Troy Ozuna

The Angel-bird

A white flash in the dead night chill cut in front of her eyes like a sabre. A sharp, involuntary inhale pricked the young woman’s lungs, and a slowly released breath steadied the terrified thump in her chest. It was the ninth week she had been sleeping under the stars outside any semblance of village limits. She wrapped herself tightly in the dirt streaked bivy that kept the elements outside where they belonged. Or at least that’s what it used to do before making camp a few nights ago in a bramble-packed field. The next night’s rain greatly contributed to the sour mildew currently floating through her sinuses, but right now that stench was the only flimsy safety she could cling to.