“Okay now open your eyes,” Eddie said. I uncovered my eyes, my stomach flip flopped with excitement. I saw a hideous beetle black eye staring straight at me. I screamed, “Arghhh what the everlasting fuck! Why don’t you know me at all! Get away.” I sprinted to my bedroom shaking. Eddie gave me a parrot. I hate birds. Not like they make me nervous or I find them icky. I hate birds. Ever since I was a kid I can’t take birds. “Honey I’m sorry. So sorry, we met at the park feeding pigeons and I had a bird when I was a kid and you said you had a bird too. My step mom had a bird not me. I mumbled to myself. I took a shuddering breath. I calmed myself and pasted on my happy face. The day I met Eddie a nasty vermin bird pecked at my shoe and I threw bread to distract it and then collided with Eddie with his box of popcorn. He was kind of hot and I wanted a meet cute so I didn’t tell him of my crappy childhood and laundry list of problems. I took a deep breath and went back into the living room to pretend I liked Eddie’s gift. I was good at pretending. I managed to pretend for two whole weeks. I called the bird Charlie when Eddie was around. The big green gold bird was sulky. It became to look seedy and unkempt. One night when Eddie was staying over the bird screamed a frightened human scream. It scream every few days, then every day. We took the thing to a vet. I was kind of hoping it was something terminal not painful or lingering just a cough twice and keel over illness. The vet did an exam while the bird tried to nip the vet’s fingers off. “Feather loss could be parasites or infection but most likely it’s psychological, feather destruction syndrome. She’s just not happy,” the vet said stroking her head. A first I thought the veterinarian was talking about me and then I realized what a jerk I was.

That night I came clean to Eddie. I didn’t tell him everything but enough to let him know I’m not bird parent material. We talked and researched parrot rescues. That night after Eddie fell asleep I went to look at the parrot. It eyed me leerily. “I’m sorry bird. I tried, I really tried. We’re not a good fit.” “What the everlasting fuck? “The bird hissed. “You’re right. I didn’t try. I fake and hide my true self. I don’t like you because of my own issues. I took it out on you. I’ll make this right. I’ll work on me all right.” The bird blew a raspberry at me and turned her back. On Saturday we drove out to the parrot sanctuary. Eddie talked nonstop the way he does filling the silence. I listened and was super interested in whatever he was talking about. At the sanctuary I didn’t know what I felt. The staff was very kind. I gave a donation to feel better. They let us tour the facility. Grey, white, acid green, carmine so many beautiful colors of birds cawing and flying in the aviaries. “Can I visit?” I said suddenly as we were walking out. Where did that come from? “Don’t you know me at all?” The bird said brightly stretching her wings. On the way to Eddie’s car I could hear Charlie laughing. Then all the birds were laughing. A cacophony of phrases rained down on us on the way back to the parking lot. “I’ll work on me. I’ll make this right.” On the ride back I drove. Eddie tried to make small talk. I told him I was sad for me but happy for Charlie and I need some quiet time Eddie smiled and we enjoyed the ride home in silence

My new parrot tells stories. Stories of her adventures around the world, stories of jolly singing men and raucous unseemly glee. Stories of witches and voodoo and black eyed girls with precise black arts. My parrot tells stories of broad shouldered beings with stern brows and shortly packaged might. Yes my parrot is a story teller but I’m not sure how.

My parrot could be other worldly, an eternal soul or life force or god. Having experienced eternity from creation to destruction, she may know all. She may be the Holy Ghost perched on the shoulder of existence. Or she may not be, after all, her blurts and squawks generally aren’t congruent with one holding the secrets of the world. And her current congregation is one bed ridden old man.

Maybe she is a dreamer, a wily bird who can let her mind overcome her, parse a narrative and message and recite to all who show interest. But her frame of reference is flawed, parrots must dream of crackers and seed and falling from the sky. Dream of being under the claws of the neighbours fawn demon, teeth bared and hissing.

Or she may have been a simple pet of a simple woman, who read stories for her daughter. Not simple stories though. Stories of gods and men, forever in conflict. Stories from the darkest corners of a black underworld, where tentacles devour the light. Stories of love and passion between the beautiful and the spiked jealously of the dismissed. Stories of the glory of nature and the cosmos, and sometimes crime at the racetrack.

My parrot tells stories, none to be trusted but all I will relish.

Pick up the load,

And Follow the road.

Be not opaque,

And Make no mistake.

Jewels shine with a truth

Yet fall so uncouth;

Once confident and devout

Now unsure, full of doubt.

An image of deceit

But discerns just defeat.

Force a mask of concealment

That appears as repealment.

With a hefty weight of blame,

The price of such reclaim,

Twist up such scornful bonds;

The ache of frame responds.

Carry sincerity,

And lose no integrity.

Stay full of essence,

Yet lose all credence.

Candace walked into her house, carrying a cage that contained a parrot. A customer from her job gave her the parrot as a gift. She didn’t know why he did, but she didn’t want to hurt the customer’s feelings by refusing the gift. Still, she had no idea what to do with a parrot for a pet.

“Well, here is my home….” She didn’t know what to call the parrot. The customer didn’t let her know if he had a name before or not.

“I’ll think of a name for you.”

She placed the parrot on her dining room table and went on with her day.

A few days later, Candace was walking into the dining room when the bird started talking.

“Guess your owner taught you how to talk,” she smiled. “What else do you know what to say? She stood at the cage, listening to the bird speak.

At first, the bird was speaking the usual words a parrot spoke. Hello. Goodbye. Then, it started to speak sentences, ones that were far advanced for a bird to know.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Candace wondered.

She listened closely as she realized the bird was telling her all the secrets of the customer who gave her the parrot.

Some see perfection as a goal They want more and more until they’re full For others a need For them it’s greed This is only what society taught And these old ideas need to be forgot Perfection isn’t about a paper or grade Or about how much money you made Its about they way you spend your time And if what you do makes your heart shine So do what you want without others approval The only path to happiness is this removal

Perfection is seen in the eye of the beholder. Perfection is actions and beauty and character not those who scold her To some perfection is fitting in with the rest To others perfection is acing the test. To all there is perfection Even if it is their own reflection But to all there is some version Even those who see perfection as coercion Though those people are not the type to be remembered For as most people don’t view perfection as those who are tempered The bad is those who bully It’s like never being able to work a pulley Those who oppress based on how perfection is viewed by others Like if someone is quiet and prefers a book suddenly they are smothered Smothered with opinions Or those who are popular are villains People tend to think one-sided The good and not the bad, the ideas are never united So if you take one thing from this It is that keeping your ideas of perfection is bliss Stay strong in the face of those who are wrong The fight hopefully won’t be a thousand years long Keep your ideas steadfast Trust, your efforts will be unsurpassed Your idea of perfection is yours Life is a hallway of doors Chose the doors that allow you to keep your intentions And those who stray help with intervention Your perfection is necessary To your ideas do not be a mercenary Stay true Otherwise when people see your name the question will be, who?

I stare in disbelief at Baby. Did he really just say what I think he said or have I finally cracked?

Baby is my parrot. My husband, Bo gave him to me for our 30th wedding anniversary.

He said that it would be good company while he’s away since he often travels for work. We have two children, Hannah and Sam, who are now adults with children of their own. They are also on the other side of the country. I haven’t been able to see them or my grandchildren in person outside of video calls, since the beginning of this awful pandemic. In addition, I recently lost my mama, Ann, to the virus. Mama was the absolute best. She could always make me feel better. She was a great listener and my best friend. I took her death very hard. Although some would say that I didn’t really grieve because I didn’t cry at her graveside funeral. I guess people expect you to scream and wail. They assume that those are acceptable signs of every mourning person’s experience with properly processing grief but some losses are so painful, that they take your voice away because the pain knocks the wind out of you. Mama’s death knocked the wind out of me.

Her and Bo never really did get along that great. She always said that he took me for granted, mistreated me, and was a classic narcissist. I can’t really say that she was wrong but hey, he is my husband and I don’t believe in divorce so I have to stick it out for better or for worse right?

Anyway, Bo didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for mama either. We actually had a major fight because he didn’t even attend her funeral. He claimed that he had this extremely important out of town business meeting that he simply couldn’t miss. He said that if he could’ve attended, he would have, and that he’d call me right after he completed his meeting. I was more embarrassed than angry with the fact that not only did I have to attend the funeral without support but lie to those that asked of his whereabouts because I couldn’t bring myself to say that he chose work over his wife.

“Let’s give another warm welcome to the newlyweds, Bo and Maggie”

Baby repeated the words that quickly snatched me out of my thoughts into the present reality. I stood up from my recliner, walked over slowly to the large, barred, golden home that currently held the bird and leaned in. Baby faced me as if he was a drill sergeant facing a soldier on the first day of boot camp. He did not flinch or step back. As I stare into the birds eyes, my thoughts race to make sense of what is being said. From time to time, I entertained the idea that my husband may have had an emotional “discrepancy” a time or two while traveling especially since our love life had grown stale. I just didn’t think that he could actually carry out the act of having sex with another woman especially since I’ve always believed in making myself consistently available to him. I just chalked up our lack of sex and intimacy lately to the high and low phases that every married couple goes through. As I think of these things, I find comfort that my husband has not been cheating on me with another woman.

I smile to myself and then tears roll down my cheeks because yes this is the moment that I realize that I’ve finally cracked. It’s not because I’m having a full blown conversation with a parrot but my house companion with wings has just revealed to me that my husband has married his best friend Magnus aka Maggie.

“Wa-ta” Sugar says.

“Wa-ter. Come on, Sugar, I know you can do this,” 10-year-old Isaac says with the stomp of his right foot.

“Wa-ta” Sugar continues. “Wa-ta, Wa-ta, Wa-ta.”

Now becoming the joke of the century in the Pierre household, Sugar Pierre loves her water. Err, wa-ta.

Issac’s friend from school gave him the best gift for his latest birthday; a parrot.

Caw. Chirp. Squawk. You ugly moron, go on a walk. Caw. Chirp. Squawk. Get rid of that awful Mohawk. Caw. Chirp. Squawk. Your stupidity makes me gawk. Caw. Chirp. Squawk. “Why can’t you just be a hawk?”

—END— :)

Dawn opens the door to Hamilton’s cage and useds her hand to gently stroke his talons. Hamilton was bestowed to her by her best friend’s family member. May’s great-aunt was an old, peculiar, lady but she always seemed to have the best intentions.

The parrot stepped onto her hang and she guided him to her shoulder.

“Are you hungry?” She coos as she strokes his beak.

“Nom Nom!” He chirps back.

She gently gives him fresh carrot that she set aside from cooking dinner. He’d been accustomed to receiving snacks when he heard her making food at dinnertime. Even the sound of the fridge opening would peak his interest and would become restless in his confinement.

As he chomped away at the crunchy vegetable, she rustled his neck feathers lightly and walked back to the kitchen counter. Stirring the food in her simmering pot, Hamilton chips again.

“Coques Celia” he squawks.

Dawn, puzzled, sets her spoon down and hands him another carrot. “Nom nom” she says and he repeats.

She thinks to herself about all the weird things he’s been saying lately and how her friends great-aunt must have taught him these things before she gifted him. Was he speaking a different language? She took Spanish in high school but this sounded more Latin to her.

She suddenly realizes that the pot is now at a rolling boil and checks the temperature on the stove.

“Strange.” She says. “It’s set to simmer.” She removes the pot from the burner and turns the dial down until the flame is completely off.

“Nascor ” Hamilton squawks and rustles his wings, rocking back and forth on his feet. The sharp claws digging in her shoulder as he settles.

The pot of soup begins to look foggy, almost like a fog machine had been turned on. The pot of soup now looks like Halloween decoration and Dawn is puzzled as she watches this pot slowly bubble and produce a rolling mist.

“Did you just say NASCAR?” She asks rhetorically.

As she walks him back to his cage, she ponders the absurdity that is happening in her kitchen. She guides her shoulder to his perch, then latches the door once he is perched.

Walking back to the stove, she pulls out her phone to call her best friend. She uses the spoon to stir her soup as it is still bubbling and foggy, even with no heat.

“Hey babes!” Her friend May answers after a second call rings through.

“Heeeeey” Dawn responds warily. “So, you’re not going to believe this…”

“Try me. You’ve said some crazy shit before so I’m prepared for anything.” Her friend chuckles.

“Well, no, even by my standards… I don’t know. I don’t even believe what I’m seeing…”

“Whats going on? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course, I just… my soup is weird. It looks like a cauldron, May…”

“Must be good soup!”

“May, it’s bubbling and not even on the heat! There’s like, a fog coming off of it!”

“Oh… Man, I told her not to give you that bird.”

“What does that mean?” Dawn demands, taking insult to what he friend said.

“I’ve got to call my aunt. Can I call you back?”

“Sure, but what does that even mean?!”

There is no response and Dawn looks at her phone. May hung up without telling her anything more. What would a parrot have to do with her soup acting strangely?

She uses towels that were hanging on the oven handle to pick up the pot and gently pours out soup into the sink. The bubbling and fog die down but now she stares at clumps of noddles and vegetables that seem wasted. What else was she to do? Let it keep… doing whatever it was doing?

Her phone rings, it’s May again.

“That was fast.” Dawn answers.

“I haven’t told you but my aunt is a witch.”

“And you say that I say the most ridiculous things…”

“Seriously, Dawn!” She scoffs

There is silence on both ends of the line.

“That’s why your soup was doing that. You said yourself it looked like a cauldron…”

“May, what does my soup have to do with possible witchcraft?”

There is silence again before it clicks in Dawn’s head. She peaks into the living room where Hamilton’s cage is and watches him groom himself before stopping to look in her direction.

“So you’re telling me…” She says softly.

“Yeah.” May replies.

“Come get this bird.”

Then she hangs up the phone.