posted: 12/22
opens: 12/23
closes: 12/25
Prompt word: bird
Number of words: 30
1. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: bird/snowbird is ok but bird/binary code is not.
2. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.
3. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.
4. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.
5. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)
6. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.
7. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)
8. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"
9. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")
10. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.
11. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.
Contest opens: 6:37am, 12/23
Contest closes: 9am, 12/25
If you're wondering how what time it is in NYC right now, here's the clock
Questions? Tweet to me: @Janet_Reid
Ready?
Set?
ENTER!
95 comments:
Her bird, the ethereal wings of Siren, descends upon the east winds bringing news of the coming. Alighting upon the window sill, it pecks the warning against the glass.
"Eat the damn bird."
Boys who'd earlier made Peter Drake beat his kid brother for fear of their 'or elses' now wept a rainstorm.
"Eat. Or. Else!" said their Father.
"The bird likes peanuts," I said. "Who knew?"
"We did." The squirrels clanged their empty bowl at the base of the sweetgum tree.
"I like birds and squirrels," Kitty purred.
Bird excrement stole the white magic from snowflakes settling upon the decrepit bricks. He supposed it'd go well with the pellets wedged between the treads of his boots.
In the forest lie bird wings, sparrow-feathered, linked only by sinew. Moonlight puddles on snow, highlighting horror and beauty. I should move on, but I reach out.
It opens.
Raunch leaned his elbow on the drowning man’s back and wondered if he had time for a smoke. Knock ’em out first, and the birdbath works just fine. Easy-peasy.
Bird: “Should we tell them about us?”
Bee: “We don't have the time.”
Bird: “We should try.”
Bee: “Okay, where do we start?”
Bird: *sighs* “So there was this flower.”
SCENE 1
Cafeteria. ALAN and RACHAEL sitting. JOHN enters.
JOHN. Are you two lovebirds?
RACHAEL. No!
(John exits. Beat.)
RACHAEL. Number five. Ralph and Piggy.
ALAN. What if we were?
Was a Christmas Miracle, for sure. Hadn't et in eight days. Slinked to the neighbor's pear tree 'cross the way, but weren't a pear on it. Was a bird, though.
Remote Death
Veronica jammed tweezers into her stinging cut; white Christmas tree bulbs supplied light. Feliz Navidad, her ass. She freed metal—microchip. Fuck. The infamous acronym stamped it.
BIRD.
Brown feathers glinting, a hen perches near her redbird. They serenade, fly apart. For now. Cardinals are monogamous; they defend their mates.
Hope wheels her chair from the window, wistful.
Dear Mrs. Claus,
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for IT to happen. But your husband has birdies everywhere and some of them have mouths to match their big ears.
—Holly
“Your daughter’s a bird,” Mrs. Turkington told my mother. I was fourteen and perfect.
You don’t forget something like that. Ever. It can shape your life.
I became a bird.
Dec24: Yitzhak caught me escaping the robbery. Made up story about following star to magic baby. The gold a gift? Y-yeahhh… (Is now.) He and Hebir decided to follow. Ugh.
I couldn’t look at her lodging. Instead I watched the first tendrils of fog. A bird bitched like he was directing it. It was a remake of that Christmas morning.
“You gonna drink out of that?” he asked.
“Already did,” I said. My words slurred.
“There’s a dead bird in it.”
I crunched bones, spitting out feathers.
“Not anymore.”
The bird carried a message from the field,
time for celebration had begun.
Everybody cheered, my knees began to yield,
we had won the war. I had lost a son
Among the muskets, gunpowder, and silks nestled something as deadly as an explosive—gambir. Desired as an astringent in the new world, it could also be deadly. Captain Bird smiled.
Didn’t need no birddog to flush you out.
Didn’t need no 12-gauge to take you down.
What would it mean, to eat the bird? I glanced nervously around my fiancé’s family. Heads cocked, beady eyes watchful, like a flock of birds themselves.
I took a bite.
Iced pine and citrus-cinnamon. Pinpricks of white light. Annual smiles on unwashed faces bringing the fat warmth of hope.
Instead, a nightstick rattles the bars. ‘Merry fucking Christmas, jailbirds.’
We tried warning him, but he kept peering into binoculars, scribbling his notes. He didn’t see it coming. Bludgeoned from behind. He thought we were serenading him with birdsong. Ornithologists!
I want her to stay
But unless she flies away,
This will end in shit.
A little at first.
It will grow like resentments,
On the window sill.
Shoo, bird.
He had a couple guns to take care of in Sacramento.
After landing at LAX, he drove his rental car north, bird-dogged by bruised clouds promising nothing. Nothing but pain.
Christmas dinner.
Her first.
Invitation went straight to the heart.
Couldn’t dodge it.
She arrived perfectly dressed -
a swell bird, a dish -
but wished she had ducked.
“Lenny, whatcha’ looking at?”
“I’m not looking. Bird-dogging.”
“Huh?”
“See that telecommunications van?”
“Yeah, so? They’re just cleaning up from the storm.”
“No. They’re…”
Snap.
“Shit Lenny, hadda’ poke around.”
Admit fallibility, eat crow, and move on? Vincent cringed watching the shiny, black bird gobble a fleshy bit of a roadkill skunk outside. Nature made the choice easier. No crow.
Smooth
Bird saxophoning Summertime
Smooth
That handsome boy with the jaw
Crooning about someone laughable, unphotographable
Smooth
I dance in their veins
And their notes soar
Smooth
Then
I smite
Fog shrouds the house.
A bird flits by a window, the old glass broken from within.
The fog breathes, escapes.
The bird does not.
Inside, the occupants are still hungry.
In a world where the priority is to get down,
and feathered humans are fowl.
There lurks a quill-less, caponesque villain most foul,
that Birdman’s moniker made him go jihad.
No nativity pageant. St Luke’s is doing “The Bird’s Christmas Carol.” I’ll play “Carol,” but Mrs. Armbruster said, “Ha! More like Imogene Herdman.” Whatever that means. She never liked me.
Swans? Now? With a foot of ice on the lakes? Way too many birds in this stupid song. Wait – got it. Seven Swanson dinners swimming in gravy. Next…
Today, I’m a bird. And yeah, I’m worried. People ‘round here love hunting the skies. One skilled shot—heck, one lucky shot—and it’ll be bye-bye birdy. Bye-bye me. Sigh.
With one phone call, the young lovebird's greatest fear switched from losing herself to losing her wife.
Blitzen kicks me. Hard. “Why'd you pick THAT paper?”
“It was on top!” I splutter.
But he's right. What can we give four calling birds?
@%^!# North-Pole gift exchange.
It had to be her.
This had my sister's fingerprints all over it.
Only Christina could flip you the bird and blow you a kiss all in the same gesture.
A bird from the murmuration landed on my shoulder.
“She’s your guide. It’s time.”
“This potion will protect me?”
“Hell can’t harm those immune to death.”
I drained the chalice.
The bird scratched and pecked at the worm frozen in the ice.
"Freddy, you're wasting your time," jeered the second bird, hopping and flapping his wings.
Until the worm wriggled.
Fingernails tapping restlessly.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’m waiting for this bird to take off.”
“It’s snow use,” she giggles. “Flight’s cancelled, won’t get home for Christmas.”
Life at O’hare.
I’m barefoot in the snow. That much I know. A whisper hovers in the trees but it’s not my language. Then…a bird. I sense it before it sings. It’s me.
The thousandth crane is lumpy, damp from her prison making the paper swell.
“Forget those damned birds,” he says. “Take the ring. Be mine.”
Head bowed, she wishes.
She enjoyed life at a distance; never chose the bird in the hand. In a bush, preferably imagined, meant perfection, control.
He arrived like a cowpat from a jumbo jet.
Her partner read from the paper, “...a major seabird breeding station.”
Jeanie’s heart thudded as the catamaran rolled over swells and approached jagged green ridges jutting from the North Atlantic.
Another box leans against Rudolph. Damn Amazon prime. Damn birdbrain people who require you to wrap your own gifts. Toby refused, keyed the strapping tape, viewed the contents with shock.
Gazing out at the rusted Taurus in the drive, she imagined a vintage T-bird and herself as Thelma, while her husband raged about dinner being late. Again.
No, maybe Louise.
Her cleaning cloth gave the lens a dab. IR didn't like dust. Interrupted the image.
Clarity was required, else the second device wouldn't trigger.
She dreamt of an optical camera.
Wideload Johnson stumbled. Ogled the idling pickup. Shimmied inside.
Perfect fit!
Next surprise—it was a convertible and defied physics.
He leaned out his window. Birds-eye view of a rooftop.
She attempted a flawless Thanksgiving dinner for his mother, who still disapproved of their match. Tender stuffing steamed, while plastic-covered bird innards sizzled inside meat and skin.
She skittered like a bird, timid beyond tolerance. So he clutched her to his chest and held tight until the fear that restrained her understated beauty writhed itself to sleep.
They eat lots of birds, most often chickens. Turkeys on special days, like the one they call Christmas. Before cooking, they stuff the cavity with more food.
Maggie was in heaven. Lying on puffy clouds.
Voices. “She’s back.”
In a bed now.
A nurse. “I’ll crack the window. You like hearing the birds.”
Bars on the window?
Prime birding weather, Jerry would've said. Maybe that explained her cold feet.
‘Meet potential matches in a café/bar’, the website had suggested. She’d chosen bar. She needed the drink.
I was jogging under the uptown docks the day I found the last Rider. He was only seven but clamped a toothpick between his chompers and gave me the bird.
Loretta placed her boot on the stoop. She turned to tell the taxi not to leave but saw a yellow streak.
Inside the bird was still alive.
"Bitch is back."
It isn't enough the light shines through the window in the morning, but the bird makes it impossible to roll over for more sleep.
Goddess Rainbird knew her love for Goddess Firebird was hopeless. One touch would destroy them both.
"I do not care!" shouted Rainbird. "I'd rather die than live without her."
I see the bird rise from a sneering man’s fist--his truck large, weaponized, imposing. A hard left turn grants escape, though still I shake. Could he still follow me home?
The girl squatted by it on the sidewalk.
Mrs. Morrison, passing, noted, “Fifth this week. Stupid animals.”
But the girl touched its broken neck.
And knew who’d killed the bird.
Janice flipped me the bird as she drove away. In my Mustang. Was she even allowed to do that? What were the rules for ex-wives? I'd never had one before.
“Hurry up! And don’t step in pigeon shit,” Grandpa said, pulling me toward the prison. The grey birds scattered into flight and I wondered if my father had died yet.
It was an accident, they said. Old Man Cody just left the gas on and fell asleep. The next morning, when he woke and tried to light his pipe, it ended in an explosive moment. No one ever noticed the wreckage of the old bird cage six blocks away, or the new Macaw in the trees.
Too drunk.
Me and my Karate Kim. So he’d driven her home.
Too stupid.
I’d introduced…my two best friends.
Too eager. ‘Loverbird’ Jim. Mistletoe. Hormones. Her…perfect scent.
Too—
After he left, I threw the ring into the garden. I saw it today, sparkling among the shells and berries in a bowerbird's collection. Good luck with that, mate.
Death in raven form followed the old man.
He smiled at the night.
“Navigating by stars is a lost art. Come along old bird. Greet the last of your days.”
It’s always a standing-O when he levitates. Please. I used to be the showstopper. But, old birds learn new tricks hanging around magic hats. My latest? The bullet catch.
How can your uncle Vito want his firebird back? He’s been dead twenty years.
What do you mean ‘presumed’?
I watched the bird matriculate from one body to the next, pecking at flesh, quirking its head to compare each bite.
Closer.
Go away bird.
My arm would not move.
He bird-dogged her heart with a letter promising gifts, travel, mystery. He’d reversed his tradition—hadn’t made her ask for what she wanted. Then he signed his name—Santa.
We fell in lust on the subway. Sweethearts turned to soulmates in swift fashion. Lovebirds, we were deemed. Little did I know, instead you'd be the albatross around my neck.
“Early birds!” Gregor scoffed.
Dominic’s was a sea of blue-hairs. So much for Christmas Eve dinner.
Marie sighed. “You never plan ahead.”
Surreptitiously, he pocketed the ring.
“You’re right.”
Snow covered fields. No wind. Perfect day to be out. Dog frozen in place. Straight line from nose to tail. Paw raised slightly. Stating, without question, “Bird”.
A word about birds, they fly away; I’m stuck here.
“Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird,” sang her father, into the darkness.
Lizzie lay there silently, axe in hand. “That’s a lie, Daddy,” she said. “And liars should be punished.”
“’A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word…’”
“Get out.” Martin tapped the muzzle against his temple. “I’m warning you.”
Time to deal with this stuck song syndrome once and for all.
A bird in the mouth is worth two in the store, says I, cramming a rotisserie wing into my maw as I flee from the cops over Frozen asphalt.
Chuck patted his pockets: keys, phone, wallet. He opened the door to leave.
“Watch out for that truck!”
Chuck stopped and looked back.
First words the damn bird ever said.
The scream swirled around her bed, black and streaked with blood; then hovering at her feet, finally settled, dripping the moments. She counted, waited … counted, waited …
"God-damned Bird.”
"See those birds, circling? I'm going to take care of that, first off. Got it?"
I nod, uncertain.
"Then we'll deal with the house."
The pigeon pirouetted through the rain of bullets, burdened with the fates of hundreds. If the bird soldiered through, delivered his message, the unit might survive.
Bird’s in the oven,
Table is set.
Santa on rooftop,
Not ready yet.
Hearth was still lit,
Now soaking wet.
Live wire sparking,
Santa’s kismet.
“Birds were meant to fly,” her mother cooed. “So fly.”
Faith pushed her out. She caught an updraft, and soared, gloriously, finally tasting freedom.
Returning home, she found an abandoned nest, too soon tasting emptiness.
The woodsprite whispered, “Seek...” then led Mea to a clearing in the forest.
Mea looked down. “A bird’s feather? I don’t understand.”
The sprite danced between the shadows. “You will.”
“Barcardi has a bat, not a bird.”
I concede, as I’m so toasted my vision’s blurry. Doesn’t really matter, as long as there’s enough to get me to midnight.
The bird entered by flying through the bars.
“Hello there, Tweety. What’s that in your beak?”
“For me? Thank you. I do believe it is a bit of the weed.”
“Bird Legs, Bird Legs,” the children swayed around her, hands clasped, their circle taut with taunts. She’d come to teach them. They planned to school her in cruelty.
Mei had one shift left. One way out. And no time.
The open window beckoned.
She hardened her nose, hollowed her bones, and soared away.
Free, as a bird. Forever.
Defiant, the sun escapes December clouds. Scarlet cardinals, indigo buntings and earth-toned wrens bathe in a puddle. The birds and illusion of spring light hearten me--until defiance fades.
Birdie died by drunkenly drowning in a bowl of oatmeal. I made it my mission to conceal the truth, even siphoning oatmeal from her throat before calling the coroner.
The Cows keep screaming. Smoke hangs in the air. A charred bird ensnared by barbed wire soundlessly cries. Our mercy killing begins.
Wildfire does that.
Mark thought he’d gotten away with it, but Polly couldn’t keep a secret.
“Unbelievable,” his wife said. “In her mouth?”
Who knew birds had such good hearing?
I feel awake, alert, aware …
These stairs aren’t new; I’ve seen them many times, but I don’t know where they lead.
I turn back towards the birdcage.
“No chirping.”
“It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Commuterman!”
Some idiot came up with a genetic alteration that allowed humans to fly, it was now Robin’s job to promote this concept.
My addiction gives me pleasure. Unlike the victims of my habit, but I’m no jailbird. Yet.
I peer down the barrel. Steady myself. Never thought of myself as a twitcher.
“Chuckee!” Alice screamed skyward as Charlie Chirplan climbed toward five phoebes and joined their maneuvers like he’d spent none of the past eight years in a birdcage facing the television.
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