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Fiction, Literature, New Voices, Writing ContestAugust 18, 2014

Looking for the Bird-God

Still, it brought more visitors.

Two adults, a man and a woman. Strangers, whom none of them recognised from the immediate neighbourhood. The man with a bald head, a wide, heavy face. The woman with great, night-blue bags beneath her eyes, and scraggly red hair interrupted by thick, greasy lianas of grey.

They approached the group quietly. The group parted, allowed Condor to step forward to meet them. Cockatoo subtly shuffled his way to the safety of the back of the crowd.

What do you want? We don’t know you? Our calls couldn’t possibly have woken your baby, wherever you’re from.

My baby. the woman said.

My son. the man said. Where is my son?

Who is your son? We don’t know him. We are the only ones who come here, and none of us are missing. Condor said, though his fist tightened around the string of the kite, the nails starting, ever so slightly, to dig into the skin of his palm. The bird’s talons digging into his shoulder.

My son, the man said, My son is Manuelo. We have been searching all over the slums for a month, and nobody knew him, and he never said where he went. But you have been shouting him, we have heard you. My son is the Bird-God.

The man’s wide, heavy face fell as he said this. The big eyes were wet, and full of pupil, and dog-like. But not dog-like enough. Beside him, the woman’s eyes were bright green and cat-like. But not catlike enough. Hair wasn’t red enough. It couldn’t be them.

You are liars, said Condor. You have been sent by the police to trick us and ruin us.

There was a chorus of nervous agreement behind him.

This is the only Bird-God. This, right here.

He pointed up to the beast on his shoulder.

There is no other Bird-God. There never was.

The wide, heavy man was bent over him. Asking, again and again: Where is my son? Where is the Bird-God?
The wide, heavy man towered above him. He must have been forty. Condor was ten. Condor stood firm, but with his knees slightly bent. He could see the man’s neck, bare and exposed. If he brought the kite down quickly enough, then maybe – he could do damage at least, make them go away for a while.

My baby. the mother repeated.

My son. the man said. Did you kill him?

Condor stepped backwards, his fist tightening further, tugging the line. The parrot flapped in his ear. He could hear its beak clacking.

Did you kill my son? the man repeated.

My baby. the woman wailed.

Condor stepped backwards, once, twice more, and the group backed away further behind him. None of them breathed. None of them made a sound. They had all been beaten by this little kid, their latest leader. They knew what he was meaning to do.

And he did it, leaping high and then yanking hard on the string as he came back down to earth.

But the wide, heavy man was too quick for him, ducked, swung a wide, heavy fist into the little boy’s gut. The group started panicking, started to run. The mother started wailing. The parrot let go.

He let go of the kite.

He watched them both rising, intertwining together.

He could hardly breathe.

He heard the bird squawk.

The wide, heavy man was bent over him. Asking, again and again: Where is my son? Where is the Bird-God?

I don’t know, he said. I swear I don’t know.

Then: There isn’t a Bird-God. I don’t know what you mean.

Scurrying on hands and knees between the man’s wide, heavy legs, dodging his wildness, his stamps and his kicks. Standing up, tasting the smoke, the ashes of the man’s son. Tasting his blood.

Then Jorge ran, ran as fast as his long legs would carry him, bounding down the breezeblock steps two by two, three by three.

Chased by the weeping of the mother, like no sound he had ever heard a cat make, or a human make, either, he ran deeper and deeper into the maze of the streets, further and further away from the sky.

Dan Micklethwaite lives and writes in West Yorkshire, UK. His short fiction has featured in a range of publications, including ‘BULL’, ‘ink sweat & tears’, ‘3:AM’, and ‘Eunoia’. He’s currently building a shed in his garden, reading some John Berger, and working on a novel about coffee cups, evolution, fish & chips and tattoos.

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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The Old Have Many Fears (after Su Tung Po)

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