No. 116 November, 2009
Birdie
*an undeveloped 49-cent mini-micro-novelette for the
modern American mind
by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlaushaus
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 one. 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, hum-m, 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!)
copyright 2009, Ralph Stevenson
*an undeveloped 49-cent mini-micro-novelette for the
modern American mind
by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlaushaus
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 one. 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, hum-m, 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!)
copyright 2009, Ralph Stevenson
Ralph Stevenson is 58 and lives in Pueblo, Colorado. He's been writing short fiction and poetry since he was a kid. Several of his works have been published in anthologies and journals.