Gregory Brown is the grand prize winner of our 2018 Grouse Ground Lit Prize for V. Short Forms! Read his winning piece, “Birdhouse,” and get it in print in our Dreams issue 57.1!
Birdhouse
Pre-meeting chirrup, caw-caw. New face, old face, coffee, cigarettes. Make a circle, little nest.
What would you do if you only had one year left to live? The addicts share out, one by one. I’d
spend it with my kids, one guy says. I’d take my moms to Disney Land. Me too, me too. Definitely go travelling with my family. And on and on. Joanie’s already tired of this shit, the pep and preening. Three straight days: Everybody putting on their brightest feathers. Forgive, forgive. Love, love. Blah, blah, blah. She can feel the heat in her chest, the roil of bile rising up her throat, she wants to cut these motherfuckers down, show them how un-special their love. How wrong. She’s seen the scars on her roommate’s arms. Heard Kevin O. confess to picking through his OD’ing girlfriend’s sweatpants, scoring a twoonie and a couple of crushed cigarettes. Nobody here who hasn’t fucked over, been fucked over. Joanie’s in her head. Time flies, but where? Then: This woman, Vola, is saying, I’d make birdhouses. Birdhouses? Yeah, Vola says. You a bird lover? No, Vola says, I don’t really like birds. Scattered laughter. Vola says, I just think it’d be a nice thing to do. A small, nice thing. Vola looks down in her lap as she says this, clasping her hands. Now it’s Joanie’s turn to speak, but she’s not sure anymore. She’s forgotten something important about herself. It’s flown the coop. She’s thinking about a thing her parents told her when she was five or six, a lie to get her out of the house: Throw salt on a bird and its wings won’t work. Let you pick it up, take it home, love it. Joanie’s trying to remember: Did it work?