The woman must have read my mind.
“Should I open a window?” she asked.
“Now’s your chance,” said the parrot, “now’s your chance.”
I looked at him. “I don’t see you going anywhere.”
“Crackers,” he squawked, “it’s about the crackers.”
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Her bedroom was painted deep jungle green with a galaxy of luminescent stars glued to the ceiling. A parrot sat reading a newspaper in a rusty cage with a broken door. I looked at the woman and thought I saw vines swinging in her cat eyes. I wondered if I’d entered a painting by Henri Rousseau. I checked my pulse.
The woman must have read my mind. “Should I open a window?” she asked. “Now’s your chance,” said the parrot, “now’s your chance.” I looked at him. “I don’t see you going anywhere.” “Crackers,” he squawked, “it’s about the crackers.” Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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