"Go on! Get away from there!"
Trisha banged on the kitchen window again and watched with satisfaction as the magpies skittered off, a flash of black and white, retreating over the fence. They'd be back, she knew.
She'd started putting feeders out for the little birds: the bundles of fluff that jetted in and jetted out; the balls of colour that clutched at the nut feeder and attacked it like a jack hammer; the brown wren that darted and hopped with such whimsical movements that it made her heart swell.
They brought her joy and she was keen to preserve that.
The magpies had become her nemesis on the day that she had seen one pecking the floor and later, where it had been, found the remnants of a small blue egg, albumen scoured. She recognised it as a robin's. It filled her with inordinate sadness.
She viewed magpies as feathered raptors, keen predators looking for opportunity. Now, whenever she saw them dart in, she would bang on the window and revel in their shock and rapid escape.
"I think I'll hang some washing out," she thought, seeing the trees moving as the wind cajoled them and went to the machine to load the basket and take it outside to her rotary washing line. The wind was picking up, the trees now swaying, like a swimmer in distress on the sea.
It was gusty and she knew the washing would dry quickly. She might even be able to get the bedding done. She went over to the line and bent to find her peg bag and a t-shirt to hang when, as she was coming back upright, the rotary swung hard as a freakish gust of wind powered in, and it hit her square on the temple. She fell heavily to the floor, unconscious.
***
Trisha came to, to searing pain. Her head, throbbing. Sticky. She was in agony. She felt incredibly nauseous.
Her thoughts were scrambling. Such pain! Her head. Behind her eyes. She remembered the line, the gust, then nothing.
She tried to open her eyes. She realised she couldn't.
Her screams alerted the neighbours as the magpies sat twittering in the trees.
***
366 words
I have magpies in my garden. I am always wary of them and quite rightly if this story is anything to go by.
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Comments (13)
Oh dear. Just as I was thinking how cute the magpies are, and that she should cut them some slack. Yikes!
I thought about Hitchcock, too (like John) but had a moment of "magpies need love, too"
Maggie, Maggie, Magpie, what hast thou done? It's supposed to be four & twenty blackbirds baked in a pie, not one banged up Trisha!
Hitchcock would be proud of you for this Rachel, As I am and you should be too. This is a great piece of unassuming, murder-by-magpies-micro! Lovely stuff...in a not-so-lovely way!
Terrifying! But captivating!
Very dark! Did not see that ebding comin! Definitely need to watch the magpies...and heavy gusts of wind!
Did they peck out her eyes?! 😮😮😮😮
OMG 😱 I am a birdwatcher! Yikes Hitchcock. My scourge are the red-winged blackbirds. Loved your story.
Your twist really snuck up on me in this one, Rachel! I was too busy relishing your lovely rendering of the smaller birds to pay attention to your foreshadowing. We have several bird feeders in our yard and the Carolina Wren's bopping antics when feeding, bathing or singing its little heart out is our favorite. Lovely writing. Too bad about Trisha's noggin. The Magpie's Revenge?
Ooh the darkness of this … love it! (What does that say about me? 🙈) x
Magpies are definitely murderers.
Were those Magpies pecking her eyes out? Lol! Loved your story!
Oh those vile and vengeful magpies!