The Sons of the Bird
Wise and cruel was the Bird, and wise and cruel were the Sons of the Bird — Robert Heinlein
The Author destroyed the world created by the Sons of the Bird at the end of his story so that we in this world, in this day and age, should have no fear. That’s if you believe the story. I don’t. I don’t believe the story. The Sons of the Bird still walk among us. You can see the signs of them; they want to be known.
I worked here for three years before I saw the Bird.
I know you want to shrug and dismiss it, dismiss me, but hear me out. The Bird is on the inside of an archway over one of three entrances to the building, sure, but it’s the entrance I use almost always, every day. I walk through that archway when I head out into the sun to eat my lunch, for every single cigarette break. If He had always been there, surely I would have seen Him by now. That he may be here for some reason that excludes me, I cannot fathom.
I liked this job just fine and I hate to leave it. In this economy especially, this is not a choice that can be made lightly. But they’ve found me. They’ve found me, you see, the Sons of the Bird.