'The Bluest Feather' by Beth Sherman

When my mother turned jay she screeched from the treetops, waking the neighbors, scaring the toddler next door. Her voice a rusty pump. Her body blue as sapphire, as an energy drink, as the earth viewed from a distant star. Her crest a black necklace. Her eyes flat as stones at the bottom of a river. She’s become aggressive. Become a thief, pilfering the nests of smaller birds, stealing their eggs, scratching shells open with her claws. Become a bully, pushing me backwards with her vein-riddled hands. She doesn’t apologize – can’t remember she’s done it. She says she’s pathetic. She says she’s too old. She screams and whistles, craving attention. Her raucous calls a warning. She won’t stop talking. A chatterer. A liar. She thinks her diagnosis is the stuff of fairy tales. She tells the doctor to f**** himself. Tells me to mind my business. Tells the checkout girl at Shop Rite she’s been kidnapped, been poisoned, been on The Price is Right. In the grass, she digs for ants, scooping them into her beak, barely pausing to breathe before stuffing the next one in. Mid-air, she flies slowly, the wind a ribbon of air. She’s too noisy, too bold. She likes shiny things. To get her attention, I wave a strip of aluminum foil. I coax. I implore. When I’m tired, I play along. At night, she shrieks and I shudder awake, fix us a pot of herbal tea. She buries her seeds where I can’t find them. 

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Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 100 literary journals and appears in Best Microfiction 2024. She’s also a multiple Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky, or Instagram @bsherm36