By Zachary Parson
It was a bird with a yellow yarn string wrapped around it’s dimly lit tangerine beak,
sitting in a confined rusty cage, almost like a jail cell, or simple resting area, depending on your interpretation. The door was open, I mean wide open, the farthest open it could possibly go, so open that the door held hands with the side of the cage beside it. Of course, he could seemingly escape, but yet another string crafted of yarn wrapped around his throat, that was tied off to the opposite side of the cage, where the door was nonexistent. The lowest depths of the cage contained nothing but a surfeit of raw meat, brittle human hair, and disturbed feathers. This bird was actually, rather beautiful. His wings were cloaked in brown, with hints of violet as your eyes traveled down his back, his legs a matte golden black. The bird’s eyelids rested over the eyes, shoulders propped, charisma was content, in the absolute most solitude fashion possible. Do I set him free?