How I Defied Destiny with a Forkful of Custard

I had never planned on being swallowed by a flock of hyper-intelligent birds, but life, as I always say, is nothing if not persistently haphazard. One minute, I was sashaying into the city's most overpriced patisserie, wearing a coat so extravagant it could have caused an uprising. The next, I was being hoisted skyward by an enthusiastic parliament of rainbow-hued birds that smelled faintly of cinnamon and existential dread.

It all started with the cake.

The patisserie in question, La Duchesse Pâtisserie, was renowned for its outrageously expensive desserts and the unnervingly judgmental gaze of its staff. I had come for one thing and one thing only: the Mille-Feuille de l'Extase—a cake so delicate, so sublime, that eating it was rumored to grant temporary enlightenment. Naturally, I ordered two.

But as the cashier placed my exquisitely wrapped box on the counter, the doors burst open, and in swooped the birds—hundreds of them, their wings a swirling cacophony of greens, reds, and blues. They descended upon the patisserie with all the precision of a well-rehearsed military operation, their beady eyes scanning the glass cases, their claws tapping impatiently against marble countertops. Then, in a coordinated display of avian villainy, they snatched my cakes and soared towards the sky.

Well.

One cannot let birds simply abscond with one’s pastries, no matter how glamorous one is.

With the elegance of a woman half my age and twice my tolerance for nonsense, I grabbed hold of a particularly robust-looking bird and was promptly yanked off my feet. Up we went, past the patisserie’s gilded sign, past the surprised faces of pedestrians who, I assume, would later tell their grandchildren of the day they saw a well-dressed lady being abducted by dessert-obsessed birds.

As I clung to my avian steed, the city dwindling below me, I took stock of my situation. One: I was now airborne. Two: I was, regrettably, cake-less. Three: The birds were clearly conversing in an unsettling mix of caws and what I could only assume was ancient Latin. Four: A very tiny pigeon, possibly their leader, was giving me a smile.

Yes. A smile.

“Madam,” the pigeon said, because of course it could talk. “You have something we want.”

“Excuse me,” I huffed, rearranging my coat mid-flight for maximum drama, “I do believe it is you who have something I want. Give me back my cakes, and I shall consider not pressing charges.”

The pigeon chuckled. “Ah, but you misunderstand. The Mille-Feuille de l'Extase contains rare spices, ones foretold in the prophecy of the Skywing Dynasty.”

“The what now?” I asked, incredulous.

“The Skywing Dynasty,” he repeated, gesturing at the birds around him, who all nodded solemnly as if I was supposed to be in on this. “Long ago, it was written that the one who consumes the sacred Mille-Feuille shall gain the wisdom of flight, and we birds shall reclaim the skies from the insufferable humans who insist on polluting it with their airports and mid-tier reality television signals.”

I stared at the pigeon. “And you stole my cakes because?”

“To ensure our leader partakes in the ritual first,” he said, gesturing towards a magnificent red bird who was, at that very moment, delicately pecking at my Mille-Feuille with the air of a bird accustomed to Michelin-starred dining.

Reader, I will not lie. I saw red.

With the grace of a woman who had once kicked an ex-lover into a Venetian canal, I seized the cake from the bird's grasp and took a determined bite. Instantly, a wave of warmth spread through me, as though the universe had whispered a thousand tiny secrets into my soul. I suddenly understood the meaning of all things—life, existence, why people still pretend to enjoy kale. And then, just as suddenly, the knowledge was gone, slipping through my fingers like an ex-boyfriend’s promises.

The birds gasped. The red one flapped its wings in outrage. The tiny pigeon leader gawked at me. “You fool! You have disrupted the prophecy!”

“Oh, please,” I scoffed, licking a bit of custard from my lips. “If your great prophecy is hinging on one overpriced cake, then maybe you need a better plan.”

And with that, I executed a flawless backflip (gravity, by this point, had apparently decided I was simply too much to deal with) and landed gracefully in a passing hot air balloon filled with elderly tourists who were too polite to question my sudden arrival.

The birds, still shrieking, vanished into the horizon, their reign of pastry terror undoubtedly continuing elsewhere.

As I adjusted my coat and turned to one of the elderly gentlemen beside me, I smiled. “Lovely day for a balloon ride, isn’t it?”

He blinked at me. “Miss, I do believe you were just carried by a flock of birds.”

“Yes,” I said, plucking a stray feather from my hair. “Yes, I was. Now tell me, do they serve champagne on this ride? I find that existential adventures make me terribly thirsty.”

And with that, I reclined, basking in the warm afternoon sun, knowing full well that somewhere, the birds were still plotting, and that my days of pastry-related chaos were far from over.