I’d never seen an owl sitting boldly on a branch in plain view on a florid tropical afternoon before, and everyone on the island insisted it was a bad sign. “Nonsense,” I said, “It’s just an owl.” That evening, as we lazily lounged, skin still glistening with oil, the skies shifted from blue and fair to stormy and billowy all at once and we ducked inside just as rain and wind began battering the rafters. Amid the din, we nearly didn’t hear the crack of breaking glass. But another snap and thump and we took off barefoot down the hall, chasing the intruder back through the broken door frame and the length of the veranda before he leapt over the railing, vanishing into the night, with not so much as a pair of worn flip-flops for his trouble. And though we got away with a few cuts and bruises, I’d just as soon never see an owl staring at me in broad daylight again.

Kathryn Silver-Hajo

writes short fiction, long fiction, and poetry. Her stories and poems appear or are forthcoming in Cleaver Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Ellipsis Zine, Unbroken Journal, Six Sentences, The Drabble, The Ekphrastic Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal.

Read more of the author’s work at her website:
https://www.kathrynsilverhajo.com/

Follow her on Twitter: [at]KSilverHajo