My shadow was bird shaped. They made me stand still while they ran their fingers on its outline. I listened as they counted feathers. They wanted me to talk because when I did, it looked like it sang. I was quiet. When they weren’t there, I pretended my words were birdsong. I ran and my shadow flew behind my steps. I moved my arms and watched its wings. I sat in trees and saw it perch.
One day, my shadow wouldn’t move. I tried to pick it up, but it went through my fingers. It started fading. I sat beside it until it disappeared. They told me birds live short lives and that was why my shadow died.
I follow flocks now. I run with their shadows. I pretend their shadows are mine.
Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and can be summoned by a cake signal in the sky. Her best friend is a dog who can count. She was a finalist in the first Wyvern Lit flash fiction contest. Her stories have also been published by Hermeneutic Chaos, Fiction Attic, Unbroken Journal, Remarkable Doorways Magazine, The Fable Online, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.