THE WORM

This flash fiction story is based on something I actually saw myself on June 9th, 2023, while waiting for the bus. This wainscott-society occurance was so comical that I just had to write about it. I wrote this primarily on that same bus (and edited it later).

I sit on a stone wall, kicking my feet back and forth, bouncing the heel of my shoe off the brick. (I shouldn't, it's bad for my shoes, but I do it anyway.) The gentle summer wind brushes through the trees, with the sun coming through the leaves in splotches. My skirt flutters as each passing breeze uplifts the fabric slightly. It's warm, but not too warm. The day is perfect. 

I'm looking at the willow oak tree. (It doesn't matter what else I am doing here, but if you must know, I am waiting for the bus.) It's massive, its trunk maybe three feet in diameter, and there's a circle of pine straw surrounding the base. The pine straw is bordered by a gray brick circle, which itself is bordered by red brick. Just imagine an archery target with four circles, inwards to outwards: tree, pine, gray, red. 

(Enter gray catbird.) He lands beneath the big oak tree onto the pine straw. I'm staring at him because, well, of course I am. He's a light slate gray, with a little black mohawk and a sharp black beak. About the same size as a mockingbird. (If you don't know either size, use your imagination.) The catbird plunges his beak into the straw, peck peck peck. His head rises and he cocks it to the side quizzically. I giggle. He puts his beak back down into the straw, peck peck peck. 

Triumph! He grabs a worm. The poor thing wriggles around on the pine straw, the movement noticeable even to my human eyes. He picks it up and puts it down repeatedly, almost as if he is considering sending it back to the kitchen. (There's nothing wrong with it, but he won't tip.)

(Enter American robin.) I had seen him on a lower branch of the willow oak, observing his surroundings. Kings of suburbia, with their little mockingbird knights and crow calvary. He lets out a short whistle, beautiful as always. If I were a bird, I'd be jealous of his song. (Luckily, I am not a bird.) 

The catbird notices this bigger foe, and suddenly he hops backwards. He looks worried, and I see him tilt his head again. What are you doing here? he asks. (He already knows.)

The robin approaches. The worm, he says. The worm in question is still moving around on the ground, and as I would imagine, is quite annoyed. (If two bigger things than you came and fought over you as their dinner, you'd be annoyed too.) 

And so, with some hesitation, the catbird hops backwards again, and this time I can sense his frustration. He decides fighting the robin isn’t worth it, and he flaps away. (Choose your battles, my mom always says.)

It’s like I can hear the robin chortling with laughter as he hops to the worm, takes one look at it, and picks it up off the pine straw. Now that it’s hanging from his mouth, I see its true size. It’s big, for a worm. (Sorry, worms.) He takes flight, and I watch him glide away.

I feel for the catbird. All that work for the perfect worm for nothing in the end. 

I feel for the robin too. Perhaps he struggled to find a worm today. Maybe he’s dealing with some personal problems and simply can’t be bothered to dig up worms. (Now that I am writing this, I feel less bad for him.)

Most of all, I feel for the worm.