Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.
If he couldn’t lower his wings and shut his mouth soon, he was going to pass out. Really. Truly. Right atop the clock, on-the-hour bongs shaking him to his toes. Claws? Whatever.
When darkness fell, he sagged in relief, working the ache out of wings and jaw.
“Long day,” Peatry remarked from his right, skillfully pointing out the obvious.
There was a grumble at the far end of the hall, but he couldn’t tell if it was Dowser or Downer; they looked so alike. Gargoyles. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t smash them.
Stretching and gossiping, they flocked to the table from all sides, to the leftovers from the day’s flurry of sights and scent. To the tossed crust of bread, the forgotten french fry. A potato chip if luck was with them.
Before dawn, they returned to their places, full and ready for the coming day.
The time, he made sure his mouth was closed and his wings folded before the first streaks of dawn froze him solid.