I'm not really sure what this is.
It was the beginning of the green hour, the sky darkening rapidly. Emily scampered inside to avoid the twilight minutes before the street lamps flickered on and illuminated the deep emerald of the sky.
The birds had begun chirping somewhere in the middle of the pink hour, relentless in their demands for food that she could not provide. She had spent the intervening few hours picking scraps from the floor and placing them into a small, ragged bag. She had barely enough when she sprinkled it on the floor of the cage. The birds were on it immediately, fighting over the meagre crumbs she could scrape up from outside the bakery.
It wouldn’t be long before they were twittering again, hungry for more.
Her own stomach rumbled; too loud to ignore. The cramps had started to wain but just the sight of the birds enjoying their tiny meal had brought back mouth-watering thoughts. The scents of the bakery had lured her in but the baker was sharp and quick with a knife. She would not lose another finger to him in the pursuit of stale bread.
Her own meal would have to wait until the store over the road had closed for the night. She would sneak in after dark - the true dark of the black hours - and steal what she could. Just insignificant amounts, easily missed, to partially fill the gaping hole in her stomach.
A man had once told her eat the birds. Claimed them as ‘good pickings’, even with how scrawny they had gotten.
The birds were her friends. That man was not her friend. He had tasted like old corn and was stringy like mutton but she had eaten her fill for a week until the meat had gone bad. The birds had enjoyed it too, so hungry they would eat anything in front of them if it was sprinkled like seed.
The birds had finished their meal too quickly; already cheeping and squawking. She let them out of their cage and let them land on her shoulders, picking at her lank hair. Her birds were the only friends she had now.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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