Flash Fiction: Owl Eyes by K. S. Moore.
Owl eyes are the deepest. They draw you in, when you don’t want to be drawn. When you want to sit still and mind your own business, stay lost in your own thoughts. This owl was curious. I saw it in his red-rust flecks. He wasn’t about to blink. Then again, neither was I.
I decided while he was there, I might as well start a conversation.
How are you, Mr Owl?
Actually, I’m a Miss. Not male. Not married. Can’t you tell?
It’s difficult to tell.
An owl would know.
But then, owls know a lot of things, don’t they? Owls are wise, whereas humans are constantly tripped up by their own folly, entangled by false moves, bad decisions, or worse; by waiting around too long.
Owls know when to rest, when to fly and when to swoop. They are always impeccably groomed. It’s all in the genetic make up, I suppose. If I were an animal, I would be some kind of messy mongrel; all hair and nonsense. I would chase sticks and beg for scraps, be grateful for my own bed.
At the back of my mind, I might wonder if there was more. . . If there was a big question beyond the day-to-day. But I would fall asleep before it could be answered.
Note: I’ve been writing some flash fiction in the mornings over the past couple of weeks and thought it would be nice to share one of my better attempts . . . I feel this piece has a freshness and quirkiness about it; qualities that can turn up in my work when I don’t put too much pressure on myself and feel free to write as I think. Let’s hope the trend continues . . .