Hols with an O Not a U
Brigid sits near the electric space heater — warmth feeling like salvation as it chases the damp chill off the floorboards.
And there’s a pigeon in the birdbath: it lifts its left wing into the gauzy rain (sheets of it falling, half-translucent), splashing about as if the rain bouncing off the flagstones wasn’t already doing a fine job on its feathers; then it lifts its right wing, offering it up like a supplicant.
She stares past the near-distance at nothing in particular; her elbows a tripod, her chin cupped in her palms, while the crow paces the edge of her desk, muttering in soft, gravelly disapproval.
Brigid sighs, “We need a holiday — somewhere far away, where I can shed these layers of winter clothes… somewhere warm, where a drink with ice makes you dead-sick for weeks.”
“Cawck,” croaks the crow, and she laughs, “No — Colombia. With an O, not a U,” and she reaches for her largest suitcase on top of the wardrobe.
“Pack a bag, crow — we’re going on holiday; we’ll gag politely on Christmas tamales.”
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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story, including the word “shed”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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