It Was Easy For a Dress-Makers Dummy to Fall For a Man With a Bird-Cage Head
By Heather D Haigh
Listen to a reading of this story by the author:
For wasn't she accustomed to being draped in crinoline, lace and velvet? To being spun and twirled, to being placed where she'd catch every admiring gaze. Arranged exactly, to be cooed at and twittered about and—should the mood take, to be pecked at. And didn't he love to coo and twitter and peck.
And didn't his chirruping, seamless and busy like Mother's, wrap around her, swaddle her in a feather-stuffed comforter stitched from scraps of satin, georgette and tafetta. Just like the one Mother sewed.
Mother, exotic beautiful Mother, a glory of scarlet and amethyst, a riot of jet and amber—Mother, an Eclectus parrot. Mother shone beside the men in her life, the shy green males who dipped their heads in deference. And didn't she teach Alice—teach her well, that no man would offer crumbs to a dowdy dunnock.
Darling, listen now. A starlet may dress for the stage, but every woman must dress for her audience, and her audience is men. Your gowns must shimmer like a starling's plumage, your jewels catch the light like a raven's eyes, and your heels give you the strut of a peacock. He's the cock of course, but you are his glamour—his fan of turquoise, cobalt and gold. He'll be passionate to show you off, to flatter you with every word. He'll adore that others covet you.
Oh, do keep still, dear; Marilyn wants to look like a swan in this one; the hem must be perfect. Stand a little taller; you lack an inch remember. I’ve always adored birds—how they flit with such grace, how their markings dazzle. Set your stall out for an intelligent man, my sweet—a scholarly owl or a clever crow. Make sure he has the means to feather your nest.
And Alice found it to be true. Men were drawn to her like hummingbirds to scarlet blooms, flocking around her in murmurations, wooing her with sweet music.
But what did any of that matter now? Mother was gone. Wonderful, Glorious, Mother. Gone.
And here was this woman, this woman trained to listen and coax and to still Alice's flutterings. This woman insisted Alice had a mouth—not a slash of scarlet paint, but a soft mouth, a tactile mouth, a mouth that held teeth and a tongue, a mouth that was allowed to whisper and shout and scream, and one day—laugh until Alice's Belly ached. And now, where Alice had been wood and polish, struts and bones, she was flesh. Flesh that jiggled and tensed and hungered and ached and yearned.
So, of course, she had to touch him and hold him and kiss him. For wouldn't he truly love her now she was real?
Too late, she saw her man—her bird-cage-headed man, was iron and steel and gaps and bars, and when she searched for his lips to meet hers, she found the cage door open, rusted and creaking. All the birds had flown.
Author’s note: This story was inspired by the artwork, 'Eyes Wide Shut,' by Niki McQueen.
Heather D Haigh is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Free Flash Fiction, WestWord and others. She has won competitions with New Writers and Globe Soup. Find her at https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook