What if grief isn't gentle? What if it's a precision instrument, cold and razor-sharp? "Pretty Bird" emerged from that jagged question—exploring how a teenage taxidermist might transform her grandmother's loss into something she could control.
The original premise was deceptively simple: a girl who does taxidermy receives her grandmother's parrot. But the story refused the expected path of healing and acceptance. Instead, it became a surgical exploration of how grief can turn competence into something almost monstrous.
The breakthrough was realizing Marley wouldn't be softened by the parrot. Most stories would have her gradually bond with it, find comfort. But here? The parrot was an intrusion—a loud, living reminder of everything she'd lost.
The creative risk was making Marley's impulse to preserve Nico not sentimental, but a kind of violent control. Every detail—from her precise taxidermy skills to her inability to position the crow's wing correctly—became about her desperate need to freeze moments before they could escape her.
The final iteration scored an impressive 22/25, with the evaluator praising its "emotional intelligence and thematic coherence." What made it work wasn't the shocking ending, but the meticulous logic leading to that moment. The story earns its darkness by showing us exactly how Marley arrives at her terrible choice—not through melodrama, but through a chillingly precise emotional mathematics.
The core insight? Sometimes grief isn't about healing. Sometimes it's about the moment we decide we'd rather destroy something than watch it change.