She had always paused to admire squawking woodcocks and bobbing robins, even as a small leg-braced girl, but now that she knew their feathers were saturated with the holy spirit, she spent hours at a time in the courtyard foraging for loose plumage to rub over her pius undercarriage.
This meant less time for Sister Nutbuster to crack the grubby orphans on their ruddy bottoms for sneezing, missing a bead on the rosary, and communicating with Satan through cracks in the bathroom tile.
Eventually, avian mania reached its apex when God told Sister Nutbuster to steal the money from the chicken pox vaccination fund and build a lavish aviary, one with gilded gazebos and fountains bloated with holy water and fenced with statues of big-titted Greek broads.
Trayvon, a ten-year-old orphan whose broom closet bedroom was stationed next to the aviary, really reaped the rewards from Sister Nutbuster’s obsession. At first, the incessant chirping made it hard to sleep; but after a few days, the birds began telling him important facts like how to build a bomb using pulpit dust and communion wafers. They even cooed lullabies to him every night in the style of Gwar.
For the first time since he was dumped on the front steps of the orphanage, Trayvon felt content, like he finally had a family. He also felt high, and was sure that the angels themselves had stopped by while he was sleeping to sprinkle him with powder from their wings.
A few weeks later, Trayvon expired from bird flu.