Thread: For Fortune and Finches

As she stands, when one is not sitting, not standing, displaced in midair… it is then that The Bird enters my mouth. I do not struggle; I enjoy the feeling of the wings beating against the inside of my cheeks, tiny kisses. With this, she leaves.

But The Bird is pleasant company. Most days, I sit with the windows open and my mouth agape, hands on my chin, arms resting on the sill in wait for the feeling of it inside my mouth, as she comes and goes with straw and grass to lay on my tongue for the nest.

One night, as I am attempting to eat spaghetti, The Bird returns to me with something new…

She watches from the top of a bookcase while half-reading a copy of Moby Dick. We match stares for a moment, and then I put down my plate and reach in my mouth. I pull out the tiny object, no larger than a fingernail. After wiping the red tomato sauce and dead grass from it and drying it off, I find it is a piece of paper.

Carefully, I unfold it. The letter is no larger than an index card. The handwriting, small, cursive, at an angle:

“Go to Los Angeles.”

I pack my things in one hour. I am in no hurry, I simply don’t own enough to take longer.

The Bird is excited on the flight, fluttering and bouncing from window to window. She has never been on a plane before. I find this terribly ironic.

My condo is in a part of town my realtor considers “Quaint.”

There’s no furniture or appliances included, but someone did leave a toaster in the middle of the living room. It sits glinting in the noonday sun that bursts through the glass doors that open onto the patio, even now. The Bird is perched on the toaster with a quizzical look you could only recognize from spending much too much time with a bird in your mouth.

So, we eat toast for a week.

She does not grow tired of spending time in the park working on the nest in my mouth, and I do not grow tired of the beating of wings against my cheeks. Our relationship is simple, something instinctual and something subtle yet primal.

One morning, I feel a strange collection of objects in my mouth: Eggs. Four eggs.

The Bird suggests we go eat at a Chinese restaurant a few blocks from our place; this inquiry being letters cut out and arranged, set on the kitchen table in my answers to the New York Times crossword. It seems like all we do is eat.

Lunch is silent. I don’t mention the eggs. I know that I don’t need to; the bird anticipates them being mentioned, they are the unspoken topic of the week.

So, the question is on the table. The waiter arrives, no check, but with a single fortune cookie on a plate. For some reason, I am anything but surprised. Now the answer is on the table:

“Go to Nova Scotia.”

I’ve never been. Apparently she has.

The ride out to the field is silent. I’m not sure what the objective is anymore exactly. Why did I let this bird take me?

The field leads to the ocean. The birds begin to hatch in my mouth. This feeling… it is very hard to describe. It’s like… having birds in your mouth.

I can tell she insists I open my mouth. I refuse. I don’t know why the ocean is a factor in all this, and I don’t want to know.

But then the fluttering in my mouth stops.

I think for a second: Can they not breathe?

She chirps incessantly now. I find this terribly cute.

And so I open my mouth.

They hop out one by one, so tiny, and line up beside her. Each has a note in their mouths.

And then they all fly away:

“Go to Nova Scotia.”

“Go to Los Angeles.”

“Regret this.”

“Regret that.”



*

Weak ending? Or 'zen'...? I know what I was going for but, my execution could use some help. Suggestions?

Wow, someone has an imagination... I feel like I have just stepped out of the twlight zone...lol But I enjoyed it, in an Alfred Hitchcock kinda way. Your first sentence threw me...I would rewrite that...but after that I was able to follow along okay.

I find you are using The Bird too often.

The Bird(She) watches from the top of a bookcase while half-reading a copy of Moby Dick. We match stares for a moment, and then I put down my plate and reach in my mouth. I pull the out(out the) tiny object, no larger than a fingernail. After wiping the red tomato sauce and dead grass from it and drying it off, I find it is a piece of paper.

Some of your sententecs are too wordy....try to make them flow smoother with less words.

Unique story, Eiji.

Thank you for the advice -- I took all of it to heart and tried to change some things up. I still need to go through this and shorten some of the more unnecessarily wordy sentences. Is the ending OK? Or is it too 'loose'?

stephen

No, I liked it....is this the beginning of the story?

Oh no -- it's just a terribly short story -- in a series of absurd vignettes. I'm hoping some of the stories are simply paragraphs, even. Similar to the works of Daniil Kharms, and amazing writer of short absurds (though his work is a little impersonal for my taste) -- so I'm trying to make shorts that are ridiculous but cut close. The balance is challenging.

Well, I dug this one up. i don't know what it is about your writing, but it always facinates me. The way you percieve, notice the little things in between ( the place between sitting and standing) and that anything is fair to imagine and put down on paper. This is a wonderful piece of writing. i was captivated and charmed. It was visual and tactile. Almost every sentence made me wonder if there was hidden meaning behind it. But really, I didn't care. It stood delightfully on it's own. my best, apple

You have the gift of providing correct descriptions. For example, the way you describe how it feels to have birds in your mouth: It’s like… having birds in your mouth. Perfection.

A few of the sentences are a bit wordy, and the opening could perhaps be cleaned up, but the only substantive change I would suggest is the ending. Stop after '...they all flew away.'