[pirate witch]: 524.Short Stories.Predatory - a prose poem

    Behind his eyelids, where the copious amount of alcohol had left scattered pencil marks and tiny burning suns pressing into his vision, he could not quite make out the shapes that swam and dove. When he opened his eyes again he stared over the guard rail, the guard rail that had been installed there after the second person fell, a fifteen year old girl who’s parents had told her that morning that they just didn’t love each other any more. He felt the waters swarming up to his face, pricking him with their million stingers. They were not as reassuring as the cold and greasy metal of the barrel, as comforting as the orange bottle, or as welcoming as the walk-in freezer, but there the waters were, giving him a chance to give in on his own before they dragged him down of their own accord.

Fingers drag across the metal pole. Nails catch on the rust. His lips are chapped and he presses them together, makes a line that looks more decisive than it is. Eyelashes are brittle from the cold. In the work boots his toes curl twice, quickly, to help him catch his balance. There is no logical explanation here. He remembers eleventh grade maths, he payed attention back then, and he knows that “if P then Q,” at this moment, will result in a cold nothing. There are no real reasons and yet, and yet. And yet. 
Across the harbor, a tugboat can not leave its mooring for one reason or another. The dockhands throw their hats on the ground, a shipment will be late. They wonder what they are even living for.
He waits for three hours, to see if the sky will open up or the payphone nearby will ring. He waits to see if the tugboat will sail away.

They were gryphons, the shapes that danced just out of reach. He saw the dirty feathers that were ugly where they protruded from bone. Their talons grasped the air and curled back into themselves around him. Their eyes passed over him as they flew, golden eyes with no glint of mercy. Though he stretched out his hands, he did not expect them to stop as their thunderous bodies careened over the railing, caws biting through the wind. The force of their beating wings swept him up and pushed him to the bar, took away all motor skills in a single motion. Bruises began to swell on the tender parts of his calves, and he glanced once again at the water, at the reflections that made the gryphons seem to swim below him. He felt his feet lift from the cement, could not and did not push them back down against the torrent, and dropped. The carcass from their hunt, given to the insects to finish.