Microfiction
Two Parakeets on a Wire
So, I says to the ole lady who's hell bent on calling me Stella her favourite few words, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea", she laughs, he gets her the beea from the fridge and one for himself, too. They were watching other people talking which apparrotly amuses them just as much as I have and start gettin' kinda silly, you know in the way humans do when they have nothin' to do but drink beea and munch on chips. Out of nowhere while I am dozin' on this kid swing they had in my prison cell, Jimmay gets up and stumbles by and says, right at me mind ya', "Hey little Stella, I bet you want out of there; have you ever used those pretty wings?" He unlatched the opening where they stick there fat hands to give me the same crap of tropical bird blend every morning and then he tries to touch me; I felt so helpless, kinda violated if ya' know what I mean. So, he ruffled my feathers a bit and he backed off sayin' "didn't mean to scare ya' little Stella" and he plops down next to my ole lady and starts watching people talk again. At first I hesitated and just pushed the little door open a bit with my beak; I perched up on the edge neither in or technically out of the joint. I see that the window is clearly open and decided, it's now or never. I flew the coop, never looked back and wound up at a park full of little people shouting and sitting on the same kind of swing I had, but bigger of course. The sky starts to get dark and part of me thought I should get back to my ole lady and Jimmay, you know, kinda spooky like the Stockholm syndrome. I mean, they fed me and thought I was cute and all. Then, I overheard some fowl feathered tree mates laughing about me. I didn't understand them at first with their pigeon like accents but I did make out that they said I was a male named Stella and it was hilarious to them that I didn't even know what I was. They went on to say that if I survive the night I'd best wind up in a zoo with "his kind". Geez, I was terrified. A zoo? I didn't have a clue what they meant and thought it best to leave the tree then, before it was too late. I flew straight back to Jimmay and the ole lady's apartment but the window was closed. I sat all night on the ledge and said, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea" over and over but noone came. I was mortified. I could see through the glass my tropical seed blend, my full water bowl, my little swing and started to bawl my eyes out. That's right when you flew by. What are the chances of somebirdy lookin' like me in this town? I followed you, discreetly at first so as not to spook ya' and well, I just wanna say thanks for sharing with me the survival skills you've mastered. Here we are, eh? A paratweets sharing fruit in a junkyard, haha. - STELLA! - "Now that was loud!" - Could you shut your trap for once? - "Sorry master, I was taught that talking was a real treat". - We are tropical birds in a dump on Long Island, that's it, that's what we are. We ain't show birds no more, we're homeless, and my name is Mister, not master. It's short for Mister Avery Johnson. Got it? - For once Stella was quiet, his head drooped to the side sadly. Making humans laugh was how he'd spent the last three years and here he was with his mirror image staring at him with grumpy eyes. His last words to Mister Avery Johnson, or anyone for that matter were, "I promise not to say another peep".
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Snowy Hawai'i
It was snowing to the sound of my wife’s voice and a few of her words when I leapt for the first time. I had just turned 44 and my wife was giving me a taste of my birthday gift over the phone as a result of my being away on business in an afflicted place and thus unable to be home to receive it in vivo. To tell you the truth, any other place would have been an afflicted one for my wife and I. Hawai'i had finally become our permanent home. We cherished it like most people adore their god and or love their children having ourselves neither by choice. There were too many gods and enough children in the world for us to opt for a different kind of belongingness. Yet ours was not even a bit nationalistic. We simply fell in love with the Hawaiian Islands and its people. Their hang-loose gesture coupled with their contagious Polynesian hospitality appealed to us when we discovered that it was practiced for real, especially after having been charmed by their music. Mellow, cheerful and rarely melancholic, it soothed us, not that all the rest was not enough to appease us, be it the green-blue ocean, the welcoming sun, the pineapple-sweet wind, the colourful sandy beaches, the caressing foliage, Hawaiian history, snow, and each island in its special and unique way. Honolulu was home and Hawai'i was our homeland—our Mainland—even if we were both born in an afflicted snowy place.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Fiction
Delicate Ice Crystals
Fluffy ice crystals adorn her glossy black hair like shimmering diamonds and settle upon her eyelashes. Apple-bright windburned cheeks and nose accentuated her pale skin. Large crystal-blue eyes assess the frigid snow drifts and unmistakable ice spires with a sculptor's eye. Beside her, in the snow, lay her bag of tools for her magic. Pacing around a sizable ice pillar created by a frozen trickle of water draining from a nearby cliff, she imagined what might lay inside the ice. Reaching into her bag, she removed an ice chisel and began marking the ice. She had to break it gently, or the solid ice would crack, spoiling its possibility.
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
White
There are some missions that are so important that once you start, you can’t go back. This was one of those missions. I was chosen, hand-picked, out of a group of 5 individuals because I was the strongest person for the job. At least that’s what they tell me. I believe that they chose me because I was the only one dumb enough to do it.
By David E. Perry2 years ago in Fiction
Cold Vigil
My father, the mountain, speaks to me. His voice makes my own sound like the excited pica’s. Thunder will talk with him, but never argue. Many come to talk with my father, to look at him and think. Some come to my father looking for gold or other shining children of the earth. Their flesh is sour and makes me feel tired and confused.
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Fiction
