Niamh McDade Clay
Bio
I am a college student dreaming of becoming an author. I write to make sense of the world and to help others remember that they are not alone in the trials of the human experience.
Stories (2)
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The Return of the Cardinals
Almost everything about the house was in some stage of decay. White paint chipped and peeled off the exterior, rippling like alligator skin. Trumpet vines and ivy dripped off a crumbling wooden fence that attempted to enclose the backyard. Dandelions and crabgrass infiltrated the brick pathway leading to the front door. In the front hall of the house, leather-bound journals with yellowing pages obstructed the walkway, each with notes sticking out forming spiral staircases of paper. Yellowed maps and old farmers almanacs littered the floor below a coat rack from which two old pairs of skates hung. The bookshelves were shrouded in dust, graying like the old man. Beyond the front hall was the kitchen from which the old man watched the world. He spent most mornings perched by the window, glasses pressed up against his binoculars, taking detailed notes on the world outside. He exited the house at hourly intervals to scribble the temperature, weather, humidity, and dew point in the margins of his journal. He rose before the birds started stirring. In the daytime, he gazed upon redwing blackbirds, their streaks of red like swatches of paint on the winter sky. He watched the angry flock of geese that frequented the pond behind his home, occasionally catching a great blue heron nestled among the cattails balancing on its thin, bamboo legs. At night when sleep evaded him, he sought barn owls perching in the forest. He squinted to see the muted yellow feathers of female goldfinches nesting in late July. But none of these birds held a candle to the cardinal. She taught him to love the birds, always pointing them out and emptying facts from her head into his. Every spring she would traipse around the woods for hours, coming home breathless and smelling of pine. How busy it was, she would say, and yet so still at the same time. She loved cardinals best. They adorned all her potholders and linens, and carved wooden versions of the birds were tucked in every bookshelf. Her stationery had the little red birds on them; with all her messages came a cardinal. All his life the cardinals were there but he had not been looking. Since her death he had not seen a single one. Now looking was all he did.
By Niamh McDade Clay4 years ago in Fiction
The Return of the Cardinals
Almost everything about the house was in some stage of decay. White paint chipped and peeled off the exterior, rippling like alligator skin. Trumpet vines and ivy dripped off a crumbling wooden fence attempting to enclose the backyard. Dandelions and crabgrass infiltrated the brick pathway leading to the front door. In the front hall leather bound journals with yellowing pages overflowed into the walkway, each with notes sticking out of them forming spiral staircases of paper. Yellowed maps and old farmers almanacs littered the floor below a coat rack from which two old pairs of skates hung. The bookshelves were shrouded in dust, graying just like the old man. Beyond the front hall was the kitchen from which the old man watched the world. He spent most mornings sitting by the window with his glasses pressed up against his binoculars, taking detailed notes on the world outside. He exited the house at hourly intervals to scribble the temperature, weather, humidity, and dew point in the margins of his journal pages. He woke early each day before the birds started stirring, he liked to watch them waking and discovering the day, as he himself had just hours before. He gazed upon redwing blackbirds, their streaks of red like swatches of paint in the sky, and the angry flock of geese that frequented the pond behind his home. He caught the occasional blue heron nestled among the cattails balancing on its thin, bamboo legs. He squinted to see the muted yellow feathers of female goldfinches nesting in late July. But no bird held a candle to the cardinal. They had been there all his life, but always as part of the scenery, not as characters. She taught him to love the birds, always pointing them out and emptying facts from her head into his. Every spring he would find her sitting on the bench in the backyard staring at the woods for hours. How busy it was, she would say, and yet so still at the same time. She loved cardinals. They adorned all her potholders and linens, carved wooden ones were tucked in every corner of every bookshelf. Her stationery too had those little red birds on them; with all of her messages came a cardinal. All his life the cardinals had been there but he had not been looking. Since her death, he had not seen a single one. Now looking was all he did.
By Niamh McDade Clay4 years ago in Fiction
