When you were a girl, you shot at a sparrow on the clothesline, never imagining your aim was so good. You said you climbed a tree and placed the bird up high so it would be closer to the sky. I said I didn’t realize little girls played with guns. You said I didn’t understand little girls.

– – –

Your sixth grade teacher kept a parakeet in the classroom. Sometimes she let the bird out of its cage. One day you opened a window, and Petey flew out. You insisted it was the right thing to do. Even when your best friend wouldn’t let you play hopscotch.

– – –

You spent summers on your grandparents farm. Once, you were walking down a country lane when a turkey buzzard feasting on a dead opossum blocked your way. You clapped your hands and yelled; the bird opened its wings and charged. You turned and ran, but after a few minutes, you approached again, and the buzzard flew away.

– – –

Soon after you learned to drive, a robin flew into the windshield. You cradled it in your hands, brought it home and nursed it with worms and an eyedropper. When the bird died, you knew you should’ve taken it to a vet.

– – –

You went off to college; your parents got a parrot. They said it wasn’t to replace you.

– – –

We went for a hike when we were dating. Loud squawking in a tree. A jay flew out, hatchling dangling from its beak, a robin pursuing. I said something about the poor mama bird, but you were silent.

– – –

A few years after we married, your mother died. Soon after, so did your father. The parrot was still in its prime. I knew how mean parrots could be, but you said we didn’t have a choice.

– – –

We warned our daughter, but she let the parrot out of its cage. The screams of our girl woke us from our nap. She almost lost an eye.

– – –

Driving home from the bird sanctuary, I said it was better for the parrot and our daughter. You said without the parrot, our girl would never learn to fly. Then you lowered your window, and the rush of air nearly drowned out your scream. I turned the car around.

Ariel Oakley, The Moon, 2023, embroidery floss on velvet, 12" x 9".

David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, and has appeared in various publications including Best Microfictions 2025, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, and Literally Stories.

Ariel Oakley is an artist living and working in Los Angeles, California. Her paintings explore the boundaries of self and non-self, external and internal, life and generative decay. She asks: what if the body is the soul? She spends her days as a nurse in surgery at Keck Hospital of USC, where her passion for open-heart surgery continues to inform her art. She received her BFA in painting from the San Francisco Art Institute, and her MFA in Studio Art at Maryland Institute College of Art.