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.