Annie Gough is a born and raised Michigander currently living in Scotland. She has an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Stirling, and has had work featured in Untitled, With Passengers, The Cauldron and Dark River Review. When she’s not writing prose, you can find Annie exploring Scotland’s many trails or pouring pints.
Fancier’s Lung
It was nicer than his house, friends said. Varnished timber paneling, maroon shingled roof, mesh enclosures jutting out of windows like miniature sunrooms. And he’d have to agree–Christ, he spent enough money on the loft. It was nicer than his house, and it was killing him.
His mouth was sore and mucousy on the inside, the burn of the rum lingering at the back of his throat. He lifted the dust mask to scratch the bridge of his nose. It felt like wearing a muzzle–not protecting him from the world, but protecting the world from him.
The sun shone between the pines with a freckled glare. People would be hillwalking today, cycling, taking their dogs to the park. Normally he would’ve taken the birds out, driven into the hills and released the batch to fly. They loved racing in conditions like this. As long as they didn’t get snatched by a hawk or shot down, or jolted by a telephone wire. They were sometimes daft, but more importantly, loyal.
He never got mad at his birds. It wasn’t their fault they sometimes couldn’t find their way back or didn’t win. They had made him quite a bit of money, truthfully. Enough to pay for their home.
His friends told him to get rid of the pigeons when Teresa left. That she left because of the birds, their stench. But at first, she had liked them too. She said she thought it was romantic that they mated for life and raised their chicks together, and that the female would race over mountains and forests to get back to her partner. Teresa said that he needed to study up on his pigeons’ commitment to a relationship. But from where he was standing, so did she. Who was the one who left and never found her way back?
If he was going to do this, now was the time. The sun was so bright, reflecting off his white dust mask and the slim metal bridge, it made him dizzy. Or maybe that was just his body deteriorating from the inside out. People would think there was a bonfire or a barbeque. Somebody enjoying the outdoors on such a fine day.
There was the occasional pint with the boys at the pub, but he did right by his body. Except for the loft. The hours spent inside, scraping and scrubbing the coops, murmuring and humming to the pigeons. Christ how he had loved them.
He picked up the petrol tank and walked inside. The smell, like vinegar and mildew, just how Teresa had described. The coops were all empty and clean, as if he had just built the place. He sprinkled the petrol about the wood, careful not to step on the limp grey bodies piled where he had left them hours before. Looking at them was too difficult; if there weren’t so many with necks cocked at unnatural angles, he could’ve pretended they were sleeping in one big birdy pile. There must’ve been an easier way to do it, maybe fill the loft with gas or poison their feed. But he needed to touch each one for a final time. He lit a match and tossed it in the corner, then left.
The grass was damp from the morning’s rain under his feet. It would dry up soon enough, but hopefully not too quickly. He took a few strides then turned around. He took off his mask and watched as the flames grew from the inside out, reaching up to the unfiltered sky.
You can find more of Annie’s writing via her blog and you can contact her via email.