Author and Columnist Shelly Reuben

It was definitely an odd scenario. I, standing in front of the fireplace with a puzzled, yet (I hope) compassionate expression on my face. And Archie, the Giant Chickadee, perched on the fireplace mantel looking so earnest in his belief that I could solve his problems … he bordered on pathetic.

“So, let me see,” I said with a solemnity to match his own, “You want me to teach you how to be cute.”

“That’s right.” Archie’s entire beach-ball sized, feather-covered body nodded. When you don’t have a chin, your body does what it has to do.

“Cute as in kewpie dolls, kittens, and fuzzy ducklings?” I asked.

“I don’t’ know what a kewpie doll is; otherwise … yes.”

“But Archie,” I exclaimed. “You are already cuter than any of them. You’re the veritable definition of cuteness. You make baby seals, puppies, and bunny rabbits look sinister by comparison.”

Archie made a noise that in a human, would have been, “Humph “.

“I’m serious,” I insisted. Then I dropped down to sit in front of the fireplace. I patted the space to my right. Archie took my hint, flew down, and settled on the rug beside me.

“Anyway, and temporarily disregarding our incompatible perceptions of what is or is not adorable,” I continued, “why, exactly, do you WANT to be cute?”

Archie sighed heavily. “Well,” he began, without enthusiasm, “ever since I got sucked into that MRI and…”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I cut him off. “Due to a mysterious mishap involving magnetic fields, radio frequencies, stimulated protons and God knows what else – probably eye of newt and toe of frog – you went into that MRI weighing less than half-an-ounce, and came out looking the way you do now.” I paused to study my disheartened avian buddy.

In truth, he was laughably enchanting. Sweet face and body the size of a beach ball covered with black, brown, and grey feathers. A pretty head crowned by a black cap. A white mask covering his tiny black eyes. Below that, a black throat, downy coral-colored feathers on his chest, and extending from his belly, two spindly legs with small clawed feet.

“I want to be cute,”” Archie finally got around to answering, “because I don’t fit in.”

“Fit in where?”

“With my flock.”

“Have you even tried?”

“Not since…” Archie let the sentence drift off. Then, tucking the chin that he didn’t have into the neck that he didn’t have, he added, “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That I’ve turned into such a monster, no one will like me anymore.” He shuffled his small clawed feet. “If I were cute, though, they might…” Again, he failed to finalize his thought.

“Nonsense,” I scoffed. “One. As previous stated, you are already the epitome of cuteness. Period. Nobody can top a superlative. Two. When we add up our ‘pass’ or ‘fail’ receipts at the end of the day, it isn’t how people react to YOU that counts It’s how WE react to THEM.”

“Huh?” Archie responded, obviously perplexed.

I shifted on the rug, looked him square in the eye, and said patiently, “Let’s say that a friend fixes you up on a date with…”

“I’ve never been out on a date.” He shuffled his feet abashedly. “Anyway. Who’d go out with me looking like…”

“Archie,” I spoke firmly. “Zip up the lip. I’m talking theoretically here.”

“Okay.”

“So, you’re out with a girl-bird. Her feathers are dirty; her feet are muddy; she can barely twitter a coherent sentence; and she smells like garlic. After you drop her off at her nest, do you ask yourself, ‘Gee. I wonder if she thinks I’m cute?’ Or do you breathe a sigh of relief, and say, ‘Phew. Thank heavens I’ll never have to see her again’.”

“You know which.”

“Exactly. That’s why you don’t have to wonder if you are as cute or cuter than you were two weeks ago. Or how others perceive you. Your only job is to venture forth, greet whatever is out there with some semblance of poise, befriend those who are likeable; avoid those who are not, and while you are doing all that, figure out where you belong in the world.”

I finished my exhortation, hopeful that I had reinflated the sagging balloon of Archie’s ego. Indeed. I might have done exactly that. And perhaps too well. For next thing you know, he had flown back onto the mantel, and was saying, “You’re right. Let’s go!”

I leaped to my feet. “Go where?”

“To the scene of the crime.”

I glanced around to see if anything untoward had happened in my living room that I’d missed. But … no. All was as it had been minutes before. Archie flew to the front door, hovering impatiently and waiting for me to open it, so that he could fly outside.

“What crime?” I asked. Totally bewildered.

“What was done to me,” Archie asserted. “That crime. I want to go back to the clinic, and…”

“But that wasn’t a crime,” I shot back. “You may not be what you once were, but you aren’t any less beautiful. Or, if you prefer. Cute. Yes. You are bigger. But It’s all bone and feather. Not an ounce of fat. Anyway, bigger can be better. It’s no crime to be different. It’s …”

Open the door,” Archie cut me off. “You never stop talking.”

I ignored him, and went on, “When I first started writing, all I wanted to do was write short stories. I got really good at it, too. Then I found out there is absolutely no market for short stories. So, I had to teach myself how to write books. LONG books. Novels. Now, I love to write them. One was short and small, like you before you went into the MRI. The other is big and burly. Like you are now. That transition may have been a mishap, but it wasn’t a crime, it was a boon. A benefit. A whole new...”

Archie began to jab his beak into the door’s window pane, muttering between jabs, “Open it. Open it. Open it.”

I did, he flew out, and I followed him in my car. Back to the clinic where the MRI had performed its magic, effectuated its transformation, or, according to Archie the Giant Chickadee … committed its crime.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com