A story by my friend Sally Basmajian:
I lounge in my flannel pj’s, snack bowl firmly nestled into my squashy paunch and poke the remote with my least cheez-puffed finger. I’m halfway zoned out, when rustling noises from behind the wall jolt me back to reality. I press the mute button. For a moment, there’s silence; then the scrabbling starts up again, accompanied by a haunted squawk.A louder volley of frantic swooshing propels me to my feet. Holding my snack bowl at the ready in case I need to fire it at my avian invader, I scream for backup. Kevin comes running, as I splutter words like “Bird!” and “Chimney!” and others my daddy never taught me.
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