Francis is Magic

by TastySandvish

The Purple Feather

The sun rose over the city. The pigeons were cooing, the early morning drew made the grass shine like green diamonds on the ground and the sky was destitute of cloud. The day was definitely telling to everyone to go out, but Francis had better things to do. The alarm clock indicated 7 AM, the perfect time to get up, according to recent studies, displayed in the magazine that was still hanging on the nightstand. He extended his hand, hoping to hit the clock, but it didn't happen. The day before, he put it on the shelves, forcing him to get up to deactivate it.
''Pfff... Why am I so predictable... I know myself too much...'' He thought, still groggy due to a lack of sleep. The discovery of the previous day made him puzzled, even sleeping. ''That feather, I must know where it comes from'' The words came back incessantly in his dreams. He sprang from the bedclothes like a devil out of a box and headed for the bathroom.

The purple feather, the topic of the day, was mounted on a cereal box lying on the dining room table. Francis had moved all the lamps to illuminate every angles. He didn't want to miss any detail that could help him to find its origin. With extreme caution, he wrote, drew and described everything that was possible while breakfasting. He repeated this gesture, now natural, to bring this spoon full of milk and oatmeal to his mouth, like an automaton. However, he paused when a noise disturbs his legendary calm: his pencil was just a piece of metal topped with a pink gum as empty as his notebook was filled, rubbing against the paper. It seemed a simple problem, but it was a well and truly dilemma: He couldn't continue to observe, and he might miss something important if he sought a new pencil. Stress prevailed, and he ran to his room. The pencils were stored in a closet, just below a poster of the city overview. He halted a moment in front of the poster and picked it up, tearing the four edges held by the sticky tape. After quickly cleared the table, he stretched the map by holding the edges with everything he had nearby: cups, tissue boxes and even his shoes. He searched with his finger the restaurant in front of which the feather had landed on him while hammering his forehead with a pencil. ''There it is!'' He gently took it and put it down in the grossly drawn red circle. Suddenly, the unexpected happened: the feather seemed to react and started to glow slightly, moving on the poster.

Francis was speechless. How could a feather, presumably devoid of awareness, move or even communicate?! It was somehow reproducing the same way that the animal has taken. Whatever it was, it wasn't from this world. After wandering for a minute, it stopped on a large green area, aka the park. This was too much for the young teacher: he felt obliged to go in search of that thing. The feeling was growing constantly. He rushed up to his desk, grabbed his bag and stuffed it with everything that seemed useful: his Minolta Camera, his encyclopedia, his notes, a map of the surroundings, some food and a variety of scientific instruments. He put on his jacket; grabbed the feather and left as fast as he could.

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He was exploring the vast forest of sequoia that mainly composed the park for two hours and for the first time in his life, the young man was hungry. He didn't like the sensation. He disliked it even more than the nickname given by Veronica. He reached into his bag and discovered an apple, hidden between some photographic films and a drawing sheet. Its red color and its perfect shape made him drool. Francis couldn't resist any longer: he sat on an old tree stump, put his equipment next to him and brought the scarlet fruit to his mouth, determined to bite in the juicy flesh. Lurking among the leaves, someone else had noticed this tantalizing snack. He was ready to eat when something tapped his shoulder several times. He turned his head, looking away from his meal.

''Nothing? It was probably an illusion, a side-effect of the hunger.'' Nothing was standing behind him, only a little piece of wood. No longer disturbed, he returned to his business, but the fruit was gone! How could it be? It was the second weird thing to happen today. He inspected his hand, thinking about an other illusion, optical this time...

SCRUUUNCH

The noise came from the tree right in front of him. He knew it the instant he heard it: it was what he was looking for!

''This time, I got you!'' Francis shouted. He took out his camera, prepared the flash, but couldn't do much as the thing jumped out of the foliage, knocking him at the same occasion. The young man rolled on his back and steadied barely on the stump. During his spin, he had enough time to see the thing: it was some kind of mythological animal, a cross between a horse and a bird, topped with a horn but much smaller. It looked like a pony, a little pony. He was just as fascinated as frightened: it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen, a wonder of nature, that might be very dangerous and bloody smart for sure. Unfortunately for him, he would have to get close to observe, as the opening of his camera was broken, crashed during his stumble. Taking his gear, Francis chased the winged unicorn.

He wasn't a runner, much less an athlete, but the desire gave him the power to continue and the adrenaline did the rest. Even if the branches was preventing from an aerial escape, the animal had advantage: its stomach wasn't painful. In a desperate momentum, the young teacher yelled words that he wished comforting.

''Come back! I'm not going to hurt you! I don't want to!'' The only answer he received was a quick look. ''Don't be afraid! I just want to look at you!'' His whole body was suffering. ''Come on Francis, a hundred meters left and it'll stop by itself! His legs were shaking. He couldn't feel them anymore. They were like gone forever in the unbridled race. Seeking a way out behind the trees, the little pony didn't see the wide redwood trunk that blocked its way. The young man, petrified by the thought that it might be hurt, plunged toward the purple creature, intercepted it and offered his back to the tree.

Author's Note:

Look at the sky, you'll see your dreams.
Look at your feet, you'll see your chains.
Look behind you, you'll see your past.
Look next to you, you'll see your friends.
Look straight ahead, you won't see anything but fog.
Where are you gonna look?

Come on, poetry never killed anyone...