Flash Fiction: Feed the Birds

Considering I've spent the better part of the last few months offering unsolicited advice about writing, I figure it's about time I prove that I know how to do it myself. For this week, I went back through the archives and pulled out this little flash fiction piece from a couple years back titled, "Feed the Birds." Be sure to let me know what you think in the comments!

I am eighteen years old the first time I watch my father feed the birds. I am standing in the kitchen of our lake house, feet sticking to the tile, thanks to a mixture of too little sunscreen and too much self-tanner. The last of the day's sunshine pours through the open screen door and I see him sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth in his favorite wicker chair. Nothing, not even my mother incessantly yelling our names, could disturb him on a day like today.

I carefully crack open a Diet Coke while I stand there, otherwise motionless. He is picking at the crust of his turkey sandwich and gently bending down to lay the pieces on the ground. A small bird, some kind of sparrow would be my best guess, cautiously hops toward the crumbs. It quickly grabs as much as its tiny beak can carry and takes off, flying off somewhere into the yard. My father smiles to no one but himself.

He repeats. I take a sip as I watch.

There is nothing particularly remarkable about feeding birds, expect when he does it, I am in awe. He is so careful to peel off only bird-sized bits of bread. He sets them on the wood as if he were laying a fussy baby down for a nap. Completely absorbed in such a simple task, he is unable to keep the wall separating us as sturdy as it normally is.

For the first time, I see him and he cannot stop me.

I watch for a few more minutes, three or four birds surrounding him now. One of them is a bright, exotic yellow and I do not need to see his face to know how excited he is. Quietly, I pad over to the door and, although I am careful, when I open it, all of the birds scatter. Anyone else would be mad, but he just looks up and smiles at me.

"Sorry I scared your friends off," I say, sitting in the chair opposite his.

He takes a sip of beer from his glass. Probably Heineken. He licks the foam from his top lip before speaking.

"Oh, no big deal. They'll come back."

He stares out at the water, his eyes hidden behind blue sunglasses. A soft summer breeze runs through my hair and I turn to look for whatever he's seeing out there. Before I can ask, I hear my mother's commanding voice call for me. I reflexively jump up, ready to search through the house for her, but my father puts his hand out to stop me.

"Stay here with me for a minute, Syd."

"But, Mom?" I am anxiously gripping the door handle, knowing full-well how inpatient my mother can be.

"Can wait. Sit."

I listen and sink back into the cushions. Worriedly, I repeatedly jab my pointer finger against my thigh. He is not speaking, which is just making me more restless. Probably able to hear my heart pounding against my rib cage, he glances over at me.

"Relax. Your mother never learned how to. I think that's why she is the way she is. She ain't gonna kill you or anything."

You don't know that, I want to say. Instead, I sink further into the cushions and force my body to unwind a little. I watch my father readjust his large body in the chair, stretching out his lengthy legs and folding his veiny hands over his beer-belly. Just past middle-aged, he creaks and cracks a little more than I remember from when I was a kid. I never considered it before, but I am realizing this man before me is no god. He is just a man.

"You like it here?" he asks.

I nod and only realize he's looking for more of an explanation when I find him looking intently at me. Normally, non-verbal communication cuts it. He's talkative today.

"I'd be content never going home," he adds, laughing and taking another sip of beer, "The world looks just a little brighter from out here."

"That's a good way of putting it," I say, quietly.

Suddenly, the bright yellow bird appears a few feet away from us once more. It hops towards my father's chair and he pretends not to notice it, because I am here.

"You can feed him," I blurt out. I don't know why, but in this moment, I think I would be devastated if I could not watch him gently offer a nibble of bread to this bird.

For the first, and only, time that I can recall, his eyes light up, "Should I?"

I nod, eagerly.

A smile stretches to his eyes and I watch him vigilantly pick a small piece of the crust off, arranging it on the ground between our two chairs. The little yellow bird comes right over and gobbles it up. Instead of flying away like before, it just stands there, watching my father, much like myself. Neither of us can look away.

"Your mother tells me feeding the birds is stupid. Waste of time, she says."

His eyes are sad as he tells me this and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him, like when I was little. I am not little, however, and we do not do that anymore. Instead, I surprise both him and myself with what comes out of my mouth.

"Well, she's stupid," I say. 

He just blinks at me, unsure how to respond, before he bursts out laughing. It's a laugh that comes from deep within his belly: a sound I will carry with me forever. He finishes off his drink and calms himself down.

"You know something? She is," he says, pushing himself up and out of his chair, "I'm gonna grab another beer. You want anything?" I smile and shake my head. He stretches his arms like he was Michael Phelps preparing for a race and makes his way to the door. I look out at the water, still wondering what was so miraculous that he saw out there.

"Hey, Syd," he says. I turn in my chair to see him leaning against the doorway, holding his empty glass carefully between his first three fingers.

"Be someone who stops to feed the birds, even if everyone else is rushing you."

I smile. "Okay, Dad."

He lets the screen door slam behind him and I cringe, waiting for my mother's scream. Within seconds, she's yelling my name again, asking what's taking so long.

I don't respond. Instead, I pick at the mangled remains of sandwich on my father's plate and, as gently as he did, I feed the birds.