Fiction | Short Story

The Hawk

You are thirteen so, of course, I am convinced I still have some say over you.

You know what people think and what God thinks are two different things, right?


You climb in, curled around your parcel, and close the door. The fierce gold eyes of the fledgling make me want to laugh. Their intensity defies us to call it helpless. I take in the sight of you holding the hawk so tenderly. Large beads of moisture stud your sweater. Your cheeks are flushed. I feel a flash of vanity when I see how pretty you are.

I made her

The hawk is real.


The mother won’t come back if we stay.