Birds | #flashfiction

It was a brisk spring morning, not a sound but the birds in the sky. The birds sing to each other, a song I can’t quite understand, but it comforts me. It’s the sounds of the spring and summer, and they start bright and early.

I sit and I listen, and I wonder. I wonder what it means to matter, what it means to fly. I wonder why the birds sing in the morning and wake me, and I wonder why I leave my window cracked to let them. I guess it’s a sense of familiarity, that no matter where I’m waking up, there will be birds. They’ll wake me first thing and I’ll feel tired in the morning, but I’ll wake up after some coffee and eggs and toast.

I sit and I listen to the birds, and I notice the difference in their calls. Some are one same repetitive sound, some are intricate, and some are making it up as they go. Or at least it seems that way. They all have the same effect. It all wakes me before my alarm, and I can’t help but listen.

I sit and I listen, and I wonder what it’s like to fly like a bird. I wonder how it feels to glide with the breeze, this effortless instinct that could never come natural to me. I feel jealous of the birds, their lives feel so much simpler than mine.

I sit and I listen, and I imagine I am a bird. I close my eyes as I lay in bed and I pretend I am soaring high above the clouds, or down within the trees. I’m collecting twigs and trash for my nest and I’m singing for the people still asleep.

I wonder if birds feel loneliness. I think it must be easier to be a bird, even if they do feel lonely. To be a blue jay or a robin or maybe even a hawk. I wonder if birds feel lonely, what do they do? Do they go for a fly to take their minds off it? Do they find other birds to connect with? Is that why they sing and wake me? Because they feel the same loneliness I do, and they just want to belong.

I sit and I listen, and I know if I could fly, I wouldn’t feel this overwhelming isolation. If I could fly, if I were a bird, I could blend in, I could be a part of nature. I could migrate south in the winter and travel the world. I could be something bigger than I could ever be as a human. I could contribute to the ecosystem, instead of destroying it. I could matter. If I were a bird, if I could fly, I would matter.

if I ever feel it again #flashfiction

I didn’t feel anything when he left. I took all the energy I would’ve had and lost myself in all the things I loved before he came into my life, as if I hadn’t changed in the last two years. And it was somewhere around the third week that I realized with each person that leaves, a part of me dies. And someday there will only be flesh and bone that’s left, but even that was never mine.

And I wonder if I’ll ever feel it again.

at home in the mountains

It rained on the day we went up to the mountains. It rained and we stayed in our car for the most part, eating takeout from a nearby restaurant. We planned to eat it by the waterfall, but our sandwiches would’ve been soggy. We sat parked on a cliff-side, overlooking the mountains, the greens and reds and oranges and yellows of the treetops swaying gently with the breeze. We sat silent for a while as we took in the overwhelming feeling, the largeness of it all. We ate our takeout, but we didn’t feel worthy to be there in all the beauty. This moment was bigger than us. And I remember you said quietly and defiantly, “Someday, this will be home.”

a diner on a Wednesday at midnight

They sat across from each other in a vacant diner at midnight, high out of their minds, and pancakes in front of them. The pancakes, had the couple been sober, were bad. They sucked. No one comes here and orders the pancakes, especially not in the middle of the night. But to them, two stoned 21-year-olds, they were the best pancakes they’d ever had.

The man, tall, about six foot, unshaven, stomach just about reaching the table in front of him from where he sat back on the booth, made a joke about the pancakes and the woman, despite her best efforts, laughed. She didn’t think the joke was funny, in fact it might’ve even been the worst joke she’d ever heard, but she had the social obligation to act like she cared about him.

And he thought she cared. He was so certain that she cared because he lied so flawlessly whenever she came close to catching him. He was so convinced no one would ever catch his lies; he’s been doing it his whole life, at this point change his name to Lyin’ Brian. And she didn’t want to believe he would deceive her like he did. He was so nice, and so caring, how could someone be so heartless?

So, she had her suspicions and he had his bad jokes, and together they had bad decisions. They both thought they were made for each other, how silly that seems to them now. Because when it came down to it, she could only manage a laugh with him when she smoked, and he could only exist in the world when he did. And what kind of life is that?

The Mountains and All They Can Cure

I left the house in a rush. In one burst of manic energy, I packed for a couple days. I was at the point where I couldn’t think about anything but getting away. Anywhere was better than here. In a perfect world, I would’ve thought for months about this trip, but the fact that I didn’t have a plan made it more exciting.

It felt like everything that happened these last few months, all the pain and exhaustion, it was all leading up to my break anyway. This was bound to happen. I wouldn’t consider it a break, but my best friend called it that when I showed up at her door with a text, “Hey. You’re coming with me. We’re going to the mountains.”

“You’re crazy,” was her answer. I wouldn’t have expected any less. She packed her bags and was down in fifteen. From the driveway, she looked insane. More insane than I was. Her black hair was put into a messy ponytail with flyaways illuminated by the midday sun. She wore a gray sweatshirt and black leggings. Her backpack, stuffed full of clothes and camping equipment, was a forest green and held her sleeping bag atop it.

“I need this more than you do.”

She told me that as she threw her backpack in the backseat of my SUV.

“Hold on, do you have a tent?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“Uh, no. Don’t you?” I replied.

“My brother is using it this weekend.” She groaned. I rolled my eyes.

I wasn’t sure when it was that it set in that I was an insane, spontaneous person, but by the fourth hour of our road trip, it had crossed my mind a few times.  Emma loved me for it. She could always count on me for a last-minute mania induced trip in which we find ourselves, only to lose ourselves when we come back to work the following Monday.

We laughed. We laughed a lot. The entire drive was filled up with conversation, never a dull moment. Never a moment to think about just getting stood up or not getting that promotion I really could’ve used to fuel these trips. I didn’t think about the date I was supposed to go on until Emma had fallen asleep and as I laid on the hard ground, the only way to distract myself from the pain my back felt was by thinking about the pain my now-ex caused.

I realized a while ago that I shouldn’t let myself get wrapped up in someone like him, someone still obviously going through his partying college days even though he dropped out two years ago. I knew he was bad news, Emma tried to tell me, but I didn’t care. I liked the way he looked at me when I told a story, and I liked the way he laughed too long when I told a bad joke. I liked how his hair looked in the morning before he showered, and I liked how he’d cook breakfast for me.

I knew the mountains wouldn’t have an answer, and I didn’t care. It was a distraction at least and at most it would be another story to tell: two way-too-stressed 20-something’s go on another spontaneous trip in attempt to find themselves, only to find themselves with smaller bank accounts and bags under their eyes.

Lazy Day | Flash Fiction

The rain out my window holding me captive in my bed until it lets up. I toss and turn, but can’t bring myself to pull down the covers, afraid to introduce myself to the cold that is Not My Blankets. So, I pull them up to my shoulders, curl up into a ball, and fall back asleep once again. Time passes and suddenly it’s afternoon. Did I really spend all morning in bed? The rain has let up, but now I’m just groggy. A wave of uselessness takes over me and I force myself up.

I brew a cup of coffee and figure out ways to salvage this day. The grogginess never seems to disappear as I scroll through social medias and notifications from my lengthy sleep. I spend the rest of the day yawning, cursing myself for sleeping in, and not doing much of anything. But it’s good to have days like today, I reassure myself as I drift off to sleep again that night.


The Dead of Winter

The wind was harsh, cutting into our faces like daggers, leaving us red in the face and nearly frostbitten. The dead of winter never felt so dead as we trudged down the road to the gas station to pick up hot chocolate mix. It was ironic, the heat wasn’t kicking on at our apartment, so we nearly got frostbite trying to buy something that’ll warm us up. If we make it, it’ll be a story to tell, but for now I just want to get out of the snow. The snowshoes we dug out of the closet were sinking into the snow more than usual.

“I think it’s time to get new snowshoes.” I yelled through the tunnel of wind.

“What?” Eva yelled back, squinting to see me through the snow still falling.

“Need new snowshoes!” I said simply.

“Yap!” Eva said, or that’s what it sounded like. She said something else, but it was muffled behind the snow.

I paused, turned around, and squinting said, “Huh?”

“Never mind, go.” She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me around, patting my shoulders before letting me go.

Though the cold tried to break through my spirit and render me useless, having Eva with me to make this two-mile trek kept me warm.