Raucous caws, black silhouettes against gray clouds circling without formation, guided by sky-touching spires of firs.
She remembers last year’s ravaged corn. She remembers “The Birds.” They are powerful, smart, and numerous. They inspire primal fear, admiration, and covetous love.
They arise from more vigorous and ancient stock than she.
Becky Kjelstrom adores all winged thingies, real and imaginary. See more at thenighmail.com.
“Pa! They’re here.”
“Jeez, Ma, give it a rest.”
“The garden, just waiting for the plants to grow, ripen.”
“Then they’ll do their dirty work.”
“Yer crazy, cut it out!”
“Pa! One landed!”
“Wait, Ma, no! Come back. Heck! Crow for dinner again.”
Robin writes in the odd corners of the day and night and often about birds. See more at thenightmail.com.
My mother won’t stop calling, and now she’s getting annoyed. It was easier for the others; they were all older and stronger than me. I don’t want to go, but I know I must.
So why do I hold back? It’s a long way down from this nestbox, you know.
Chris Redfern likes writing and wronging. Find him at www.aatwatchtower.com.
I cast a concerned eye at the juvenile Cooper’s Hawk, assessing his intentions toward our shared focus, my favorites: chickadees, black, white, light Purbeck-marble tan.
“Don’t you dare,” I say.
He doesn’t honor my plea.
Ashamed of my fascination, I let my camera capture him as he swoops to kill.
D.J.H. Woodward has played with words since she was a child, her first work being a collection of poetry and drawings for her maternal grandmother. Now an administrative maven who enjoys life most when her non-work hours are spent in learning and creativity, D.J. especially enjoys pursuits that are the opposite of what she gets paid to do.
Why are there more crows? Global warming? More neighborhood carrion? The crow is not a solitary bird. Crows flock.
They communicate, these birds, now more than before. Loudly. The crow is a grumpy bird, a querulous bird. Increasingly loud.
Reports have been coming in. The crows are attacking.
Joe Malone was expelled from the Central African Republic and now lives in South Sudan, where there is nothing to do but write. Check out his blog.
I put out bits of bacon for the sparrows. Frederick says I am spoiling them.
I ask him why that matters, and he just shrugs. “It will matter when they return to their homes,” he says. “The others will reject them for the smell of dead pigs on their breath.”
Christina Murphy’s flash fiction has appeared in a range of journals and anthologies, most recently in Fresh Ground: Coffee House Flash Fiction Anthology and Astarte Journal of Fantasy.
Sunsy was a real chirp flirt. He went after anyone who had wings and a beak and laid eggs.
The dove turned him down gently.
The owl lectured him on Breed Loyalty.
The eagle just stared imperiously until he went away.
The peahen merely scoffed.
And then the pigeon attacked.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Vigafray and a prompt offered by @NekoDaimyo.