M. S. Bird
Bio
Arborist, wildland firefighter and aspiring writer living in Portland, OR. Interested in telling magical realism and sci-fi stories about the interconnectedness of life in all its forms.
Stories (6)
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A Light, a Child, a Forest
In the Labyrinthine Forest, time did not behave as it did in the rest of the Rainlands. Beyond those leafy borders, months and years trudged along in an orderly fashion. But in the Forest, under the boughs of the primordial trees, in that perennial autumn where leaves and rain fell inexhaustibly, the passing of time was as impossible to distinguish as drops of water in an ocean. So it is with some trepidation that we say our story occurs in the Third Age, when the Lost Kingdom of Eld was at the peak of its influence, and its citizens still honored their ties with the Forest, and surrendered those unfortunate children born before the harsh summers to the mercy of the trees. A brutal tradition, to be sure, but a necessary one, the farmers that lived along the Forest border agreed – for it was ultimately a choice between certain death and an uncertain future. That was, if it could be said that there was any future in the Labyrinthine Forest… or past, or present.
By M. S. Bird3 years ago in Fiction
Bar None
You always knew you were back when the neon washed over you. It was like cool water-- pinks and sky blues and greens, smoky streaks of color. An atmosphere so charged, so familiar, you couldn’t help but remember. Place always smelled the same, too. Like piss and beer. And there he was behind the bar, with a rag in his hands, polishing a glass. Or leaning over the counter, giving someone his ear. Same solemn expression. Once in a while he’d flash a grin, but these were rare occasions, little cracks in the facade. Which was not to say he was emotionless. You just had to know how to read him.
By M. S. Bird4 years ago in Fiction
Noplace
The grime doctor shuffled down the corridor, his joints clicking and shuffling like reams of old paper. He wore shoes, or at least he thought he did, but sometimes he wasn’t sure what was artificially attached to him and what was actually a part of his body. But if he was wearing shoes, he was confident that they would be brown shoes. The grime doctor had always preferred brown to black, and anyway, if they were black they wouldn’t match his tan slacks, unless he wasn’t really wearing slacks and they were just a part of his body too. The grime doctor didn’t know, he didn’t care to make distinctions like that. Everything was just another something at the end of the day, and all somethings seemed-- to him at least-- to have more or less the same purpose as everything else.
By M. S. Bird4 years ago in Fiction
High Violet
There is a cabin in a rainy meadow, bisected by a rocky stream. The meadow is surrounded by firs, maples and cedars, whispering and creaking as the wind tugs at them. The skies are gray and voluminous, a confused tangle of textures and shapes. What would, on a sunny day, be a palette of bright greens, browns, reds, is transmuted by the rain into a somber range of navy and maroon, cobalt and pewter. It has silenced the birds and insects, and aside from the steady drone of the downpour, there is only the periodic thwack of a splitting maul striking wood, and the thud of logs tumbling into piles.
By M. S. Bird4 years ago in Fiction
Couples
Irene sat in a black leather armchair to my left. I was perched in its twin, nervously bouncing my knee. Across from us was Dr. Carr, who had informed us that we may call her Sarah, though her tone suggested that she might prefer to remain Dr. Carr. So far, no one had said anything. We all wore our cloth masks like the bandits wore bandanas in old western films. It was a standoff. For my part, I had no idea what to expect or where to start. I needed someone else to say something, offer some kind of context, something to riff off of. For the time being, however, Dr. Carr seemed content to wait us out. Testing our commitment, perhaps.
By M. S. Bird4 years ago in Fiction
