Walked on

14 July 2019
Moreland Library Short Story Competition

She wore the parrot with aplomb, proudly atop her sloping shoulders’ hanger—avian preening and a’flapping—he was not the only stare-worthy visual about her, but perhaps took first place.

Gary wore his plumage with a royal burgeon, all gold and haughty azure, beak sharper than the cruellest tongue, quicker than the fastest gun in the west.

In public they clashed, wretchedly; but steadfast was their friendship, as wingtip to finger. Gary—as his finery suggested—was a gift, a final relenting from her parents some teenaged birthday or other. On the day he was just as unfitting as any other since: loud, brash, garish, he chortled, maimed and sung, except of course when such elocution was required of him, instead he would observe a solemn nun’s hush, demurring and making not a single eye of contact.

In private, Gary held space and all its stars and pitiless vacuum for her, his screeching and lamenting lost its edge, more butter than carving knife. Gary could whisper and lullaby, tell tales and listen for sobbing at any hour. In the greys of her room, he willingly dulled his colour, appearing fluffy and forgiving, a blur of soft sunshine rays and a milieu of babbling brooks’ undulation. In any crook he could secret himself, nuzzling better than any cat with deliberately sheathed claws. They were a team.

The jungles of Sydney Road were regularly thick with the scent of lunchtime and the caterwaul of conversation, the daily bustle held thousands beyond its capacity with hips relaxed and extra limbs outstretched. She plodded: half aimless, half direct, all determination. Today was going to be ‘The Day’. She felt as though nothing could stop her until his face loomed large, he strode out to stop her, crushing her day along with the pilling bitumen beneath his Blunstones.

Heads, already turned in their colourful direction, strained and bobbled to hear. He spat his words at her, spittle conglomerate at mouths’ corners, whipped into a furious lather. She listened hard as she had been trained to do, and defeat’s heavy handle began to turn her around when Gary struck her still with his voice:

“Public Transportation is for us all

to use and move our bodies well, you mug.

Take this lesson, with it make yourself tall;

A bully is no better than lowly slug.

Law enforcer of a kind you may be,

But kindness is absent from your heart;

Without its mould and guidance grace in you,

I have more backbone in my birdy fart!”

Gary was a protector, a debater, a shrieking agitator—yes, he may start arguments, but he also finished them, in flourishing iambic pentameter.

The uniformed curmudgeon moved out of their way, and with a floaty step and a mechanic bleep, they alighted onto the tram.

Gary shat on her shoulder, but she didn’t mind.