Sparrow - Flash Fiction

Stew was the alpha dog of the sparrow world. He hung on the rear electrical wire of the carport a good portion of the morning. It was his job to be tough—tough and big.  He was no small creature just puffing up his feathers. No, his bulk was real.  It was very real and entirely impressive. The young bucks, in their immature feathers, admired him greatly but feared him as well. Not a few had felt his wrath through some sound beatings about the head and incisive, but not damaging, thrusts of his powerful beak. He had to be tough—for their sakes. For their kind, predators were everywhere.

Constance, Stew’s small and trustworthy mate, was the crossing guard of the squadron. Pass her muster in the morning and you knew you would be alright. She directed the little ones in and out of the condo (as some called it)—the upturned headboard straddling the open rafters. The nests of their neighbors, precariously built into odd corners and exposed limbs, could not hold a candle to this multi-family dwelling and they knew it.  

The sparrows generally fared well by the humans—open rafters, nicely trimmed hedges with easy access and ample crumbs to be gleaned—particularly around the dumpsters. But the dumpster crumbs were either for the very stupid or the very brave. Everyone knew the black cat haunted the dumpster in season and out. Stew made sure he told very frightening stories about this on a regular basis. Constance hated it when he began with his droll sounding stories that ended up as terrifying tales—and just before it was time to bed down for the night. A good scare, Stew was convinced, would keep them in tight. Constance wished this were not true but understood Stew’s motives. All the other sparrows could be cheerful because Stew was so serious about his role.

Marguerite was the thorn in Stew’s side. She was one of those independent sparrows always dodging off on her own—crazy bird! She acted as if she had his dark head and bold, marked feathers. But the minute she was next to a bunch of dead grass or brown leaves he would lose sight of her. It was always better in the spring and summer. Her plain jacket stuck out against the lush greens. He always rested easier when he could see her. Why she was so independent he never knew. She was reckless and tended toward chattering on and on about how beautiful the colors were everywhere. Constance loved Marguerite but knew her place was beside Stew. Her longings for freedoms, like those of Marguerite, had been quashed for the sake of the clan and the neighbors. She had a sense of responsibility, much of which she had absorbed from Stew.

Bruce was a young buck that cared very little for others. His markings were pristine, and he was proud. He knew he was far more handsome than Stew—a good catch by most counts—but his bulk was not yet what he wished. He always coveted Stew’s broad and full chest. Recently, though, he had become aware that his speed and agility made up for his lack of girth. The young hens loved to watch him race through the rafters and trees.  He could hear their squeals of delight when he swept close to the heads of humans. Their delight urged him into more daring adventures than he really desired. But through these pubescent antics, he also explored new horizons, broadening his skill base while trying to impress them. So, for Bruce it was a magnificent trade-off—a little bit of risk for a whole lot of admiration. He did love those hens!

M.R. Hyde

Copyright 2019