Creative Writing Essay

847 Words May 13th, 2014 4 Pages
The earthen walls shake. My feathers rattle against the cage as another blast startles me. The inevitable screams follow; the wretched sound of men killing men. All that keeps this pigeon sane in this fetid cesspit of death is the inextinguishable thought of home.
Home. A dovecot high above the city, surrounded by the bountiful streets of urban London. A loft, filled with the warm, earthy aroma of oats and the soft, inviting coos of my brethren. A place of safety, comfort and companionship, broken only by the occasional excursion with one of the humans that frequented the loft. We had a unique connection with home. No matter where we were in the world, no matter how far or how foreign the lands were, we could always find our way back.
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But secretly I long to be overpowered, to be sent back to the loft where I belong. And overpowered I am. The hands pin my feathers to my breast. In my desperation, my pecking beak draws blood. He quickly takes a firm hold of my neck too. All I can do is move my wide open eyes, which dart from side to side in fear. A scrap of paper is rolled tightly to my left leg. It weighs me down, but not by much. It’s secured as tightly as possible; it is this man’s last hope for survival. As I’m walked out into the open, I see humans standing together; staring, watching, hoping. One tugs a rabbit’s foot for good luck. The iron grip gradually softens, and the thought of home fills me with courage.
I spread my wings, freed for the first time in months. I flutter my wings, months feels like days - I was born to do this, not be cooped up in a cage. The calling strengthens. I orient myself towards the sacred loft, and leap into the air.
The sound of gunfire doubles. Bullets spin past me, crashing through the air. I cannot go back, this is the only way home. I remember the lives of my fellows, snuffed out in an instant. A bullet rips into my right leg leaving it dangling by a thread. The pain is excruciating, but I fly onward. I try to fly upward, away from the callous automatons of death. I’m past them now, their fire begins to die down. More gunfire begins; they have started fighting each other again.
The gunfire slackens, but isn’t gone. A

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