When The Bird Jar disappeared from the museum, nobody could find a clue to how or by whom it had been stolen; nor did anyone know the legend that only its creator and former owners had known.  If anyone removed it from its appointed place or dared to use it for ill gotten gains, the culprit who did so would experience irreparable harm.  The thief had hustled it to his brownstone whose high ceilings and heavily draped rooms were decorated with stolen works of art.  He placed the jar on top of the fireplace mantle in front of a huge gilt mirror.  Each night he sat beside a roaring fire, a glass of sherry in his hand, a pipe in his mouth, and admired his latest acquisition.  It glowed in the vermilion light and the thief thought it had never stood in a spot that did as much justice to its eerie beauty.  The next day he noticed that The Bird Jar seemed to have moved a few inches from where he had placed it.  He asked his maid who had been forbidden to touch it if she had moved it.  No Sir, I dare not touch such a frightening object.  Why, Sir, if you don't mind my saying, I believe it is cursed.  A few days later, he developed a sore throat; he could barely speak.  Either he repeated Who who who or raspy squawks.  Then he began to sip air raggedly.  When he looked into the mirror, he noticed his Roman nose seemed to be expanding, flattening and turning a mustard color.  Soon after he noticed the top of the bird jar had been removed from its base and sat leering at him from the corner of the mantle.  I will fire that maid if she touches this jar again, he said to himself.  Oh dear I am not feeling well, he thought, perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me.  I must rest more.  After a night filled with dreams of swooping owls and venomous vultures he arose the next morning, slipped his feet into his leather loafers but they didn't fit.  When he looked down he saw his toes had webs between them and had turned into claws.  He removed his silk pajamas only to discover his arms were covered with hair resembling feathers.  Then he flapped into the parlor to discover The Bird Jar was gone.  He spun about but it was nowhere to be seen.  And suddenly a strong wind swept him off his feet and planted him in the very spot in front of the gilded mirror where it had stood, his claws gripping the mantle, his beady eyes black and sad.  His elegant body had shrunk to the size of The Bird Jar.  To this day, nobody knows by whom or how the The Bird Jar returned to its appointed spot in the museum  where it still stands for all future generations to admire.

Author's Statement

Liz Dolan, a former English teacher and administrator, is most proud of the alternative school she ran in the Bronx and her eight grandchildren who live on the next block in Rehoboth Beach. She has published poems, memoir and short stories in Philadelphia Stories, New Delta Review, Rattle, Natural Bridge, Illuminations, Harpweaver, Mudlark, Bardsong, Windhover and numerous other journals. A 2005 Pushcart Prize nominee in fiction, she has also received an honorable mention for best poem of the year in Gin Bender Literary Review, 2004 and placed third in the Pure Sea Glass poetry contest,2005. She is one of eight DE poets recently chosen for the master's level retreat with Fleda Brown, DE Poet Laureate. A recipient of a fellowship in poetry and grants from the Delaware Division of the Arts, she has also been selected as an associate artist in residence with poet Sharon Olds, 2006. Recently she was recruited for the board of Philadelphia Stories.