At some point (probably not when Bridge was on the phone, but who knows, for even a real pigeon's sense of social etiquette is highly suspect at the best of times, and this was not that, nor, though she might be among the best of pigeons, was this the realest) there was a flicker, and a pigeon.
For the instant of that flicker, the space that should have been filled with a closed door was filled with something else: light and darkness and what might have been the distant bricks of a decaying subway tunnel. Then there was nothing.
Aside from the not very real pigeon skidding to an untidy halt on Bridge's desk. Its unlatched breast-cover flapped back and forth as it tumbled, the secret message compartment empty except for the wrapped Tootsie Roll that fell out when the bird finally righted itself.
The dirty scrap of a hundred year old tube ticket clutched tight in its beak was probably intended to be locked safe inside, but this wasn't the best of times.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-11-29 09:40 pm (UTC)For the instant of that flicker, the space that should have been filled with a closed door was filled with something else: light and darkness and what might have been the distant bricks of a decaying subway tunnel. Then there was nothing.
Aside from the not very real pigeon skidding to an untidy halt on Bridge's desk. Its unlatched breast-cover flapped back and forth as it tumbled, the secret message compartment empty except for the wrapped Tootsie Roll that fell out when the bird finally righted itself.
The dirty scrap of a hundred year old tube ticket clutched tight in its beak was probably intended to be locked safe inside, but this wasn't the best of times.