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    Bird Hours
    Bird Hours
    Bird Hours
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    Bird Hours

    By TJ Davis

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The last day of school, a narrative based on a classic album, a mysterious disease, a camping trip gone awry, and a satirical phone message are included in this batch of five short stories.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTJ Davis
    Release dateMar 2, 2013
    ISBN9781301823468
    Bird Hours
    Author

    TJ Davis

    TJ Davis is an international teacher from Minnesota. His published writing includes five collections of short stories, two novellas, and a travel memoir about his three years living in Myanmar. His short story “Itchy” finished in the top 16 of the Discovery Channel’s “How Stuff Works Halloween Fiction Contest.” His works have also been included in the Chicago Center of Literature and Photography and Moloko House. He currently lives in Sofia, Bulgaria.

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      Book preview

      Bird Hours - TJ Davis

      Bird Hours

      By Tyler Davis

      Published by Gentlemantree Publishing

      Copyright 2013 Tyler Davis

      Smashwords Edition

      Table of Contents

      Dedication

      Acknowledgements

      Expulsion II

      Extended Play

      Itchy

      Two Build a Fire

      Voice Message

      About the author

      Dedication:

      Dedicated to my father and mother.

      Acknowledgements

      I’d like to thank Tracy Rankin for her indespensible editing skills, Josh Newett for his encouragement and patronage, Jacob Cantleberry for his cover design and his friendship, my Dad for providing the bird on the cover, Jeremy Horton for his gibberish and loading up the coffee pot every morning, Momma for being Momma, Shorty and Alex for letting me write in their dining room, Josh and Chuck for supporting my writing on the Stuff You Should Know podcast, all of my family, friends, teachers, students, and anyone else that has helped make my life what it is. Thank you all.

      Expulsion II

      Gil woke up at noon to a quiet house, much quieter than usual. He had slept peacefully. No nightmares this time. Gil slunk to the kitchen in his black boxers and thought about making breakfast, but instead he poured himself a glass of whiskey. He drank it while looking over his homework. Everything appeared to be in order.

      At two o’ clock he loaded up his backpack and got dressed. He slowly drained another glass of whiskey. It was the last day of school, and he was ready.

      He snatched his parents’ car keys from their little hook by the door and went out to the musty garage full of rusty nails, dirty shovels, and half-empty containers of oils, solvents, and neon-blue windshield wiper fluid. He hadn’t told his parents about what had happened the week before; he would never need to. He watched from the driveway as the garage door mechanically closed, and he backed out into the street. It was not a sunny day.

      At a red light about halfway to school he thought maybe he should have brought more bullets. If he turned back now he might not make it to class before summer vacation started. He decided to keep going.

      When he reached the school parking lot he pulled his parents’ Honda Civic into an empty spot near the back of the lot where the black top ended and students had to park in the dusty gravel. He listened to the radio for a bit while he continued steadily drinking the whiskey. No one noticed him. He was feeling good, feeling ready. The Clash was playing Should I Stay or Should I Go Now on the neighboring town’s classic rock station. That seemed about right.

      * * *

      Interesting idea, Kristine. Does anyone else think they know the answer? Miss Brabbit looked at an ocean of blank stares as she waited the four seconds that she had been taught to count off in her head to improve literature discussions in her classroom.

      Anybody? Crickets. The only sound in the classroom was the buzz of the fluorescent lights. She brushed her bangs back from her eyes. God, Miss Brabbit thought, kill me now. Is it three o’ clock yet?

      She looked to the clock. 2:45. Shit. Why didn’t I just show a movie? There was a knock on the metal door. Sweeping her eyes from the clock to the door on the opposite side of the classroom, she saw every head had turned. Even Wilt, who slept in class nearly every day, took his head off his desk as if he sensed a glitch in the Matrix.

      Standing in the doorway was Gil. Gil wasn’t supposed to be in the school. Gil had been expelled a week ago. Miss Brabbit had been the reason. Gil held a revolver.

      The whole class had turned into a sculpture garden, a flash mob waiting for an unknown password to signal them to unfreeze.

      Hi, Miss Brabbit. Did you miss me? he slurred. Before she could respond Gil pointed the gun at Dustin McElroy and shot him in the face, spraying blood, bone, and gray matter on his neighbors. Everyone straightened up in their chairs as the crashing sound echoed between the concrete walls. Wilt didn’t look sleepy anymore. One of the girls in the back row screamed. Dustin’s holy face hunched over his desk as if it were looking for a pencil that had rolled off.

      Everyone except Miss Brabbit, get the fuck out of here. Now! He pointed the gun at her and creeped away from the door, toward the front of the room. Nobody moved. They all looked to her. First time all year I’ve had their full attention.

      She put her head down in resignation. She looked at her black shirt and khaki pants. White knuckles enveloped the blue board marker that was still clutched in her hand. Do what he says, students. She didn’t see the looks the students gave her as they slowly marched out of the classroom. The shuffle of their shoes and the thwaps of their flip flops dissipated into the hallway.

      Once they had all left, he told her to slide the keys to him and to take a seat in the front row. He locked the windowless metal door. They were alone, since Dustin didn’t really count anymore. Being a first-year teacher at the school, she had been assigned a room with no windows. The only way into her room was the locked door behind Gil. He pulled another desk from the front row to the front of the room. It was his old desk. Her mascaraed eyes followed him as he slid into his seat. He wore a Hawaiian T-shirt and blue jeans. I thought school shooters always wore black.

      Would you like a drink, Miss Brabbit? Gil took out bottle of Jack Daniels from his backpack and shook it in his hand; the brown liquid sloshed in the glass. It was the sight of the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels, not the bloody mess that was once Dustin McElroy, that made Shirley Bunny Brabbit transform into a sobbing mess.

      Gil stared intently with a gun and a smile.

      The loudspeaker installed above her doorway gave a squawk, and then the principal was informing the school that there was a code blue in progress. To the left of the loudspeaker was a piece of paper with the words Big Brother printed in bold, black letters, with an arrow pointing toward the loudspeaker. Bunny had stood on a chair to tape it up there before the first day of school as a joke. Gil turned around to look at the speaker, but he addressed Bunny. I never got a chance to tell you how funny I thought your Big Brother sign was. Did you know I read that book?

      No, I didn’t. It really doesn’t surprise me. You were by far smartest student in the class. The kind of smart that most teachers dream about their students possessing. But not me, Gil. You scared me even before you had a gun. From behind the locked door they heard students clambering and teachers commanding them all to be quiet and move in an orderly fashion.

      Do you miss teaching Orwell, Miss Brabbit?

      In the classroom Bunny didn’t answer but continued sobbing under the posters of her favorite writers. Twain, Shakespeare, Poe, Dickinson, and Dickens didn’t seem to care about her current plight. None of them smiled in their portraits. In between blurry

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