The Hummingbird

“I fucking hate that hummingbird,” said Jason, freshly lit cigar in one hand.

We sat on the sunken, legless couch watching the rain through the open garage door. A tiny crushed skeleton with hints of bright green feathers lay scattered on the cement.

“The bird didn’t do shit,” I said, watching him stew in a cloud of smoke, “It was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He looked at me as if I was an idiot.

“You’re an idiot. You never know what they’re injecting cameras into these days, it’s all political.”

“And you’re deranged. No one’s sitting in the Oval Office worrying about what to do with the fucking birds.”

“You don’t know that.”

He handed me the cigar and unceremoniously kicked the carcass under the couch.

“Just in case they come looking for it.”

I imagined black-suited CIA members jumping out of formidable cars to pillage South Anaheim in search of a single hummingbird, and took a long drag of the cigar.

Bella Horn is a short fiction writer based in Los Angeles. She enjoys writing about people, things, or communities that are often misunderstood and gravitates toward creative work that is a little messy, twisted, and complicated. Her work can be found in the Bluefire Literary Journal, The Pointed Circle, and The Closed Eye Open.