1500 words Women's Fiction
After finding a wounded seagull in her garden a woman begins her own journey of healing.
Go away, you nasty bird. The seagull is half hidden by a bushy penstemon. Only the whiteness of its feathers makes it visible. I shout at it, but it doesn’t move, however loudly I rave, or wave my arms. I take a step out into the garden. It’s then that I notice the blood on its breast. I go back indoors and stare at it through the French windows. It’s just what I need. An injured bird. I can’t let it worry me. After all, it isn’t a pretty little bird like a wren or a robin. Seagulls are just great big pests. At least that’s what Patrick always said. I never admitted it to him, but secretly, I’ve always rather admired them.