One side of his syrinx trilled a curse to his family’s murderer. The other warbled his children’s favorite melodies through sobs. His friends comforted him but discouraged his screams: “You’ll die, by predator or exhaustion.” He always replied: “Can’t die. Already dead.”
The humans nearby praised, “Pretty bird. Beautiful song!”
Nature both terrifies and captivates boomer trujillo. Find more of his work at boomert.info.
He flits between branches, his jaunty, upturned tail bobbing. I’ve seen him before, but never this close, and never singing fit to burst his tiny heart.
His head twitches left and right. Perhaps he’s just scared, but I need to believe it’s because he’s caught a sideways glimpse of spring.
Tamsin can’t sing or flit, but she’s definitely on the lookout for the end of winter.
Across the lawn, beyond
my gaze, my daughters’ voices
while the robin in the dogwood
breaks a tiny tip of branch and flies away
then comes and breaks
his swoop so close, even
the thrumming of his wings
is in the breath that I exhale.
Jennifer L. Freed lives in Massachusetts, where she writes poetry, takes care of her family, and likes to play with clay, which she disguises as ceramic sculpture. She has taught ESL in China, the Czech Republic, and the U.S. This poem appears in her chapbook, These Hands Still Holding (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Please visit her website, Jfreed.weebly.com.
“Hey, Paul, look. A baby bird!”
Paul stopped mid-stride and turned to face Jake, a wicked grin creased across his child’s face. “Is it dead?”
“No. I think it’s a broken wing.”
Jake’s eyes conveyed nervousness.
Paul’s eyes however, held blood and lust. “A little baby bird,” he whispered.
Jay Finn is a 33 year old Irishman. Currently he has two ebooks available on Amazon and spends his days in the library, possessively working over his first novel. You can find out all you need to know about him and his writing at http://jayfinnauthor.wordpress.com/.
An ostrich, a penguin, and a barn swallow walk into a bar.
The ostrich and the penguin seem uncomfortable. “Are birds like us allowed here?” they ask nervously.
“Follow my lead,” says the barn swallow. “No one will bother you as long as you sit at the bar ‘n’ swallow.”
This story is based on a prompt suggested by @Matt_LRR.
Head tilted to one side, the Tweet Detective listened intently.
There it was: “Caw-tweet-caw!”
“I must know what species of bird that is!” cried the Tweet Detective. “It will solve the entire murder!”
He thought for a moment, then withdrew his iPhone, opened Twitter, and asked the internet for help.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Beryllium.
With their beady eyes and sharpened beaks, the old men from Startaria looked eerily birdlike. They were experts in appearance manipulation. Plastic surgeons and anthropologists from around the world spent lifetimes trying to learn the Startarians’ secrets.
But when questioned, the old men just made cooing sounds in their throats.
“What do you think would happen if a yodeler got turned into a zombie? Would it cry for our brains with yodels?”
“Ok, stupid question, fair enough. Oh man, you know what would be really freaky, though? Zombified birds. Because they could fly.”
Sometimes I really hate my friends.
@DashP responded to a request for two nouns and a verb with the words “zombie”, “yodels”, and “fly”.
When you’re in love, everything looks like a butterfly.
That was Barry’s experience, at least. He’d just met The One: she was beautiful and smart, and she had an amazing voice.
Unfortunately, Barry discovered, not everything was a butterfly, and blue jays like him can’t digest candy wrappers very well.