LXIX. a little birdy

The little Martian naps in a hidden corner of his office. The sweet, acidic aftertaste of burnt office-machine coffee sits sleepily on his tongue.

A slow summer haze descends upon him, despite the flush of October that thrums on the calendars.

His laptop balances against his rotund, green belly as his eyes lazily flutter in and out of focus.

Puffy clouds sway ever so gently, moving slowly, slowly, slowly—almost imperceptibly—across a powder-blue sky.

Poooooffy.

Puuufy.

Plushy.

Snuffy.

Little words cosy up against the bridge of the little Martian’s mind, urging him to loosen, to let go, to slip into the slow afternoon slumber of a clandestine office nap…

PACHAAAK!

The little Martian jerks awake as a bright yellow bird crashes into the bay window in front of him.

“These damn Earth birds! Can’t even detect glass—the idiots!"

But the bird doesn’t move. It doesn’t thwack and fly off. Instead, it flaps in place with the hyperforce of an anxious hummingbird.

It seems to be telling the Martian something.

“What is it?” he asks out loud—and then realizes he is a Martian talking to a bird.H

e looks around the office, shrugs, and opens the window an inch.

“Birdy? What’s up, my lad?”

“LM!”

“How do you know my name?”

The bird gives him a funny look.

“You’re a little Martian,” it mutters, with a sassily rolled orby eye.

“A splash racist, but I’ll let it slide.”

“Look, we don’t have time for your little banter. Save that for your human friends. I need to tell you something.”

“Spit it out then.”

“We don’t have much time. You and I—and your human friends. There is a message from the birds in the Arctic. The ones who sit on frosty snowtops and see all, and know all.”

“A bunch of know-it-all birds?” asks the Martian, with a little snort.

“Precisely!”“

And what did they say?”

“We’ve got three years. Four years, tops. So you’d better make it count.”

“Before what happens?”

“Before the monsters in your laptop grow real teeth and limbs and feet—and outrun the entire earthly realm!”

“Good golly, that sounds like a nightmare. I should warn them!”

“It’s too late. They’re hooked on the fact that it can edit funny little cowboy hats onto their baby pics.”

The Martian and the bird take a moment to appreciate humanity’s stupidity.

“So what do we do?” asks the little Martian. His eyes—so drowsy just a few moments ago—are now rip-roaringly awake with purpose.

“That’s up to you, little green man. I’m just the messenger!” sings the bird, unhelpfully, as it launches itself off the window and flies—rather ungracefully—into the sunny afternoon.

“Fucking birds,” the Martian mutters to himself.

He makes his way over to me and snaps my laptop shut.

“What’s up, LM?”

“I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Jump ship. Join the cool space crew. Live my little life and leave a lasting legacy!”

I shrug.

“Sounds good.”

“Arent you going to ask me why?” 

“Why?” 

“ A little birdy told me the world is going to get swallowed up by robots in a couple of years so we gotta act fast.” 

“Good golly.” 

“Indeed.” 

The Ducks on the other hand dont give a flying fuck.