This is my first post ever to anyone other than friends and family. Looking for some real, healthy, insightful critiques. I will be happy to offer the same for anyone who responds. This is meant to be a short story but is not complete by any means. Thoughts are appreciated!
Ricky the Gargoyle
He was a Gargoyle in love.
He saw her every day, sitting across from him. She was so beautiful, ethereal really, in her cold and imperious way. She never looked his way but he knew she knew he was watching. Sometimes he could swear there was almost a coy look that would pass over her face, or maybe it was just shadows. So many times he longed to call out a greeting, or make a witty quip, to make her glance his way. But he never did.
His name was Rickix. His friends, who resided on either side of him, called him Ricky. Mostly they made catcalls or teased him mercilessly if they caught him staring too long at her. All in all, being a gargoyle was pretty boring with nothing to do but sit and stare foreboding into the distance. If you were lucky, a human might look up and meet your stony stare, until they shuddered and hurried on their way. Ricky knew not, how long he had existed, but he knew his job was very important; at least it used to be.
Back in England, before the cities had become metal, he lived on top of a castle. His job was to make sure the roof did not flood by expelling excess rainwater through his mouth. Then the humans had another of their innumerable fights and the castle burned down around him and all was quiet for many centuries. Eventually, his column crumbled and left him resting at an awkward angle against an opposing wall still standing. Sometimes people would stumble on the ruins, each thinking they had made a brand new discovery until the site of the rubble became a well known resting place for these “hikers”. Very often Ricky was looked at in awe and sometimes affection. Some even gifted him with writings on his side, which he wished they would have at least had the courtesy to read to him. He reveled in these moments of connection as sometimes months or even years went on without a visitor.
A different kind of traveler showed up and they were not dressed for the country, but rather in unsuitable shiny black shoes, and clothes that did not go well with dirt. They landed and came tripping out of a metal bird, heading straight for Ricky. There was “oooh” and “ahhhh” and “hmmm” sounds, and something straight was held beside him along his base, then upwards from hoof to the horn. The strange men left as abruptly as they came without even waving as some travelers were wont to do.
The next day, or maybe it was a month, Ricky was contemplating the intrinsic conflict of the butterfly. What prompted them to put themselves in a cocoon in the first place? How did they know they would come out pretty, and what was wrong with being a caterpillar anyway? They were cute and fuzzy and the coordination of their little legs working in harmony was aesthetically satisfying. A thunderous whirring broke above his head. Humans swarmed him with belts and buckles and after much creaking and a big snap, Ricky was airborne sailing over the land. He was quite terrified. He looked down and saw a large body of water, it must be the mythical ocean the birds used to whisper about! It glistened and shined at him, seeming to beckon him for a nap and some gentle musings. It was inspiring.
A very short time later, he realized he had mistaken the lake. Here was the ocean in its vicious glory, with waves, and sand and shells winking at him. Next, into the metal bucket, up in the air a short time later, the ocean was gone and the city was introduced. Loud, squalling, shrieking, life. Rickix was placed with ceremony on his new home and unveiled to the world at large.
So much to feast his eyes on, so bright, new and shiny. But then she caught his eyes and the only thing he could see in front of him was Her. All else faded into nothing as he contemplated the wonder of her existence. She must have been carved from marble, her lines were exquisite. She had wings as he had, except hers expanded out as if in flight, just like the majestic swan he had seen sailing over his castle, oh a thousand years ago. Her head was that of a lioness with a hint of a snarl, so delicately blending with her dragon body. Eyes ever knowing, looking forward and down in contempt. She was deliciously feminine in a ferocious way and Ricky delighted in the terrible beauty she presented.
He could only see her right side but if the left was half as beautiful, he'd love her anyway if not more. He could tell from the tilt of her head so many things about her. Proud, stubborn, aware of her power but not much interested in it. Boredom was printed on her stare, mixed with wry humor, longing for something more. Lonely.
Ricky felt like that time when bees had nested in his ears temporarily. The sound had created a vibration that started in his head and spread down to his toes and for a solid week, he buzzed along with those busy bees. That's what it felt like when he looked at her, a vibration through his whole stony body, when he looked down his nose at his feet, he could swear he saw little striations in his claws as a result.
In all the long years, Ricky had never longed for movement, content to watch the world in front of him. Picking out a single blade of grass and watching with abject fascination the minuscule movement of growth every day. For two hundred and thirty-four years he had been lost in contemplation of the sky, counting the stars, naming his own constellations and noting the movement of the heavens. He watched the passing of families of animals from birth to death, their dramas of survival, their triumphs, sometimes their slaughter. So closely did he watch, he learned the language they spoke, though not with words. Birds often came to roost on, or beside him, their chatter becoming as distinct and specific and expressive as his own thoughts. Ricky had no concept of spoken language really, between the animals and people, they all made different sounds from each other, the real story was in their tones, the way they stood, crouched, or flew, and how they looked at each other. The people that had lived beneath him, destroyed the castle, and those that came after, all had different words to use, but Ricky understood their meaning and intent simply with his millennia of honed observation.
Then there was now. With all his might he wished to call out, to speak to her, to use a language to express his devotion and lavish affectionate endearments. Ricky wanted to tell her the story of the ladybug that crawled on his nose, of when the fox mother adopted an orphaned mountain lion, or the time when the sky had lit with a thousand falling stars, a show, it seemed, just for him and if he could he would have wept.
He could not even tremble with the desire he felt, to leap across the ravine that separated them, but he envisioned it over and over again until he had crossed that chasm a thousand times. He never knew what happened when he got there, lost in the extraordinary idea of being able to move at all.
