Standing in front of the statue, I tried to get into the mindset of the sculptor. What had inspired him to create it?
I wasn't a big believer in God, the devil, Heaven or Hell, but something about this winged being had transfixed me.
Without taking my eyes off it, I moved backwards slowly, until the back of my legs hit the edge of a bench. Sinking onto the cool marble seat, I withdrew my sketchpad from my bag.
I'd perfected the art of drawing an outline without looking at the page, keeping my eyes on the subject of the portrait. It didn't take long and I was soon ready to tear my eyes away and begin filling in the details.
The light in the museum began to dim as time passed me by, the only sound was the scratching of my pencil against the thick paper as I sat in a room often forgotten by visitors.
Just as I was finishing up the feathers that made up the wings, I heard a strange rustling sound. My head snapped up, I looked around taking in my surroundings. My concentration must have kicked my imagination into overdrive. The only wings in the room were cast out of bronze and couldn't have moved.
Surprised by the almost darkness, I packed my things away and stood up, my back creaking from being sat in the same position for too long. Walking slowly to ease the aches, I turned to glance back at the statue as I reached the room's exit.
It was gone. Not even a line of dust to indicate it had ever been there. Instead, a large, white feather lay on the otherwise empty plinth.
YOU ARE READING
Flash FictionShort Story
A selection of flash fiction pieces I've written in between working on my publishable works. I'll post the pictures over on my blog https://mbfeeney.wordpress.com/ that inspired each piece. Each piece is a standalone and isn't continued in the next...