This is for Sonya’s Thursday prompt.
photo by Julien Laurent via Unsplash
The field around the stone circle was full of rooks, a black cloud of them that swirled and drifted from the centre of the stones, each one with a scrap of darkness in its wings.
He was lost, sickened by the killing machine that humanity had become, desperate to get back to his own time and the simplicity of birth, life and death, and a handful of black plumes would take him there.
He called the birds from the dark times before, tempted one down with a piece of synthetic sweetness with a smell too strong too resist, and snap, its neck broken, he swallowed its black soul—winged now, he was free to return.