Half A Legend

Written by Gian S. Pagnucci

54 years old

Indiana, PA

“It’s the skreetch,

that gets you.

A cold night, the kind that opens up the sky,

and then, this dark shape,

black and massive wings and a long, pointed beak

and a howling, shrieking, bleeting kind of a noise.”

Dinner, Indiana PA’s Coventry Inn,

a wood fire and lobster bisque,

a mug of draft beer,

and lemon-peppered chicken.

I sit with some old friends,

talking over dinner,

listening to our conversation

and the one in the booth behind me.

“Lives in the mine shafts,”

says a raspy voice.

“Ate one of my cats,

the damn thing.

It’s got claws.

Left big gashes

on a wooden bench out the back.”

At my table

it is only work and gossip,

dinner and friends,

a rumor of a new restaurant coming soon,

the hottest television show,

a local political election.

Then more beer and talk and the dessert menu.

“I won’t go out on winter nights

no more.

It likes the cold.

That’s when it comes out.

On the coldest nights.

Looking for food.

Flies low, through the trees, out of the moonlight.

But you can hear the wings,

leathery, flapping.”

At my table someone is building a new house

or having a baby

or moving to a new town.

We eat our cake and drink cappuccino,

talk and laugh,

promise to go out again,

say it’s getting late.

Why didn’t I ask for more?

All I had to do was stand up,

turn around, and say,

“Tell me the story.

I want to know.

I believe you.

Take me to the place,

show me the claw marks.”

But I didn’t.

I stayed at my own table,

finished my dinner

and my coffee and my dessert

and went home.

And now all I have

is half a legend.