I’m writing 52 stories in 52 weeks. This is Story #15.
Sparrow woke up one morning and didn’t like his feathers.
“Just look at them,” he moaned, eyeing the brown and tan hues. “They’re flat and dull. What I wouldn’t give to have bright plumage like Cardinal or Blue Bird.”
Sparrow sighed and stretched a wing. He was alone in his nest and wished he had someone to complain to. Feeling low, Sparrow rested his head on the edge of his nest and watched the morning pass.
Squirrels scampered up nearby trees; people passed on the sidewalk; blue jays and gold finches flitted around. Sparrow admired their plumage.
“They are as bright as the city murals,” Sparrow grumbled, glaring at his own brown feathers.
Suddenly, he was struck with an idea. “Why don’t I paint my feathers? I could choose any color I wanted.”
Smiling, Sparrow swooped down from his nest and began to search for paint. He sailed past several painters who were painting newly-built homes, but they had all selected beige and tan and ivory tones. Sparrow already had too much beige in his life.
Then, he spied it. A group of college students painting outside in a garden. Their palettes were dotted with flamingo pink, violet, ochre, lime green, cerulean. Sparrow dove.
“Hey, stupid bird!” One of the students shrieked. “Get outta my paint!”
Sparrow ignored the reprimands and rolled around in the reds and pinks.
“Better!” said Sparrow as he jetted away. “Just look at my wings! They’re beautiful. Redder than a cardinal’s plumage, more vibrant than a robin’s breast. Look how they shine in the sunlight!”
Sparrow twisted and danced across the sky. He swooped to the tree level and told all the squirrels, people, blue jays, and finches to “Look at me! Admire the sheen of my feathers! Gaze at their vibrancy!”
“They look nice,” one of the blue jays commented, “but you don’t look like yourself, Sparrow. I hardly recognize you.”
“That’s the point,” Sparrow replied. “I’m better now. I’ve left old Sparrow in the dust with his ugliness.”
“Whatever you say, Sparrow.”
Sparrow frowned at the blue jay and flew off. He was going to find some birds that truly appreciated his colors. He was going downtown.
As Sparrow flew, he began to feel strange. A heavy weight pressed down on him; his feathers began to stick together and harden. By the time he reached the arts district of the city, he felt like a thirty-pound raccoon was riding on his back.
“Oh dear,” said Sparrow as he plummeted to the earth.
He did his best to steer, but only managed to careen sideways, straight into a brick wall covered with a mural featuring four, grim reaper-type men and a pale blue sky. Sparrow braced himself for the impact, but it wasn’t enough. The hit was fatal and the poor bird eventually died, but not before he had a chance to look up and see the red and pink imprint he left behind when he hit the wall. “So beautiful,” Sparrow whispered as he expired. “The way the red contrasts against the blue sky…”
Today, birds of every color take their chicks to see the marred mural and point to Sparrow’s painted shape. “See, sons and daughters. That’s what happens when you don’t accept who you are. You end up as just an outline of yourself—no core, no center. Just a smear of pretty paint. Love the feathers you’re given, no matter their hue.”
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
Kate Bitters is a Minneapolis-based author and freelance writer. She is the author of Elmer Left, Ten Thousand Lines, and He Found Me. One of her proudest/nerdiest moments was when Neil Gaiman read one of her short stories on stage at the Fitzgerald Theater.
