The Birds
Arthur lives at the edge of town. His house is rife with infestation, with weeds and aphids and pests of all varieties. The house is tucked away by the end of the court. It is the scourge of your street.
*
Arthur’s front yard is full of birds. He used to tend vegetables there, ripe for the eating all year long; that was before the weather began to change. Now the summers are too hot and the winters are too long. Arthur doesn’t come out much these days. You never see him leave his home, nor does he get any visitors or deliveries. You wonder what he does to keep his stomach full. Maybe there is something growing after all.
*
Your wife is worried for Arthur. She decides to make him a lasagne, and sends you over there to pass it along. Wading through knots of grass, you try to avoid the rabid birds. You ring the bell of his front door, staring through the kitchen window while you wait. You notice a jar on the sill. Inside and suspended in water appears to be an onion bulb, sprouting roots or—wait. That’s not an onion. It’s a thumb. You drop the lasagne on the front step and rush back home.
*
Arthur is propagating his thumb, you tell your wife, he’s waiting for it to sprout. She simply laughs, tells you that’s a strange thing to say, then asks if Arthur sends his thanks.
*
Arthur asks to borrow your lawn mower. He intends to cut the grass back so the birds no longer gather. You’re stunned to find him standing by your door. Maybe he read the lasagne as some kind of peace offering. So you grant him the lawn mower. He wheels it out of your garage, and that’s when you see it: Arthur’s left hand is missing a finger. He notices you staring. You swiftly look away.
*
Your wife asks you to collect her lasagne dish.
*
So you visit Arthur’s house. He has finally cut the grass back. And from the lawn there are thumbs and big toes sprouting like potatoes. A crow, in a single swoop, plucks a big toe from the ground. It boasts great thick hairs by its knuckle. The crow careens across the sky with the toe loosely hanging from its beak. Arthur needs more toes, he says; they’re the only things that grow in this climate.
*
You offer him a pinky toe.
*
Returning home with a sock full of blood, you notice the weighty casserole dish, heavier now, it seems, than it was when you left it. You lift back the old layer of foil on top. Sitting inside it is a dish you’ve never seen before. All mush, and cheese, and shrivelled, greying meats, and in the same way they poked through the front lawn, there are toes and thumbs pointing up to the sky. They are charred and drooping, but recognisable nonetheless. Your stomach bubbles, a wave of bile rising up to coat your teeth.
*
A bird swoops down to the uncovered dish. It pinches a digit from your pie, careening back into the atmosphere and thumbing the neighbourhood from above.
*
What Arthur really needs, you think, is a scarecrow.
Helena Pantsis (she/they) is an editor, writer and artist from Naarm, Australia with a fond appreciation for the weird, the dark, and the experimental. She is the author of short story collection GLUTT, and the forthcoming poetry collection CAPTCHA. More can be found at hlnpnts.com.