When I woke up, my cats were staring at me intently. That's pretty normal. The feathers on their heads were new, though. Also the handcuffs on my wrists and ankles.
"Oh, great god Quetzacoatrack!" said Boots. Talking was new, too. "We give to you this puny human! Eat his heart, oh wingy sir pants-"
"Hold on," said Smokey. "I thought we were Indians."
"Native Americans," I corrected automatically.
"Whatever," said Smokey. "But, like, bravos and Tony Hawks and stuff."
"Whatever," hissed Hambone. "As long as they cut out hearts."
"Indians do scalps," Boots said.
"Hearts or get the fuck out."
DP FICTION #5: “Not a Bird” by H.E. Roulo
13 hours ago