Congratulations go out to Amy Evenstad, who crafted the winning entry in this month's First Friday over at WildBird on the Fly.
I rather liked my entry this month, I might just expand the concept to a longer story. And in case you are at all interested, here it is.
Five days. Heʼd been wandering for five days, hopelessly lost. The worse part of it was that it would be another week before anyone would think about looking for him. When he pushed his canoe off into this swamp, he told Faith that heʼd be out in two weeks. He was too prepared for this to happen, too prepared for success, and for the past four days he had himself convinced that heʼd be back in camp soon. But he sat with his back against the knee of a big cypress, and as much as he wanted to ignore the gnawing hunger he could think of little else. Try as he might he couldnʼt get the breakfast he was making days ago out of his mind.
That oatmeal was almost ready when he heard the first double-knock, so close that he spilled his coffee as he jumped up. Straining to listen he spun as the first tin horn of a “kent” call came from the other side of camp. He couldnʼt believe his luck. Two days into his search for proof of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker in this swamp and it seemed like there was a pair practically in his camp.
The flash of a dark bird ahead had mobilized him, he grabbed his video camera and binoculars and moved as quickly as he could towards it. What he hadnʼt grabbed was the carefully planned pack, with his GPS, food, tape recorder and water. He was going to catch a ghost.
He had paused a little ways in when the second call came, this time to the right, and he plunged waist deep into the swamp, soaking the camera, single-mindedly pursuing the bird, the glory that would be his. Back onto dry ground, another flash of wing, another double-knock, led him deeper into the bayou. Then there was nothing, just the drone of the mosquitos that he fanned away from his face.
An hour after that another call had led him deeper into the green abyss, and when he had finally decided to regroup and get the rest of his gear, everything closed in. He looked for his camp until dark, and huddled through the night, a Blue Jay mocking him in the last light.
Five days of fruitless searching finally got him thinking about survival. He was hungry, and knew he had to find something to eat soon. Strangely all he could remember from his Boy Scout days was how to set a snare for birds. He gave up his shoelaces gladly for the chance to eat that damn Blue Jay that continued to dog him.
An hour before dusk, he heard frantic flapping at one of his snares. Dear god it worked, and he rushed to see the large black and white bird with a red crest struggling futilely against the bond. He slumped. All the proof he needed was right before him, but heʼd never make it out to tell anyone without food.
Comments
4 responses
Nice. Even nastier than The Gift of the Magi.
Wow, I’ll take being mentioned in the same breath as O. Henry any time. Thanks.
Wow. Great twist.
Thanks Liza. It was fun to write. I’m not too sure whether my March story is too dark. I tend to want to write something in this contest that isn’t just sweetness and light, because I think bird fiction can be something different than that.