Writing in a Row House
​
  • Writing in a Row House
  • Heating a Home on a Hot Plate
  • About
  • Contact
  • Read Some Fiction
  • Book Reviews
  • Bio
  • Get Updated!
  • Professional Services



Philadelphia Row is a term used, not only in Philadelphia neighborhoods, but elsewhere to refer to orderly rows of regularized housing.  
But there is nothing orderly or regular about any of the goings on in a Philadelphia Row.


READ SOME FICTION

Dead Bird Season

8/9/2015

0 Comments

 
Picture
     It's dead bird season again.  
     I wrote those words in Sevy's Cosmica Sidera as one of Sevy's internal dialogues and although Sevy is based on a person completely separate from me, I think he's more like me than I care to admit.  Sevy was called birdman because he poked around at dead birds.  Not because he had an affinity for dead things, but he had this complete lack of understanding why life could not last forever. 
     Last week, I was waiting for the bus to start my commute and I watched baby pigeons playing in a parking lot.  They were definitly babies.  And if I had to put cartoony voices to them they would definitely be squealing in joy that their mates were playing and their collective curiosity surrounded the scene.  There was a vibrance I scarcely notice with birds because of an unreasonable fear that they will turn on me, gather other avians and peck my eyes out.  (Not kill me, just a painful and permanent reminder of their dominance leaving me in darkness so I can't see them coming after me ever more.) 
     I saw the cheerful little ones on a morning after I saw a featherless dead one lying in my path with flies gathering to eat its remaining flesh.  And that was a day after I could not go into my mother's back yard because another featherless one was lying in the grass two steps out from the kitchen. 
     That's how I usually cross the dead birds some time late July, early August each year - the little ones that may have something wrong with them, discarded by their mama, or shoved from the nest when she is out swallowing bugs and seeds to vomit into their little beaks.  "Where's Jimmy?"  she would ask the remaining little bastards who reply, "Who?  By my troth Mama, there were only three of us when you left." 
     But every now and then, there is a bird that appears to have fallen dead, full of its feathers without blood or anything implying foul play just lying in my path.  
     And I have nothing to say about any of this other than to say, it is in fact dead bird season again.  

0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    Picture
    When Sevy realizes the pharmaceuticals keeping their bodies young are weened from those deemed to have exhausted their usefulness, he believes he must delve into the purpose of this synthesized society believing it is not much different than the life he lived on earth. 

    Patreon Page
    Picture
    Picture

    Esther Elizabeth Buck 

    i'm halfway through my life with the stifled stories stirring.  i should have done it earlier, but i am on the
     write path finally.

    Archives

    June 2021
    April 2021
    May 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    June 2018
    April 2018
    September 2017
    July 2017
    April 2017
    February 2017
    December 2016
    September 2016
    July 2016
    May 2016
    January 2016
    October 2015
    August 2015
    June 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.