Photo by Carlos Veras on Unsplash
by Beth Sherman
I was walking in the park where my father and I used to go birding when I spotted a hawk. It looked at me funny and I stuffed it in my pocket where I felt it thrash and writhe, its wings beating against my corduroy pants, pecking my thighs, drawing blood. I took it home and fed it tofu and mushroom dip, although it craved meat, flesh it could rip apart, the lesser birds. Its eyes two golden marbles. Its feathers softer than the choicest silk. I spoke to it all the time – telling stories, telling lies – until the sound of my voice grew distasteful to me, and one night it escaped out the window, without even asking my name.
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in more than 100 literary magazines, including Flash Frog, Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, and Bending Genres. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and she’s the winner of the Smokelong Quarterly 2024 Workshop prize. A multiple Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net nominee, she can be reached on X, Bluesky or Instagram @bsherm36.
