'Stories' is Byline's new section dedicated to fiction. Raegen Bird, co-founder of publishing project Blue Arrangements, presents three pieces of flash fiction.

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I

She skinned her knee outside of Texture Hall on a day in September when it smelled like Easter weather. The early leaves were laminated to the sidewalks and the town was bonding over their collective mold problem. Buckets of absorbent crystal pellets were sold out everywhere, even the feed store. She had seen one unopened on the lower shelf of the janitorial closet and lifted it into a paper shopping bag. On the way out her heel slipped. The crystals littered the front walk, and expanded from the dampness.

At home he opened the cupboard and told her to shut her eyes. He wanted to see if she could tell the difference between iodized salt and what was drawn straight out from the water. He said that he couldn’t imagine raising a child away from the sea. Her posture improved. She shut her eyes and shuddered at the cotton squeak from the turn of the spout. She held out her tongue and he brought his palm to it. It was like licking the end of a battery. She wiggled. The second one was rounder and more complementary to the taste of his hand. That one! she said. Thank God, he said, yeah.

II

I was in the frozen pizza aisle when Mom called from the euthanization room with the family dog, asking me to sing Roxy to sleep. I did this, in an almost whisper, with my forehead leaned into the chilled glass—distracted by the familiar and uneasy typography of our corner store’s selection. I mentally traced the cheesed-up bubble letters until we said our goodbyes and hung up the phone.

On the way back, “Mr Bojangles” played choppily on the radio. After an attempt to drive into the signal so that the song would play more clearly, I discovered a new route home through the dairy corridor.

Sometime later I receive an “unboxing” style video of the dog’s cremation package. Mom’s voice cracked, crying as she read me the names of everyone in the veterinary practice who signed the card.

III

Eric booted the desktop and I fixated on our warped reflection in the convex glass until the start-up logo appeared.

You aren’t going to believe this. They play it all day long, live. From anywhere you could imagine, any animal you could think of.

The dial up tone reverberated through the white-tiled kitchen, returning back to us in a higher, tinny pitch in chorus with the buzz of the drying rack and a low hum from the birdcage in the corner.

Eric connected to a webpage of animal live streams. He explained that some of these were animals in captivity—you could view the penguins at the San Diego Zoo or, as he preferred, trail cams on reservations. He took a stroll down the page, hovering over dozens of environments before selecting an eagle’s nest on protected land in rural Canada.

He told me that this one was his favorite and that he used to keep it running in the background at work before he retired from his job in Big Outer Space.

Our view loaded in black and white with the overexposed infrared type look. We were tucked into the nest. I could make out sticks and a few fluffy lumps near the center, that Eric said were baby eagles.

Isn’t that something?

The page would refresh automatically every few seconds, bringing a new picture. Usually subtle differences, the wind, a twitch, a bill peeking up. Every so often a bug would crawl across the lens, washing out the frame for a few beats.

A parakeet named Cookie pecked at himself repeatedly in the mirror across the room.

Eric had acquired the bird seven years ago from a neighbor child across the street who was ill and left it in their care before he passed.

Cookie had a light sensitivity. Eric had bought and returned many lightbulbs over the years trying to find a wattage to suit Cookie. As a result the house glowed a dim gold and the shades stayed drawn.

The sun rose through the gap above the blinds on the sliding door and the room became impossibly bright. Cookie began to stir. Soon he would scream.

Eric pulled out several rags. Some were tucked between cabinets, behind the armoire, under the entry rug. Some were cut into specialized pieces, one draped perfectly over the faucet spout, while others were larger and stitched together to cover areas of the tile flooring.

He began the process of covering up all reflective surfaces in the kitchen but insisted that I stay at the computer so I didn’t miss anything.