Short Stories Part 1

Taking the advice of a former professor, I've decided to try my hand at writing. Tell me what you think!

The Bird That Was

I buried a bird alive. I didn’t mean to—well, actually, I did intend to bury the bird, just not alive. Adult supervision then definitely did not mean the same thing that it does now. Nobody was ever around to witness my shenanigans. However, even without someone constantly sanitizing my hands, wiping my nose, or offering me a juice box, I managed to survive into adulthood. So, even though I was only four or five at the time of this particular incident, I could come and go as I pleased as long as I was home in time for meals.

It must have been a transition period between spring and summer because I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. But not just any pair of shorts or any t-shirt. I was wearing my special (read: tacky) green and white striped spandex bicycle shorts. To complete the outfit, I wore a white cotton t-shirt that depicted a cartoon ballerina in fifth position. Her tutu was made of a piece of pink tulle that I fiddled with regularly just to make sure it was still there. I received the outfit as a gift from some relatives visiting from Korea and though the two pieces were as closely related as an elephant and ballet shoes, I was convinced they belonged together.

So, wearing this beautiful outfit, I was playing outside in a grassy patch next to my house. The day was nice and sunny and I was collecting leaves or counting blades of grass or whatever extremely important thing children do at that age. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a bird flew right in front of me. I can’t exactly remember how it happened, but I do remember reaching out and trying to grab the bird, and the next thing I knew the fluffy little thing was in the comfort (or terror) of my clutches. I can’t imagine the fear that must’ve been going through the little bird’s mind, or maybe I can. “What horrible luck! Here I am just minding my own business and this snot-nosed little kid grabs me and now I’m stuck in her grubby little hands. Oh the horror!” For whatever reason, the poor thing became quite still. The longer I held it, the more still it became. Perhaps it was playing dead as opossums do and that was probably the second biggest mistake it made that day—the first being that it allowed itself to get caught.

By the way, why do some animals play dead? It’s like they just give up. It reminds me of when I used to play tag in elementary school. I’d run with all my might, but being a foot shorter than most of the kids in my class, and probably the entire school, I would never get very far. Right when they were within inches of tagging me, my legs would just stop and give up. I’d get tagged then just stand there confused because, wasn’t I just running a few minutes ago? It’s as if my brain decided for me, “No, you can’t outrun them. I command the legs to stop.” That traitor.

Anyway, holding the still bird in my hand, I began to wonder if it was dead and the more I thought about it, my five-year-old mind became quite convinced that indeed, it was. So, with the poor, seemingly lifeless bird in one hand, and my mind set on the idea that gone were its once free-spirited days, I began to dig a hole.

It wasn’t very big or deep because, well, I dug it with one hand, the other being occupied by a bird that was quite good at feigning death. I placed the bird into the hole and covered it up with dirt. I patted the mound down and stood back for just a second proudly admiring my handiwork. At this point, I decided it was a good time to tell someone of the good deed I had just done—giving a poor dead bird a proper burial—and the first person I decided to tell was my older sister.

My older sister—someone I always looked up to and admired. It was pivotal that she knew of my good deed, of utmost importance that I received her approval. I knew that once I told her she’d give me a huge hug and say, “I’m so proud of you. What an honorable thing you did for that little bird.” Then she’d probably let me choose one of the many glittery Sanrio stickers that she kept in her purple plastic pencil case. It’s true. I coveted many, if not all, of her possessions. On more than one occasion I thought about what would happen if, God forbid, something would happen to her. Who would get her pink mechanical pencil? The one with the rainbow colored hearts on them? Who would get to keep the hollowed-out eggshell that held her collection of multi-colored confetti? Would she leave me the papier-mâché cocker spaniel that she made in art class, the one with the pink tongue and matching pink collar? Now that I think about it, I’m not quite sure what I held in higher esteem—my sister, or my sister’s possessions.

Anyway, I proudly told her what I had done. When I was finished, I held my hands and arms out—expecting a hug and stickers to fill them. But her response was quite different from my expectations. Instead of a hug and adoration, she pushed past me and ran outside so fast the screen door slammed angrily against the house. Perhaps she was at a loss of words at the braveness of her little sister. Perhaps she ran out to hide the tears of pride. I was willing to accept either explanation, so I ran after her. When I got outside, she was standing at the spot I buried the little bird, her head down. Probably in awe, I thought. She turned to face me and said, “You dummy! The bird is gone! You buried it alive!” I looked down at what was once the mound of dead bird, but she was right, it was gone. “But, I swear it was dead! Maybe it rose again!” I cried. “Like Jesus,” I thought. “Well, then a cat probably dug it out and ate it! Good going, dummy!” she retorted and stormed back inside.

No stickers. No hugs, no purple plastic pencil case. What remained was just an empty hole with no bird. Thus started what seemed like a multitude of smart decisions on my part, and disbelief on sibling’s part. I never really knew what the big deal was that day. It wasn’t like I killed a puppy or anything, though I did accidentally do that, that same year. But that’s another story.