Allow me (Alfredo), to preface this by saying that if you offend easily please DON’T READ THIS, as I am new with satire, I am sure to have screwed up in certain areas, and more than likely it’s in  the one area where it matters most so far (which should be rather obvious).

Rosé Starling Edit 2

A short story “translated” by Alfredo Lopez

   It wasn't until I was reaching my half-life that I was given the charity of a name, but for the sake of the coherence of this story and its continuity, know that the author and narrator of this twisted tale is Ms. Rosé Starling.

    Much like many that were in my situation, I couldn't recall who I was, where I was, let alone what I was.  I was born in captivity, and from that abhorred moment onwards was denied many freedoms that are basic necessities of life. In a cage, filled to the bursting with others that are deemed too impendent to fend for themselves, was my reality for what seemed to be life spans. Many a times, I would have to fight with the others in the cage for the scraps of food, fed to us through a two inch hole in the cage wall. Many died of disease, but most of us there just went mad. It was hard not to. Only thing that would keep us sane was forgetting how to be mad. Insanity was a great ally to many, especially when the inspections came. Inspectors would come frequently, always in search of the fittest and the strongest in the group. So when the cage opened, a few of us would lay on the ground and scream. Quite rarely would an inspector take anyone that showed signs of weakness, insanity being among one of them.  But sooner or later, everyone would get taken away, through a gate that seemed to swallow anything that went through it, and nobody seemed to know where or more importantly why. Those few that had heard whispers of what became of those taken seldom repeated them, a courtesy of sorts. It was genocide. It had to be. Anyone that ever went through the gates of the cage was never seen or heard from again. They would simply cease to exist. So it had to be genocide.

   One day that stood out from among the lot was the day that I met a rather peculiar fellow. They called him Jim Crowe, for whatever reason. He resided in a cell to the left of where I was situated, (or was it to the right? The cage was clear on all sides in order to negate privacy, so I never could figure what way was which, but there he was) quite comfortable in his lonesomeness. As I said, he was a rather peculiar fellow, the best way to describe him would be that he just looked really out of place, almost as if he was painted on to the foreground.

   "I say, lil' chick-a-boo, look ma' way!" he hollered. Ignorance in this case, was definitely not bliss, for this Creaton would insist upon my looking his way. It wasn't until the third or fourth repetition, when I lost all patience in my being, that I took note of him.

   “Now, why you lookin' all scaed fo'? You ain't lookin like you hab a case of the nut case, so I say again, why you lookin' all scaed fo'?" I don't know what it was that compelled me to commence a conversation with this gentleman. At times I wonder if it was the intimidatingly crazed look in his eyes, (believe me or not, they were as red as blood), or the ghostly paleness of his very being. 

   "I didn't realize I was looking scared, sir. What makes you come to such a conclusion?" I finally managed to say after awkwardly staring at his bleak complexion.

   "Now, I've seen many lil chick-a-dees in my day, but never one so scaed lookin' as you. Mayhaps it’s yo’ futua that yo’se concen'd about? Well, let me tell you, you ain't got nothin to fea'. Yo'se too small fo the oven anyways. I've seen, hell, I've smelt what they do to them other bad nuts. Yessuh, they cook de’ soul st’aight outta dem."

   Again, I can't explain what it was that compelled me to develop the conversation with this Devil, but the curiosity of what was said moved me to question my "futua".

   "What ovens do you speak of, if I may ask?" I inquired.

   "Ain't you eva wonda whe' they took all them otha folk? Well chick-a-poo, them inspectos take them ol' bones to be put outta thei' mise'y.Polly not the best way to go bout it, but heck, it wo'ks. But as I say, yo'se looks like you gon make it th'ou." He smiled.

   “What exactly did we do to harbor such hatred, I don’t look much different than you, and surely you aren’t going to the ovens”. I said.

   “Wha makes yo’ tink it’s bout looks’?” With this last sentence, he chortled until he nearly choked on his own joke, which only he seemed to understand. The next day the inspector took him, I never spoke or saw him again. Strange fellow.

   It was a rather uneventful time that passed from the meeting I had with “Peter” [“Who’s Peter” don’t worry about it], until the time I met another gentleman, whom I’d always assumed was called German. I can’t figure out why, but this man would speak German to the captives, despite the fact that we didn’t understand what he was saying.

    I saw him for the first time on an inspection day. Through the cage, he eyed me in particular. I know this because his eyes would follow me as I moved about, and he’d do it with great interest too. But nothing came of his first visit, nor the second (other than the staring). The third visitation deferred immensely from all the others. The first thing that was different was that it was at night, I know this because I was asleep when they took me. The others were startled awake. They sang a song of sheer terror while flinging their bodies left and right, jumping about wildly. Trying to process the situation, I struggled under the weight of someone’s hand pushing my body down. I felt something rip, I was so disoriented by the whole ordeal that it wasn’t until much later that I realized they had broken my arms. I heard German say something along the lines of “Clipem”, but I wasn’t too sure of what I had heard (he was probably speaking German anyway). I was also losing consciousness, so whatever it was I heard, the meaning was lost in those last few seconds in that cage.

   This would conclude the first part of my short story. Second part in works certain details still need to be ironed out. And the author is actually me, Alfredo, not Rosé Starling. Title may have confused people… Anyway, now that you have gotten this far, I want to clarify any frayed ends I may have caused.

1. The narrator is a bird, not a person. Which hopefully should explain the name Starling, all the bird references, and the “Translated by Alfredo” thing.

2. Jim is an actual crow, painted white so that he looks albino in order to make a quick buck. Suppose to reverse blackface (he gets a more comfortable cage). They actually do this to newly hatched chickens in Mexico, but they paint them all sorts of colors and hot glue hats to the top of their heads.

3. The placeholder is meant to introduce a character that in real life is the CEO of an organization worth billions. He said something along the lines that water wasn’t a human right, but later states that he was misquoted.  Not going to use him yet, as I can barely afford tuition, and a billion dollar law suit wouldn’t help.

4. German is actually me.

5.  No birds were harmed in the making of this story.

Sources (that are to be incorporated when lawsuits are preventable)

Nestle CEO (first link has video, second is clarification of what actually happened)

http://naturalsociety.com/nestle-ceo-water-not-human-right-should-be-privatized/

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/george-mcgraw/nestle-chairman-peter-brabeck-water_b_3150150.html

Second part of story will have information that I’ll have to get from a local pet store or vet, but the main point is that bird suppliers sell their birds in manners that are not ethical and treat the bird with little respect. Online this is only found in forums (not very solid evidence) so I’ll get the legit info from a vet or avian expert and have that in by the second installment.