FRIDAY FLASH: Sixty-seven parrots
There was a Green Woodpecker in our back garden this morning, a beautiful big green bird with a big red flash on his head. I’ve been thinking about birds all day. Did you know that the native British parakeet population now stretches as far north as Leeds? Anyway, on with the story.
SIXTY SEVEN PARROTS
I came down the stairs in a rush, late for work again, hair wet, half shaved, hopping from one leg to another as I tried to scramble into my jeans.
My head hurt. Another night fighting to sleep only to wake panting, exhausted and soaked in sweat when dreams finally came. I went to the tap, swallow two ibuprofens and took deep swigs of water. The headache was mostly from dehydration but these days, if I drink water at night, then I’m up pissing three or four times and sleep is hard enough to come by.
I stood up, swallowing the water, and for the first time looked out the window.
Perched on the ledge, looking in at me was a bright green bird with a red beak.
I choked slightly on the tablets. Cough. Rubbed my eyes and look again.
There were two birds there now.
Parrots.
Staring at me.
I stepped towards the window.
The birds cocked their heads, welcoming me forward and inviting me to look beyond them.
The garden, an overgrown green patch, a battered shed and a stumpy apple tree was filled with parrots.
I opened the back door.
The birds shuffled backwards, wary but clearly not afraid.
I counted two dozen. Then three. I goet up to sixty-seven birds before my sleep-befuddled head registered the futility of counting. They’re dancing on the branches of the tree, hopping on the roof of the shed, shuffling among the long grass at the foot of the apple tree pecking lumps out of the windfalls.
Sixty-seven parrots staring at me.
“Pieces of eight?” I asked.
They shuffle as though they’d heard that one before and didn’t think much of it the first time.
“Sorry.”
I sat on the step.
I was late for work.
Sixty-seven parrots (more, far more) were watching me and I didn’t know what to do.
But they didn’t seem to care.
I spotted a couple of parakeets whilst in London over Christmas - first time I’d chanced across them in the wild (well… London).
A slightly more exotic Hitchcock?
Ominous.
See, now I never even thought of the Hitchcock thing - I was thinking whimsy.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe the author really is dead.
But then who is writing this?
The parrots?
An irresistable title. Who could see that and *not* want to read the rest, to find out what it means?
I didn’t take the birds as menacing. As I read it i thought they were something strange but beautiful that had unexpectedly fallen into the narrator’s life, to show him something bright and amazing that makes him question everything about his life, his work… Or maybe I’ve been reading too much Douglas Coupland?
Justin: Stop it, now you’re scaring me!
GLP: Coupland? Well I have just started The Gum Thief.
[…] me busy during the day and leaving me exhausted in the evening. Semper idem. Remember to check out the other flash fictionists, all of whom managed to meet the deadline… I’ll be over here, […]
Fun. I didn’t think they were threatening parrots - this reminded me of Jonathan Carroll, and the way he imjects little pieces of magic into everyday life.