A work of flash fiction where the fate of a newfound orphan materializes as an unlikely friendship blossoms…
by: Arvilla Fee
Out for a walk, my heart skips a beat when I hear a rustling in the grass. I’m not afraid of much, but I’m not particularly fond of snakes. At age 68, I can’t outrun them. I pause and listen. Again, a rustling in the large patch of clover near the old oak. Then I see a feathered black head pop up, and I laugh. Just a silly crow.
He looks at me quizzically. I say hello — in that way I say hello to every creature these days now that my husband, Charlie, is gone. To my surprise, the crow, instead of flying away, hobbles towards me.
His feathers are mussed as though he’s been in a rainstorm. And something seems off with the way he’s walking, an injured leg maybe? He hop-walks until he’s nearly touching my brown walking shoes. He pecks my laces. “Now don’t go untying those,” I say.
He nods like he’s agreeing, then, plain as day, says “Kit-Kit.” I gasp. Kit-Kit? Is he someone’s pet? “Well, hello,” I say again.
“Hello,” he says. My eyes widen. So, he is, or was someone’s pet! I bend down and hold out my free arm. “Come on,” I say. Kit-Kit flaps up to my arm then balances himself on his good leg.
Making my way back to the house, I imagine what Charlie would say if he could see me now. I can picture his wide grin, hand on his hip. “Well, well,” he’d say. “If it isn’t Claire rescuing another critter!” I smile to myself, a blush creeping up my cheeks. So, I was — am a softy!
When I reach my door, I stop, unsure whether or not to take the crow inside. He bobs his head and says, “Knock, knock.” I gape at him. He blinks. I guess, correctly, that he’s waiting for me to open the door because as soon as I do, he flies straight to the back of the sofa as if he’s done it a hundred times.
He’s clearly not wild. I grab the phone and call the first person I can think of, Ms. Nancy, who has been the church secretary for over forty years. She answers on the first ring.
“Hi, Nancy, Claire here.” I tell her about the crow and ask if she’ll make some inquiries around town, to which she readily agrees.
After we hang up, I realize I’m starving. I head to the kitchen, and the crow follows, flapping awkwardly before settling on the kitchen table. I cringe, thinking of hidden dirt and mites in those shiny feathers. But it’s too late now.
I heat up chicken soup and take out some crackers. “Crackers!” the bird says and pecks at the wrapper. I laugh. “Crackers, indeed!” I say. I open the package and break one into pieces. The bird busies himself with eating, and so do I.
A week goes by, and I’ve grown fond of our routine. Kit-Kit, the only name I know to call him, watches TV with me —he’s partial to game shows — eats with me, and sleeps on my night stand in an old towel nest I made. We’re just sitting down for breakfast on day eight when my phone rings. “Ring. Ring,” says Kit-Kit.
“Hello?”
It’s Nancy. She says she has good news. The bird belonged to a Mr. Henry Blackstone who passed away three weeks ago. His family has been wondering what became of Kit-Kit.
“Oh,” I say, my voice small. “I suppose I’ll have to…” I trail off, unable to continue.
“No. No,” Nancy says. “They’re pleased you found Kit-Kit and are happy to let you keep him as long as they can visit sometimes. He apparently flew out the door the day of the funeral. They’re just glad he’s safe.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as I hang up. “Did you hear that, Kit-Kit? You can stay!”
“Stay!” Kit-Kit says, doing a hop-dance on his newly splinted leg.
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her new magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/.
