Agnes and the Starlit Pigeons
by Francis Will Agnes, with her hair the color of dandelion fluff and a smile as worn as her favorite cardigan, shuffled towards the park bench every morning. A canvas bag, emblazoned with a faded image of a plump tabby cat, swung from her bony wrist. It wasn't cat food inside, though. No, Agnes carried a far more fantastical offering – breadcrumbs toasted a particular shade of gold, sprinkled with a pinch of something that shimmered faintly in the weak London sunlight. The pigeons knew. They'd gather in a rustling, cooing cloud the moment Agnes appeared, their beady eyes fixed on the bag. As she scattered the crumbs, the air shimmered, and for a fleeting moment, the pigeons weren't just plump, grey birds. They were iridescent, their feathers catching the light like stained glass. They strutted about, cooing in what Agnes swore sounded suspiciously like French. One particularly bold pigeon, Agnes called him Reginald, would hop right onto the bench, his chest puffed out li...