I was fourteen and stood at the window of our council flat cringing as Dad made a fool of himself – again.
He was on a patch of grass waving a wire birdcage chasing after our budgie, Joey. Dad had let it out to fly around for exercise. Half the neighbourhood kids were joining in as the Old Man billed, cooed, and clucked trying to coax the bird to return to its prison.
This hadn’t been the first time; Dad did it before with Billie, Joey’s partner. We used to have two budgies and now it seemed we would have none. If you let a bird out of the cage in the living room, that’s fine; it’ll flap around, tear at the curtains, scratch the furniture and maybe shit on the carpet. It’ll do all those things but eventually (because that’s where its food is kept) it’ll go back to the cage.
But, if you let the critter out and leave the window open then the bird is going to escape (it’s only natural). Dad didn’t have the sense he was born with.
I winced as my embarrassing, pathetic, brain-dead father chased after the escaping bird. Dad’s shirttail flapped harder than Joey’s wings, but not a hair of his Brylcreemed head moved and his tie remained tightly knotted.
Already the pigeons had gathered to peck Joey to pieces.
My elder brother saw my flushing face, ‘It’s a metaphor,’ he growled, closing the lid on the suitcase he had just finished packing.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 