Friday, February 7, 2014

Friday Flash Fiction: Pigeons In The Park

Every Friday Kurt posts a new piece of flash fiction. This week...

Pigeons In The Park
Word Count: 599

Two pigeons were perched on a low-hanging bough overlooking the park when Edmund left his townhouse. Locking the door behind him, he looked up at the birds and doffed his hat. “Good morning, my little friends,” he said cheerily.

“Morning, Edmund,” said one of the pigeons. “How’s the missus?”

Edmund didn’t respond. He just whistled and headed down the walk towards the market.

“Now how do you like that?” asked Roddy, the pigeon who had just spoken. “Rude, rude, rude. Every day I ask him something pleasant and he never responds.”

“I don’t think he can hear you, mate,” said Flynn, the other.

“Well, of course he can hear me,” said Roddy. “If I sing something cutesy, he’s happy to whistle along.”

“Okay, he can hear you. Maybe he just doesn’t understand you,” Flynn offered.

“Why?” asked Roddy. “There something wrong with my voice? Are you having any trouble understanding me?”

“Well, no—”

“That’s what I thought,” said Roddy. “He treats me like a ruddy minstrel, he does. I swear, when the birds rise up in revolt, I’m going to peck out his eyeballs! Vivent les oiseaux!

“He seems nice enough to me,” said Flynn. “Most people don’t give us the time of day.”

“I’m fine with that,” said Roddy. “I’d rather be ignored than talked down to.”

“Who said he was talking down to you?” asked Flynn.

Us,” said Roddy. “He was talking down to us.”

“I still thought he was nice,” said Flynn.

“Dapper little twit with his tweed suit and his stupid grin. Who does he think he is?”

“He’s just going to the market,” said Flynn.

“And what’s he going to buy there?” asked Roddy. “Some nice chicken, maybe?”

“Oh, don’t be crass, Rod.”

“It’s true. I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him come back with a sandwich full of chicken—”

“How’d you know?” asked Flynn.

“How’d I know what?”

“How did you know it was chicken?”

“I suppose it would have been better if it was turkey?” asked Roddy incredulously.

“Maybe it was ham,” said Flynn.

“It weren’t ham!”

“How do you know?”

“Are you accusing me of not being able to tell ham from chicken?” asked Roddy.

“I’m just saying let’s give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Flynn. “He seems like a nice enough guy.”

“And nice guys don’t eat chicken,” said Roddy.

“Oh, come off it,” said Flynn. “They’re barely birds anyway.”

“You birdist bastard,” said Roddy.

“What?” asked Flynn. “They can’t even fly.”

Roddy was speechless.

“Look,” said Flynn, “they’re the ones growing them big chests and laying all those tasty eggs. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for them.”

“Don’t blame the victim,” said Roddy.

“I’m not blaming the victim,” said Flynn.

“Yes, you are, and I won’t put up with that. That’s birdism.”

“Look, if he were eating pigeon I’d be as angry as you,” said Flynn.

“Well, that’s definitely birdism,” said Roddy. “I swear, when we rise up in revolt—”

“Like that’s ever going to happen,” said Flynn.

“It will. I’ve seen it once, in a movie,” said Roddy. “I forget the title…”

“Look, all I’m saying is that you’re getting all bent out of shape over one guy who says hello but doesn’t respond when we say hello back. You jump to the conclusion that he’s talking down to us and want to peck out his eyeballs. I’m just saying, maybe you’re overreacting.”

Roddy sighed. “Maybe,” he said. “Look, I gotta pick up Mable. You coming to the meeting on Thursday?”

“I’ll be there,” said Flynn. “Vivent les oiseax!

Vivent les oiseaux!” said Roddy.

Edited by Carolyn "Is This Not 'Branch' To Sound More Fancy?" Abram.

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