I read this poignant little piece this morning, and it made me smile. Smile in a sad way, but does that matter? I must thank Teesha Noelle Murphy for it. (It is published at www.thedoctortjeckleburgreview.com)
Here’s how the story starts:
Jack’s father is a bluebird perched on the fence. We feed him
unsalted almonds and sunflower seeds. His shrill voice is a fatherly
squawk, but with an old-timey twist. It is like a short, box-shaped man
with a crew-cut and pleated trousers yelling phrases like, “Well I’ll be
a monkey’s uncle.” Or sometimes the squawk is lower and farther away
like two people dancing cheek to cheek to an old Louis Armstrong song.
Always, the squawk is wise and firm like a father’s tone ought to be.
Only, the bluebird on my fence is not really Jack’s father, not
really. The bluebird is actually his grandfather. My husband’s real
father is an ass that believes nothing is real.
If you like what you’ve read so far, I suggest you go read the whole thing. At the very least you would have looked at some good writing, and at the most, you would have lost five minutes of your day. In my case, they were five minutes well spent.
Did you like the story? Do you read much fiction online?