Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Singing birds

"Hey, Rob," said the pigeon, alighting on their favorite telephone wire—the one above the Seven Eleven where the air smelled like Big Gulps and refuse all day.
"Hey Sid," said Rob, cooing a sigh.
"What's wrong?"
"It's just...you know what? Never mind."
"Come on, Rob. You know you can tell me anything."
"No, no. It's embarrassing."
"Rob," said Sid. He would have been raising an eyebrow but, you know, pigeons don't actually have eyebrows.
"I— um, I've been going through a dry spell."
"Oh, is that all?"
"Don't say it like that! It's been a really rough couple of months! After Bertha left me... It's just been hard, okay?"
"Come with me."
Rob was quizzical, but Sid was not someone you could just say no to. When you were on Sid's good side, everything was wonderful. You knew the funniest heads to poop on. You knew the garbage bins were people left the seediest snacks. And now. Now Rob was about to learn something very special.
They flew over the mall, past the stores, along the highway, past rows and rows of houses, and just when Rob was about to call it quits, Sid started banking downwards. They landed on a window sill.
"See, isn't this better?" said Sid, smirking.
"Oh, sure, this narrow window sill is way better than our wire."
"Rob, you do not get to be sarcastic with me when I am giving you this great gift! Don't look where we are! Look what's in there," said Sid, extending his wing toward the inside of the house. Rob turned his head. There she was, a slim, blonde girl writing in her diary in nothing but a pair of lacy panties. "See, isn't this the best house?"
Some day, when his heart was no longer bleeding buckets from a Bertha-sized hole, perhaps Rob would feel bad for his voyeurism. Some day he might even leave Sid once and for all and be in control of his own life. But for now he just stared and felt better.

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