Quilted Baseball Parrots & Sharks That Like Watermelon
I just wrote this for a friend, ha. I was requested to write a short story that included...
and...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a lovely weekday at the park, the kind picnics would daydream wistfully about. For Walter, it was another idle afternoon spent under his favorite willow, browsing the lines of a good book. The well-worn threads of his grandmother’s quilt felt familiar against his dorsal fin as he sat, shaded by the words and the tree. Aside from a considerable bowl of oatmeal and some fruit to accompany him, Walter was alone.
To his left, he heard the sounds of stolen bases and home runs across the field, where a baseball diamond laid etched into the grass. A dozen or more participants ran about the bases, cheering with zeal as they did each Tuesday. Walter didn’t mind the ruckus; he thought it a lively, youthful rhythm for his reading. Secretly, he’d wondered if they would let him join in. A few times he had nearly gathered the will to ask, but was fearful that his fielding skills wouldn’t be up to par.
Walter turned the page, letting his oatmeal cool. He wondered if books could be better-designed so sharks could read them with greater ease, as his species lacked thumbs. He sighed, burrowing himself deeper into the novel, eclipsing the scene around him. It was then that he heard an unexpected splash.
“Hmmm,” Walter thought, not budging to investigate.
“…That certainly didn’t sound like water,” he thought. To Walter, it sounded more like an object colliding with a collection of complex carbohydrates.
“Oh,” spoke Walter, lowering his book to note the baseball that was cratered peacefully between his breakfast. “Oh dear,” Walter submitted, adjusting his monocle.
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” a voice spoke politely.
Looking up again, Walter saw a parrot hovering over his quilt. As it landed, he was struck by its wavy, delicate plumage. He stared.
“…It was a foul ball, I’m afraid,” the parrot noted, filling the gap that Walter’s wide-eyed observation had formed. Green and lemon-tinted feathers spread across the parrot’s back, and Walter found himself taken by her curved, compact beak.
“Quite…alright,” Walter managed, not questioning how a parrot could swing a bat. Cupping the threaded ball between his fins, Walter raised it from his oatmeal, presenting it to the bird. “Here you are,” Walter offered, leaving space at the end of his speech.
“…Susan, thank you,” the parrot finished. “You know, I have noticed you here from time to time. You’re welcome to come and join us, if you’d like.”
“Ha, well…how kind. I do appreciate that, but I’d probably not be of too much use. I’m better suited as a spectator, I’m sure,” Walter blushed, holding the skin on the back of his neck.
“Oh, you’d be just fine. I hadn’t played at all until last week,” Susan reassured. Her eyes glowed a little as she spoke. Walter liked them. “I’d better be back then, though. Dreadfully sorry about your oats,” she apologized.
“I still have my watermelon, I suppose,” Walter noted as Susan prepared to fly off. “…Would you care to…that is, well. Would you like some, maybe for a moment?”
“I do rather enjoy watermelon,” Susan admitted, lowering her wings. “I make it a point to eat the seeds, too…everyone else finds them so undesirable.”
“You eat the seeds? How curious,” Walter remarked, his multi-toothed grin making an appearance. He wanted to know more. Fortunately, for now, he would have that opportunity.
and...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a lovely weekday at the park, the kind picnics would daydream wistfully about. For Walter, it was another idle afternoon spent under his favorite willow, browsing the lines of a good book. The well-worn threads of his grandmother’s quilt felt familiar against his dorsal fin as he sat, shaded by the words and the tree. Aside from a considerable bowl of oatmeal and some fruit to accompany him, Walter was alone.
To his left, he heard the sounds of stolen bases and home runs across the field, where a baseball diamond laid etched into the grass. A dozen or more participants ran about the bases, cheering with zeal as they did each Tuesday. Walter didn’t mind the ruckus; he thought it a lively, youthful rhythm for his reading. Secretly, he’d wondered if they would let him join in. A few times he had nearly gathered the will to ask, but was fearful that his fielding skills wouldn’t be up to par.
Walter turned the page, letting his oatmeal cool. He wondered if books could be better-designed so sharks could read them with greater ease, as his species lacked thumbs. He sighed, burrowing himself deeper into the novel, eclipsing the scene around him. It was then that he heard an unexpected splash.
“Hmmm,” Walter thought, not budging to investigate.
“…That certainly didn’t sound like water,” he thought. To Walter, it sounded more like an object colliding with a collection of complex carbohydrates.
“Oh,” spoke Walter, lowering his book to note the baseball that was cratered peacefully between his breakfast. “Oh dear,” Walter submitted, adjusting his monocle.
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” a voice spoke politely.
Looking up again, Walter saw a parrot hovering over his quilt. As it landed, he was struck by its wavy, delicate plumage. He stared.
“…It was a foul ball, I’m afraid,” the parrot noted, filling the gap that Walter’s wide-eyed observation had formed. Green and lemon-tinted feathers spread across the parrot’s back, and Walter found himself taken by her curved, compact beak.
“Quite…alright,” Walter managed, not questioning how a parrot could swing a bat. Cupping the threaded ball between his fins, Walter raised it from his oatmeal, presenting it to the bird. “Here you are,” Walter offered, leaving space at the end of his speech.
“…Susan, thank you,” the parrot finished. “You know, I have noticed you here from time to time. You’re welcome to come and join us, if you’d like.”
“Ha, well…how kind. I do appreciate that, but I’d probably not be of too much use. I’m better suited as a spectator, I’m sure,” Walter blushed, holding the skin on the back of his neck.
“Oh, you’d be just fine. I hadn’t played at all until last week,” Susan reassured. Her eyes glowed a little as she spoke. Walter liked them. “I’d better be back then, though. Dreadfully sorry about your oats,” she apologized.
“I still have my watermelon, I suppose,” Walter noted as Susan prepared to fly off. “…Would you care to…that is, well. Would you like some, maybe for a moment?”
“I do rather enjoy watermelon,” Susan admitted, lowering her wings. “I make it a point to eat the seeds, too…everyone else finds them so undesirable.”
“You eat the seeds? How curious,” Walter remarked, his multi-toothed grin making an appearance. He wanted to know more. Fortunately, for now, he would have that opportunity.