Birdie

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story poking fun at American culture

Submitted: September 23, 2014

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Submitted: September 23, 2014

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(an undeveloped 49-cent mini-micro-novelette for the *modern American mind)

 

 Recently, the navigational device - ostensibly set for home - went on

the blink on my homing pigeon. I call him Brandon, a sleekly bland

and unchallenging name for the twenty-first century. And Brandon's a

homing, not 'my homy pigeon, homy bird' or 'bundle of homy feathers'

or I might've simply called him 'yo, wahz up, dude.' But then, he's

young and never much home, in the first place.

 

Still, just awhile ago I needed to send a message - an old-fashioned

message. I stepped outside, Brandon in hand, aimed toward where the

message needed going, made sure the path was clear of harm - like

manslaughter of two or more stones with one bird - and cocked my arm,

throwing as hard and far as I could.

 

Maybe shouldna throwed so hard, at least that hard - or maybe Brandon

stopped off for an avian merger somewhere along the way, if he's not

too far left-winged for monopolies or too right-winged for love, that

is. Either way, I don't think he's back, yet. But then, like I just

said, he's never home much, anyway. Not surprising he's so darn

shiftless; he was a latch-key birdlet, has an obsessive-compulsive

disorder about a diet of sterilized bugs on a vegetarian diet,

themselves, and loves to chase woodpeckers, male and female, for no

reason at all.

 

Howsomever, I really didn't try to throw him away. Under the

circumstances, though, hmmm, wonder if I should get me another damn

pigeon, with at least a one-year warranty on his homing device. A

warranty not honored, and hell, I know a civil-suit lawyer good for

the birds. But just which of them lawyers ain't? (Ah yes, sweet

communication, of all stripes, sizes and shapes!).

 

Wel-l-l, enough about lawyers, though maybe one of them is exactly what

my pigeon deserves. A psychiatrist would be hopeless. Hey, how about

a New Age therapist? That's a thought. Anyway, gotta' be going.

Probably should go out on the stoop and check for dingblasted

Brandon. Don't hear no peckin' on the front door... damn bird!

 

* (A lot of people wouldn't even stoop to pick up forty-nine cents;

besides, this novelette fell plumb short of development during the

search for the modern American mind. Damn novelette!)


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