Flight of the Magpie
A Micro Fiction by Mairead Robinson
One for sorrow, two for
Joyless in her prison. The magpie’s dull-eyed hunch stares past the dangling mirror, the seed dispenser, the gilded toys.
Three for a girl, four for a
Boyd caged her when she crashed into the patio doors. A fledgling, stunned. He likes to tame things. The magpie. Me. I married him young. ‘She’ll learn,’ he said, chuckling as she screamed. Her feathers flashed green frantic at the bars.
Five for silver, six for
Gold bonds, secretly invested over thirty years, provide a decent nest-egg for a woman with no other income. My place was at home, Boyd insisted, being mother to our sons. But they’re grown and flown now.
Seven for a secret never to be
Told the boys. They’re supportive. Before I leave, I take her outside and unloose the catch. I see the curved reach of her wings, her swoop into wild. Joyful, free.
Author: Mairead Robinson lives in the South West of the UK with an anti-social cat and a pro-social dog. She has recently become addicted to Flash Fiction and has been published by EllipsisZine and Free Flash Fiction. She can be found on Twitter @Judasspoon