A Prompt to Resolve a Crisis of Faith
They say that a bird in the hand is greater than (or equal to) two in the bush; so who am I to argue with proverbial maxims? Nobody should argue with proverbial maxims, because they are all completely true.
The creative side of me is much at home with birds. Poets and writers have sometimes damaged their brains irreparably attempting to memorize every name in the known aviary.
They have inspired writers for millennia with their striking plumage and colors, and the gift of flight that comes with it. These creatures add beauty and splendor into our world.
No, wait. They’re absolutely horrifying. Those cold staring eyes, that cruel and lacerating beak. You can see this is a creature that would devour you if it were large enough. Descended from the dinosaurs. If I were a worm, no sparrow would show me mercy.
But wait: I’m the monster. I’ve eaten hundreds of birds in my life. Chickens ducks geese pheasants turkeys quail. Maybe some others. Peacock is appreciated in medieval cuisine, and the flamingo was a delicacy to the Romans. I’ve seasoned gleefully (as the house fills with the scent of poultry) their roasting, pan-fried, or boiled flesh with every savory and sweet combo known to man.
Forget love, forget death, forget loss and hardship. Birds ARE the stuff of poetry. Second only to flowers.
I would have thought that the reality of birds was a given. Have I been so deeply deluded all this time by the wicked elite reptilian lizard-people of the 4th dimension?
Because lately, there’s been some buzz circulating that the whole bird thing is some kind of big nefarious hoax. What a troubling idea for a writer. Maybe the claim that this is a hoax, is also some kind of nefarious hoax, but who can tell?
Whether all this poundage of plumage is said to be only so much hologram, or if the claim rests on robotic raptors, enough!
For me, I have seen, heard, tasted, and been viciously attacked by our fine feathered friends and fiends, and to doubt THIS reality, is to doubt EVERYTHING.
Therefore, please help me to resolve this gnawing canker that undermines the foundations of my literary world and work.
The rage of the homemade prompt burns bright and strong here on Vocal; thus, in the state of my bewildered crisis of faith, I’ve decided to launch one of my own, hopefully killing two birds with one stone:
[Drumroll and shrill fanfare of trumpets frightens all the birds away in a flurry, leaving a fog of feathers. First Proof!]
THE CAMPAIGN FOR THE REALITY OF BIRDS!
Take to your quills with all the urgency you can muster, for the stakes are high! Well, I mean there aren’t going to be any winners or losers, but the burden of proof rests on us. Let’s prove collectively, beyond the shred of a doubt, the absolute physical/spiritual/poetic/prosaic and culinary realities of featherlings. A short poem or piece of micro-fiction is preferred, but I will not impose any specs for length.
Excuse me, but I like to call them featherlings at times.
Birds in the sky, birds in the nest. Big birds, little birds. Birds in the oven and birds in the belly. Vultures sated on carrion. Sky’s the limit.
The goal is to aim for excellence.
Please leave me a link to your proof in the comments, and I will embed it in this story. Let’s see what we come up with!
Campaign for the Reality of Birds. Take to your plumes for our feathered friends and fiends alike, fit for the most lofty skies as well as the hottest of ovens.