✯✯✯ Nicole Adams: A Short Story

Monday, December 13, 2021 7:22:17 AM

Nicole Adams: A Short Story

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Nicole Adams - Bright House Sports Network Interview

A perfect hand to gather the water of a gentle midnight rain which effortlessly doubled as a makeshift bird bath for the symphony of singing winged animals. The warblers hopped, in their tiny glory, revealing the surprise of bright yellow patches of feathers as flutter their wings synchronously with the slight, staccato high-pitched chips. Red-winged blackbirds chased the warblers, dominating the small pools of crisp rain water, letting their long, drawn out alarm-like call loudly atop the medley.

Brown bodied sparrows chirped sweetly atop the single sapling of a sugarberry tree that solitarily mothered the evening primrose and bull thistle that had desiccated my once, bountiful garden and slowly started invading the remaining green of my yard. The small ledge parallel to my sink was the resting place to a small, cottage shaped bird feeder which was always filled with wild bird seed. Nearly every morning, the large, plastic knitted bag would be taken out of my front closet, and I would fill the cinnamon colored chimney to the top with the array of tasty seeds for my musical friends.

This particular morning was like any other, and whilst the birds were distracted by the tarp, they still hopped up, pecking meticulously at the seed and warily watched as I washed the rest of the dishes. My face had been smeared with dried streaks of hour old irony blood, connecting the faint freckles on my nose with the plush apples of my cheeks. The birds knew what kind of predator I was, but they sang their beautiful morning songs for me, nevertheless. Saturday mornings were my favorite part of the week, because more and more birds added their components to the symphony as they made their way to my remote, ranch style house with the white picket fence in Flovilla, GA.

Although I was tired, I knew that there was plenty of work to still be done, even after I had been slaving through the sticky Georgia night. I had still been in my ripped, bloodstained obsidian colored cocktail dress that I wear as my uniform, quite disappointed that it was beyond mending and had to be disposed of. A quick cool shower removed the rest of the blood that matted the ends of my curled, golden hair, and the beautiful red color mixed like a blazon galaxy sky with the palette of colors and glitter that came off with my makeup.

Such a pretty face for such evil intentions, and I definitely used my Southern charm and homestyle attitude to my advantage. Once every two or three months, the perfect sunset would start to creep down to meet the horizon of a warm, pleasant Friday night. My cocktail dress would slide gracefully over my head as Stevie Nicks played softly from my record player. The birds would sing special on these Friday nights. I wanted to go to see what opportunities I could create for myself. I started learning how to move in front of a camera when I was 6.

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