This is purely self indulgent drivel I came up with to avoid doing homework. All of these are characters from previous stories.

* * * * *

She found a dead bird in the grass, its eyes eaten out by ants, its neck and wings bent at odd angles, its breast torn and bare of feathers, its body desiccated in death.

She dropped to her knees and bent down low and, gently, blew onto its face, and life like fire kindled inside. Flesh and feathers rushed reformed and with a beat of little wings the bird flew from her hands and took to the air, tongues of flame trailing behind it.

She grinned and waved goodbye, then hurried to catch up with her brother. It was probably best she didn't mention the bird; he always got nervous when she brought things back from the dead.

* * * * *

She found a dead bird in the grass and almost walked past it but stopped when, from the corner of her eye, she saw that its white wings were stained with dried blood and bent out of shape.

"Stupid," she said, crouching. She ran a finger along its breast, avoiding the hole where a cat or something had ripped it open.

"Look at you. You're pathetic." She lightly-prodded the body. "You got those spindly legs and the neck and the hollow bones. I could break you on accident. You snap like dry twigs."

She picked up the bird. It hadn't died long ago: its body was still soft and limp. She fanned out a wing and made a face like tasting lemon juice.

"Figures He'd give you our wings," she said. "I wonder what he was trying to say?"

There was a bed of freshly planted flowers nearby, with soft loamy soil. She went over and casually kicked away the dirt, digging a in the ground with her foot until there was a bird-sized hole. Then she placed the bird down. The hole wasn't long enough, and the bird's head tilted to the side. Its eyes were black and sunk into its head.

Without a word, she buried the bird and went on her way.

* * * * *

He found a dead bird in the grass. It was mostly whole, he noticed, save for the tear in its breast. He bent over and picked it up. It was a pigeon, mostly white with patches of pink and tan around its neck, and clean save for some dried blood on its primaries.

He casually looked around to see if anyone was looking, then knelt down on the grass. He pulled out his pocket knife and cut the bird's neck. The blood was mostly clotted, but a whispered charm decoagulated it and soon a small puddle of red welled up in his hand. Then, using his finger as a pen, he traced a sign onto the back of his hand: a tiny circle surrounded by tinier script illegible to any eyes but his own.

They read: from death, life.

When that was done, he blew onto his hand to dry the blood. The sign burned emerald green for a split second before vanishing entirely, leaving no trace it was there.

He smiled, feeling the rejuvenating effects of the spell, and left the bird's body in the grass, walking off with a spring in his step.

* * * * *

He found a bird lying in the grass. Tentatively, he picked it up and said, "Be alive."

The bird sat in his hands, lifeless.

"Be alive."

The bird remained dead.

"Be alive! If Mia were here, you'd be alive! You'd be alive for her, why can't you be alive for me?"

The bird hung limply in his hands. He gently set it back down into the grass and walked off, anger and envy and sadness fighting painfully in the pit of his chest.

* * * * *

He found a bird lying in the grass and took it happily between his jaws. It tasted fresh-ish, and though its blood was clotted, it was still good. He lay in the grass and gnawed on the bird until the Little One That Smells Like Home came over and said,

"For fucksake, dog, we got food at home. Spit that out and come on."

He didn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear. He dropped the saliva-covered lump that had once been a bird and trotted away.