Competition for Scarce Resources
A Flash Fiction by Cole Beauchamp
The glutinous wet of the beach house. The certainty that nothing will ever dry. Humid heat, claggy cold, that slick of discomfort coating every inch of you. Stay in one place and black spores will sprout. You feel even more sweaty this year, now Mom’s not here making her famous ice cream sundaes topped with walnuts, chocolate sauce and Cool Whip.
##
You've watched them every morning these last two weeks, so tiny at the beginning of your stay you couldn't even see their heads. Now four baby birds squawk, their beaks open wide like yellow kites while the mother zig zags back and forth, from the grass to the outdoor table to the nest, over and over. On the table, little dollops of bird poo curl like worms. You watch for hours, while your big sister and brother take turns on the paddleboard. Dad forgot your life jacket.
##
That little body on the deck. Your dad scoops up the baby bird. “Competition for scarce resources,” he says, adding it might be a first-time mother because why else would she make a nest right above our doorway that is always opening and closing?
You nod, the word mother ghosting her favorite deck chair, the wide hat with a blue band we’ve left on the hook.
He makes sure the bird is okay before tucking it back into the nest.
##
The birds have pushed the little one again out of the nest again. "Dad!" you cry but he's flipping burgers and it’s up to you now. Deep breath and you pick it up.
Its little chest shudders tiny breaths and the gloss in its eyes is dulling and even as you realize it's dying, hundreds of tiny black flecks the size of ground pepper stream off the body and over your hand. You want to get it off get it off but you don't want the baby bird to be alone in its last seconds.
Your brother clicks on the stereo in the kitchen, blasting pop music. Soon everyone’s on the deck, singing and dancing to Abba despite the sticky heat, and your big sister is trying to do the bump like the two of you do in the shower when you’re water slick and screaming with laughter, but the bird is still in your hands and you’re doing a sideways shuffle to keep it safe.
“What?” shouts your big sister, making a face at you until Dad sees.
“What?” she repeats, and sashays over to your brother. The two of them look at you and laugh.
The bass of the music thuds like a drumbeat as you lay the bird on the orange and gold beach towel that blazes like the sun.
Author: Cole Beauchamp is a copywriter by day and fiction writer by night. She was shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and has stories in The Phare, trampset, Janus Literary, Ellipsis Zine, Free Flash Fiction and Sundial. She lives in London with her girlfriend and has two children. Twitter: @nomad_sw18