So He Won't Be Lonely - By Izianne Tish Berjamin

Written By: Izianne Tish Berjamin

Category: Flash Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Presenting "So He Won't Be Lonely," a flash fiction piece by Izianne Tish Berjamin, featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This evocative story delves into themes of self-reflection and acceptance through the poignant narrative of a woman and her inherited grey parrot. Explore the intricate dance of identity and relationships woven with subtlety and depth in this touching story.

About the Work

"So He Won't Be Lonely" is a beautifully crafted exploration of self-perception and internal dialogue. Through the narrative of a parrot mirroring a mother's voice, Berjamin delves into the themes of identity and the human tendency to critique one's self. The story's mood oscillates between introspection and revelation, with vivid imagery and a profound message about the journey toward self-acceptance.

So He Won't Be Lonely

Original Submission by Izianne Tish Berjamin

So He Won't Be Lonely

My mother left me a grey parrot who could do her voice better than I could.

His name was Augustin, though she only ever called him Gus, the way she only ever called me Mara when I'd done something wrong. He arrived in the back seat of my car the week after the funeral, his cage belted in like a passenger, a small round mirror clipped to the bars.

"So he won't be lonely," the neighbor said, handing me the bag of seeds. "Your mother put it there years ago."

For the first few days, I watched him the way you watch a fire. He would sidle along his perch toward the glass and bob his head, and the bird in the mirror would bob back. He fluffed. It fluffed. He made a soft clicking sound, like a tongue against teeth, and leaned so close his beak touched the beak in the glass.

It looked like tenderness. I thought: at least one of us has company.

On the fifth night, I woke to tapping.

Not tapping. Striking. I turned on the kitchen light and found Gus pressed against the mirror, wings half open, hammering it with his beak. The bird in the glass hammered back, exactly as hard, exactly as fast. Grey feathers on the newspaper. A thin bead of blood at the edge of his beak.

"Hey," I said. "Hey. Stop."

He stopped, swung his head toward me, and spoke in my mother's voice.

"Look at you."

I had not heard her in five days. I had not heard that sentence in eleven years. It was what she said in the doorway before school dances, before graduation, before my wedding. Not cruelly, exactly. Clinically, as if reading a diagnosis. Look at you. And then whatever came after: the stomach, the posture, the laugh that was too loud, the hair I'd chosen without asking.

Gus turned back to the glass. "Look at you," he told it, and struck.

________________

I started covering the cage at night. I started noticing things.

How, in the mornings, I brushed my teeth with my eyes on the sink so I wouldn't have to meet myself before coffee. How I pinched the soft place above my hip the way you'd test fruit. How, when I said something stupid in a meeting, I replayed it on the drive home in a voice that was not quite mine: lower, patient, disappointed. A voice that knew where everything was.

I had always thought of it as honesty. Someone had to keep track.

On Sunday I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets and watched Gus fight. He had a routine now. Approach, bob, the brief soft clicking, and then the moment, always the same moment, when something in him decided the other bird had looked at him wrong.

"You don't have to fight it," I said.

He paused, head cocked, one pale eye on me.

"Then why does it keep fighting me?"

He didn't say it in her voice. That was the worst part. He said it in a voice I had never heard from him, small and scratchy and his own, as if he'd been saving it.

I opened my mouth to answer. Because you hit it first, I almost said. Because it only gives back what you give it. Because there's no one there, Gus, there's no one there, it's just—

I closed my mouth.

I thought about every diet I had started on a Monday. Every haircut, every new way of laughing. Every year I had believed that if I could just become correct (thinner, quieter, more impressive, less) the thing in the glass would finally lower its wings. That I could earn a truce. That it was waiting for me to be good enough.

It had been waiting for me to stop.

________________

I unclipped the mirror the next morning.

Gus screamed. Not a word. A sound like a kettle, like a child lost in a supermarket. He paced to where the glass had been and stared at the empty bars, then at me, then at the bars. He pulled a feather from his own chest and let it fall.

"Where'd he go?" he said.

I understood then that he had never hated the other bird. It was the only one who had ever stayed exactly as close as he was. He didn't want it gone. He wanted it to stop hurting him. He just didn't know it was waiting on the same thing.

I clipped the mirror back. He went to it at once, and bobbed, and the bird in the glass bobbed back, and for a long minute neither of them struck.

I don't know if that will last. I don't know if anything does.

________________

That night I went into the bathroom and didn't turn on the light. Streetlight came through the frosted window and made the mirror a grey pool with a shape in it. My shape. Hair I hadn't asked anyone about.

"Look at you," I said, and felt the old voice reach for the next word: the stomach, the posture, the laugh.

I didn't give it one.

I lifted my hand toward the glass, slowly, the way you'd approach something wild. The woman in the mirror lifted hers. Our fingers stopped an inch apart.

For the first time in my life, I waited to see whether she would strike first.

She was waiting too.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in literature. It offers writers worldwide the opportunity to showcase their creativity across various categories, including flash fiction, poetry, and essays, fostering a vibrant community of literary talents.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Izianne Tish Berjamin for sharing "So He Won't Be Lonely" with the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your poignant storytelling offers a compelling reflection on identity and acceptance. Thank you for your contribution to the literary world.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.