“Dad! Daaaaad! Dad-dad-dad!”
I expelled a sigh before turning around to face my son—or, rather, the four tempestuous Anemoi he seemed to personify this morning, Arden was as turbulent as any such wind. He was even stirring up a little of his own, his gold-tipped wings beating the air not in flight—he was using his feet to barrel toward me—but distress. Although Psyche and I have had him part of our lives for three years already—or was it only two so far?—it was still hard to adjust to raising a child again after literally ages since our first. Grip tight on my bow, I knelt down to better be at eye-level with him and said, “Arden, I need to go to work.”
“B-b-but—” Sniffling, Arden thrust his hands up. I expected to see the stuffed Pegasus I had given him, but instead, cradled in his palms was a pigeon.
A dead pigeon.
To read more, click here! I hope you all enjoy this quick, little slice-of-life story of mine. :)