rarity, that there are bound to be a hundred of them in the city, she darts forward, tossing her black veil over it. It flaps in a panic, as she pummels it with her bare hands.

She leaves, triumphant and bloody-handed.

Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.

Veiled is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.

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