CRUMBS [a short novella]

Chapter 2: organic spelt

Parker lay there on the ground. The hot soot covered pavement of the sidewalk parched his ruffled feathers. Had he ever watched cartoons, Parker would say he was seeing stars.

For a long moment he lay there unconscious. Luckily for him, his wing was unharmed. Not that Parker ever really flew, but hurting a wing is a painful thing. Just ask his friend Pedro.

Pedro's wing got clipped by some hot-shot executive's briefcase when he slammed it down in outrage that his investment portfolio had just gone down on the NYSE. He will never be able to fly again. Even though none of Pedro's friends really bothered to practice the art of flying through the streets of New York, Pedro's unfortunate accident was the butt of every joke therein.

"You may as well be a chicken Pedro!" Patty bobbled. That was probably the most degrading comment ever made to Pedro. No one wanted to be a chicken. Egg producing, farmed caging, and flightless bird. Even Pigeons were above the mockery food chain. At least pigeons could roam free, and at least (if they really wanted to) they could fly.

Coming out of a really big smack in the face, Parker was slowly gaining consciousness. The New York Times was a hefty paper, he thought to himself. I would have much preferred a wack in the face by the cover of the NewYorker. At least a magazine has a glossy finish that would slip across these feathers. Or hey playboy would have been nice. I'd love to have a pair of those in my face.

Sometimes Parker was a bit of a pigeonizer.

Parker opened an eye and turned his head to look at the sky. It was a beautiful bright day in July, hot as hell, but the clearest of skies. And that is where he saw it, a small bird flying uncontrollably. It flew up and dropped back, pivoted higher then flailed around on its way down. It looked exhausted.

This is precisely why flying is overrated, Parker thought, reassuring himself that he had not eaten one too many crumbs of bread. Especially discomforting because the bread crumbs weren't from the cute metropolitan kids or the east village hippies (who would have only served him organic spelt bread anyway), they were from the Central Park bums.

Parker kept reassuring himself, as he watched the little bird struggle to catch air in the sky, that his pot belly had not doubled in size since the end of winter.

The little bird was definitely not a pigeon, it was both too small and too eager to stay airborne. Parker watched the bird in awe. While pitying this little bird, Parker forgot to pity himself as he still lay there on the sidewalk.

What a day, Parker thought to himself. He knew he was not a species of bird that was particularly respected in the streets of New York City, but a smack in the face - that had gone way too far.

A simple "shoo" could have sufficed. He's used to it, at least a dozen New Yorkers and another dozen old ladies "Shoo" Parker away every single day.

He twitched the tip of his right wing to see if it would move. A single glossy grey feather popped up as if to say hello. With his two wrinkled feet still facing the sky and the towering building tops, Parker wiggled his toes and swayed his legs back and forth trying to build momentum.

So while Parker struggled on the ground, the little bird struggled in the sky. Certainly, the bird in the sky must have been pitying him as well.

One wing over the other, a twitch of the claw, a flick of the leg, then finally Parker rolled onto his wonderfully round tummy and dug his claw into the ground. Oh yeah! Parker bellowed, to which to passing by tourists sounded more like a purring "Ppaaaruuuuu parruuuuu".

He had managed to roll over onto his belly and prop himself up. Eating pizza crusts all day really had its benefits after all.

Then with a sudden recollection of that little struggling bird, he quickly looked up. Parker searched the skies for that little bird as his head bobbed back and forth, back and forth. But the little bird was nowhere to be seen.

Then suddenly a large shadow loomed above Parker. Must be rain, he thought as he stood still thinking of the little bird and of what pizza shop he would frequent. The shadow grew larger and larger, and Parker prepared himself to run from the rain.

Wait, this is not rain. Maybe another copy of the morning newspaper, or hopefully Playboy magazine. As he turned his eye up towards the sky he saw a feathery view before all he heard was another

THUD!