Baby Bird, by René Zadoorian

He hated his beak. His eyes, once green-specked, now rested on opposite ends of his minuscule
head, separated by the pointy bone. Thick brown curls had converted to fuzzy prepubescent
feathers. Legs, once trained for marathons, now bent into an unfamiliar shape.

He hated being a baby bird.

Twigs and stray fur replaced his memory foam mattress, which was stained of late-night nose
bleeds. Slimy wet earth worms and regurgitated meals substituted grilled chicken breast and
steamed vegetables. Three years prior, he purchased a curved television on sale. Hours were spent
in front of the display, soaking in high-definition nature documentaries. Now, entertainment was
limited to the movement of the leaves beside him.

He hated his loneliness. He missed his boyfriend, the human who never made him breakfast
because he knew he had no appetite in the mornings. He missed the way they sang along to the
radio on Sunday mornings, tones drastically different from the artists. Surely, he was missing him,
too.

Most of all, he hated the fact that he hadn’t forgotten any of it. Wasn’t that what death was all
about? He looked around his unsupervised home where his siblings were plucked out one by one
by the neighborhood cat. He wished that he too had been a victim of that incident. Maybe then,
he would not have to take matters into his own wings.
​
The baby bird, full of hatred, stepped closer to the edge of the nest. He flapped his futile wings,
pushed himself forward with shaky twig legs, and plummeted into his next life, hoping to forget the last two.

René Zadoorian is a creative writing major at California State University, Northridge. He was born in Tehran, Iran. His short stories and photography have been featured in the Northridge Review, Valley by Valley, and Beyond Queer Words.