Felix and the Flamingo

by David Hankins

Felix ruffled his red tail feathers in irritation. Of all the birds to get quarantined with, why a flamingo? Flamingos were idiots! And they stank, too. The Candice Lisle Avian Quarantine Center was supposedly the pride of Lincoln Park Zoo, but to Felix it was nothing more than a musty cement room lined with cages. Only the two largest were occupied.

Felix glared across the room at Mateo who stood in his own cage–on one leg–with the satisfied calm of domestication. Felix would never accept captivity. He itched with the need to soar, to hunt with his mate!

The gaping void in his belly gurgled. Four days since the humans disappeared. He was hungry!

Felix activated his neural link and tried explaining their situation. Again.

<Look, you dumb flamingo. The humans–>

<It’s Mateo, please!> The flamingo’s chip-transmission registered as a rich baritone with a pretentious accent. <Honor my Chilean heritage. Just because you’re a wild raptor–>

<Red-tailed hawk!>

<–your lack of culturio gives you no right to demean the ancient heritage of the magnifica Chilean Flamingo!>

<Get over yourself. I’ve heard real Spanish, and yours sucks. You were bred in captivity and hatched right here in Chicago. You’ve never tasted free skies.> A deep longing for home, for freedom, nearly overwhelmed Felix. He snapped his beak, chirped irritably, and started again.

<Mateo, the humans aren’t coming back.>

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