Chagall Binks - One..

This is a chapter from a story i was going to write...

Chagall’s golden cat like eyes observes the streets below, observing the people and the cars and lights. He is bewildered by this ever-changing world; first it was mountains and lands that stretch for miles. Now its tall, rectangular blocks that stands high into his domain. He has had to adapt to others that fly and has forced him to take shelter in abandoned homes, well what is left of them.

He sits at rest on top of a building and wrapped himself in his huge feathered wings, a winged span of eight feet; enough to shield him perfectly from the strong winds or pouring rain.

 His skin is able to produce heat higher then any living being so when Chagall does fly, he’s kept warm and the winter is never a bother to him.

 Tonight, Chagall could smell sweetness in the air, a perfumed mist he had smelt most nights. It frazzles him such a scent is able to shiver his black feathers and penetrate his nostrils so he cannot get rid of it.

 The smell has out grown his curiosity and is now become desperation; a wantonness to find where the powerful smells flowers from. But he knows the risks in doing so, of being discovered. Many years of keeping to the shadows and remained away from prying eyes, he would not like to locked up like those poor monkeys. 

 He signs in frustration and shakes the last of the rain from his skin and wings. Then stands tall and stretches his human like board shoulders and defined muscled arms, the cold air carries his misted yawn and took a moment to breath before taking a leap into the clearing in the clouds above him.

 He knows being up high where the air is clearer, that smell he so desperately seeks fades and he can fly to his heart content, free his thoughts from humanity world below.

***

 

After a well-earned flight in his crowed domain, Chagall retreats to an empty house far from the large tower’s he rests upon. In a place he hears the humans say and name, the countryside. The land he remembers before the change and is grateful that some if it remains.

The countryside still holds a charm over Chagall. The green is far better to look at during the day. Not that he ventures far through the day.

 The sun was rising in the horizon and the first ray bounces of his feathers, reflecting a mix of blue and purple, instead of the rich black they were at night. There’s nothing more beautiful then to see the sun fill the meadows with colour of yellow to green, flowers lean in hunger for the warmth and birds take over the sky, singing their morning melody. The sound is pleasant to Chagall ears as they are sensitive.

 The cottage is hidden within trees and rather out grown brambles and bushes. No path or road follows to this place. He lands delicately on a marsh in front of this cottage and lets his wings brush the long grass, his long fingers creases the poppy’s that have bloomed, till he came to a small rotten door. Which still hold’s a touch of its original colour. 

Inside, it was rather bare, dull and worn. The thick oak beams still hold this unique home and somehow suits Chagalls needs, not that a two bedroom cottage is needed someone of his size, it was more of a disguise. His real home is the old wine seller below. Where the sun does not reach so he uses candles that were stored away, Chagalls bed is made of lavender and sticks. Lavender has always been his favourite flower and it is that same smell from in the towered city. Driven him to curiosity and boundaries he won’t push.

 Tuck away in the stellar was a small library of books that manage to stay in fairly good condition, there must have been over a hundred stored away and Chagall has read many of them so far.

 The books are mostly of spiritual, mythical and documented journals. Of someone named Herald Whitmore. He lived till he was eighty-one. Chagall found his story’s intriguing and would spend the rest of his day reading about Herald’s life instead of discovering his own.

 Chagall decided to read outside today, he took shelter in an old tree house built in one of the trees by the cottage. He’s made a few adjustments to it so it would not crumble from his weight. He grew tired and let out a wide yawn, but was unable to put the journal down. Slowly his eyes fall to a close and Chagall curls up on a bed of branches, his umbrella like wings cradle his body. Letting Herald’s journey continue in his thoughts.  

 

Author's Note

The plot needs to be thought out more, i haven't quite got the story together... I wanted a beauty and beast theme but more modern fairy tale... if you know what i mean! ha!
let me know what you think...