Pigeons Abandon City Streets for the Pull of Oscar's Apple Orchards

It was a crisp summer morning, and the birds had just begun their songs from the apple trees in which they resided. The sky was a pale blue, turning pink as the sun rose. Oscar, a man in his 60s, sat overlooking acres of painted bliss.

He slurped a cup of re-brewed coffee in his pyjamas, unable to shake the 4 am wakeup his body had been trained with since starting work nearly 50 years ago. It did, however, mean that he got to enjoy nature before the thrum of cars moving along the roads could encroach on the peace of the land.

Oscar was a large fan of the newspaper, if only to poke sceptical holes in the news produced. He sat for hours annotating the papers with his own doubts about what was said, confident that he could produce a better news story with accuracy.

"Pigeons exchange real estate in a local town", Oscar started. "From penthouse views in my orchard, to the city life in Canterbury, Pigeons have migrated from eating fast food leftovers to... " Oscar frowned. Do Pigeons eat apples? Maybe this was harder than he thought. He went to take another sip of coffee to find his cup was now dry as a bone. He'd been there longer than he thought.

Oscar had worked on road repair for the last years of his career, and he had enjoyed it. It had not been his decision to retire, and he was constantly looking for ways to challenge himself, so that his age wouldn't catch up to him in theory.

He hopped into his old Ford Ranger, once blue but now a more tired grey, and drove to the corner shop. He would've walked, but as mentioned, it was not his choice to retire. "I would like to return this", he started.

"Oscar, I tell you every day, you can't return a newspaper you've doodled on!" Mary, the local shopkeeper, said in an exasperated tone. "You'd be better off donating it to one of the farms; they can use it for the chickens". Oscar was cross now. "Are you implying my contributions to this newspaper are worthy of chicken droppings, Mary?" he spat. He didn't give her a chance to reply; he hobbled straight back to his truck. He wasn't prepared to waste his energy on someone who couldn't appreciate his literary genius.

He decided in that moment that they would all appreciate his work in the local newspaper as an official author rather than as someone performing audits. He drove home to Google, where the newspaper was produced, as he'd decided it wasn't sensible to drive around until he found it, and he was not bending to modern pocket technology. He got home, scribbled 'Herne Bay Gazette, CT65EA' once he'd found it, and hopped straight back in his truck before his sense got a chance to creep back to him. He was still, of course, in his pyjamas, waving a newspaper around.

When he arrived in the area, he struggled to locate the establishment. He knew it was somewhere on Bank Street, but that road was 114 metres long, busy, and he certainly couldn't get out and walk it - especially in his attire. He decided no, I'll go home, write my article and post it to the newspapers.

He threw away his first attempt and started over. "Wartime heroes swap city life for rural getaways, He started. His grandfather told him what an impact pigeons had on the war, and these pigeons were surely their descendants. "Pigeons are loyal birds that served the army well, and deserve their new homes in my orchard", he began. He felt confident the local people would enjoy this article, and scribbled on for another hour or so before bundling the papers into an envelope and returning to Mary's shop.

"Mary, please, can I pop this in with the post?" he said, smug. Her eyebrow raised. It was now midday, and he was still in pyjamas. Oscar assumed it was because she was desperate to know what the letter was for, so he said, "If you must know, it is for the Herne Bay Gazette, I'M going to be a published author", he overpronounced. Mary, still in shock from the absurdity of what she was witnessing, said, "I'll send it off when the postman gets here"

Oscar waited by the mailbox for weeks. He was desperate for the news to publish his article. He'd even considered whether he'd forgotten to give them a return address. As he began to think all was lost, he saw his article, rewritten, on the front page. "Pigeons Abandon City Streets for the Pull of Oscar's Apple Orchards". He could admit that it was a much better title. He had been listed as a co-author, and his heart swelled as he considered whom to show first.