“Hey, buddy, I gotta fly,” Theo said.
“Why?” asked George. “You got someplace you need to be?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Theo responded,
“Theo, I’m your best friend,” George said. “You can tell me anything.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Theo admitted.
“You got dumped by that hot red-tailed hawk I’ve seen you soaring with,” George said. “Am I right?”
“Yeah, I got dumped,” Theo confessed. “But I’m not going to let that bitchy hen clip my wings. I’ve got an appointment at the Hair Club for Birds. Some birds can pull off the bald look, but I don’t think I can.”
George shook his head. “Theo, we are the national bird of the United States. We’re the spiritual symbol for native Americans. And, my friend, we aren’t actually bald. Our white-feathered heads stand out in contrast to the brown feathers on our bodies and wings.”
“Really?” Theo said. “I’m not bald?”
“No, my fine-feathered friend, you’re not,” George said. “You’re regal. And you can do so much better than that hawkish hen. So let’s swoop down and grab ourselves a couple of plump, juicy rabbits to celebrate our majesty. Are you with me or not?”
“Thanks, buddy,” Theo said. “I feel so much better now.”
Written for this week’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner from Roger Shipp. Photo credit: Morguefile. (I exceeded the 200 word limit by six words. Sorry about that, Roger.)