Jack Walsh

The sun’s warmth is a reminder that we are alive. I sat, he stood, we ate. Outside. Seeds crack
under his beak; his dish full — my bowl much the same. The seeds in my breakfast still
housed by ripe fruit, much too big for my friend.

On the back table.

Spread in front of me. More fruit to be had; fruit for the brain. A sourness is packed
within its pages. I do not crave the taste, but it needs to be consumed. The words blur into
black dots — a colony of ants that march in lines. They remain on the paper, stuck to its
nectar. Much as I remain stuck to this desk, shackled to study.

The trees are still and not a blemish on the sky. Light breaks through the leaves,
streaking across the deck. His feathered crown perks, his way of expression.


Terracotta now visible among his feed. A look to the dish, a look toward me. Calls in
the treetops, his plumage ruffles. I can tell he’s not much of a reader and when it comes to
work, I’m not either. We are much the same, the cockatoo and me, but I am chained

and he is free.

Jack is currently a third-year BFA student, majoring in creative writing. There is no such thing as too many short stories according to Jack, especially ones with a twist. He enjoys writing speculative fiction and dreams of a career in writer’s rooms.