The Bird Caper: Middle Grade Fiction

By Victoria E Pannell, Thorir Sigfusson and Mikey Brooks

​​​​​​​Authors of the Award-Winning novel THE BIG DREAM present

THE BIRD CAPPER in the fun book series everyone's been waiting for!THE CROW'S TALES.

Are you ready for a thrilling adventure that will leave you on the edge of

• Language: English
• Publisher: VPTSwriters
• Release date: Jun 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781964064024

Victoria E Pannell

Victoria Pannell and Thorir Sigfusson are award-winning authors of middle-grade fiction. The Bird Caper is the first of their three-book series, The Crow's Tales. The Big Dream, the second book in the series, received recognition as a Red Ribbon Winner in the 2024 Wishing Shelf Book Awards and was also chosen as a finalist in the Readers' Choice Awards 2024.

Book preview

WHAT IS BEING SAID ABOUT

THE BIRD CAPER

"If you happen to be looking for a fun-filled family drama for a 9–12-year-old, I’d highly recommend The Bird Caper. Accessibly written and packed full of twists and turns, it’s the story of a young boy, Brandon, who suddenly discovers he’s going to be moving house! From there on, his problems get bigger and bigger – his best pal isn’t talking to him and his bird, Ralph, is accused of stealing!

There were so many elements to this story I enjoyed. Firstly, Brandon is a FAB character; the sort of boy young readers will relate to and understand. Secondly, everything he’s going through in the story, kids go through all over the world – change. But it’s not often as scary as it seems. This is an excellent message for young readers. And, thirdly, the writing style (and the vocabulary) is perfect for middle grade readers – there’s even a little humor in there too, which kids always love!

So, if you happen to be on the hunt for a cleverly plotted drama for a 9–12-year-olds, I’d happily recommend The Bird Caper. There’s plenty happening all of the time, and I think kids will enjoy rooting for Brandon (and his bird). All in all, an excellent read!"

A ‘Wishing Shelf’ Book Review

www.thewsa.co.uk

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The Crow’s Tales: The Bird Caper

Copyright © 2024 Victoria E. Pannell * Thorir Sigfusson

Cover & Interior Artwork by Mikey Brooks (mikeybrooks.com)

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Portions of this book are works of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the email address below.

VPTSWriters

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eBook Edition

ISBN: 978-1-964064-02-4

[1. Adventure—Fiction. 2. Midgrade Educational—Fiction. 3. Family & Friendship—Fiction. 4. Entertainment—Humor]

We love writing stories for children…

We dedicate this story to our children…

Shannon & Erick

May your hopes turn to wishes…

May all your wishes come true!

Love You Bunches

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Our cheeks are rusty red as we brave the cold on the way home from school. There’s insults and laughter. It’s my usual gang of loud, unruly neighborhood friends huddled together, walking in a single stride.

Josh, you MORON, don’t take more than one, I yell, pulling a small brown paper bag from my backpack, hiding the embarrassing Make Good Choices and red heart, signed Love, Mom!

Oatmeal raisin cookies. Your mom’s the best! He cheers dramatically, jumping about like an orangutan and raising the bag like it’s a prized trophy, then quickly stuffing his mouth.

Pass them around, you PIG! come shouts from the group as Josh’s nose pokes into the bag, taking in a deep breath.

Oh man, they smell the bomb!

Get your drippy nose out of the bag! voices protest in disgust. I curl my tongue, letting out one of my epic signature whistles. Phwwwwhht. My grandfather taught it to me years ago. It catches everyone’s attention with a cool birdlike sound.

Okay! I’ll just eat the rest, he says, and the group goes wild climbing over each other.

It’s predictable. We’re like a posse of brothers and sisters from different mothers and fathers. We’ve been friends, hanging out together, since the first grade.

The mangled paper bag is shoved from one outstretched hand to another until only crumbs and one raisin remain. It’s no surprise when Josh lunges for one last turn and tips it into his mouth. Now he’s happy. Licking his lips, he crumples the bag into a ball and stuffs it back into my backpack… like always.

It’s not a long walk. It’s good exercise after listening to teachers rattle on for hours. We take the same route every day, dropping and picking kids up along the way. I like my neighborhood, with its small houses and big nicely kept yards. This time of the year, it’s especially nice with the swirls from the neighbors’ chimneys decorating the sky. This is where I’ve grown up for the past ten years and I love it.

Laughter echoes around us as we compete to outdo each other’s storytelling, pushing and shoving, recounting the horrors of our school day. We’re cracking up a storm as Josh describes his near detention when he did a spiral slide into old Principal Bellwether, trying not to be late for gym class for the hundredth time. Then… abruptly, the laughter stops. We clam up and freeze. But not from the cold! We’re like a blob of zombies frozen stiff, mere footsteps from my house. The very place I was born because Dad couldn’t get Mom to the hospital in time. There, for all my friends to witness, is the HORROR that’s been spinning around in my brain for days!

Hanging in the air above the groans of my friends are the loud bangs of a hammer that feel like the zaps of a stun gun with each blow. Standing, holding the hammer, is a woman in a dark blue coat, with curly black hair that puffs out from under a hat that teeters on the top of her head. We’re captivated by her as she artfully balances herself in high heels on the frozen lawn, hanging a metal sign that displays her picture. She adjusts how it dangles from a wooden post anchored into the grass like a dagger, then steps back to admire it. It’s impossible not to see the bright red letters that boldly read HOUSE FOR SALE. It’s smack in the middle of MY front yard!

Holy ravioli, Brandon! Josh exclaims, pulling at his coarse red hair with both hands as the others look on in wide-eyed disbelief. Sheesh! What’s with the sign?

I’ve seen this woman in the dark blue coat before. I stumbled into her coming out of my kitchen last week when I was in my underwear. You can imagine what a shock that was. I ran off, wrapped head to toe in paper towels. She and my parents talked forever while a peculiar man, with bags strapped to his shoulders and waist, roamed our house, taking pictures of every angle of every room.

That night, my parents told my sister and me the dreaded news. The conversation turned into a huge, dramatic scene. I had held on to a glimmer of hope that they would change their minds about the whole thing.

Brandon. What’s this all about? comes a voice from my group of friends.

My throat tightens. I don’t know, I mumble with uncertainty.

It’s your house, man. You gotta know what’s happening! another one exclaims.

Frustrated, I yank at my coat zipper as beads of sweat form icicles on my forehead and I watch my friends shiver. There’s no way out of this. I need to say something. WE’RE MOVING! I hear myself shout. GOOD GRIEF! I said it—we’re moving! The words pain my ears, my chest heaves as I gasp for air. I’m sure I’m too young to have a heart attack.

This is a joke, right? barks Josh.

It’s no joke, I say, walking past the newly planted sign, pulling my knit cap down over my dirty-blond hair.

The dark blue coat woman’s high heels click on the sidewalk. She flashes a smile and waves as she puts the hammer in the trunk of her shiny car. I suppose she enjoys making kids like me miserable. Getting her kicks by selling their homes and taking them away from their friends.

I avoid her gaze, look down at the frosty lawn, and hurriedly speed past her without returning her wave. It’s rude, I know. Mom and Dad would not approve. But this dark blue coat woman is creeping me out.

You can’t leave! shouts a friend.

What about us? calls out another.

There’s nothing more to say. I push the hair out of my eyes and walk away as the tip of my shoe kicks up a stone from the edge of the sidewalk. Without looking back, I wave my hand over my head to say goodbye. A rush of sadness pours over me. How can I leave the only home and neighborhood I’ve ever known? Mom and Dad just don’t understand!

I plop my backpack on the front steps and bolt to the backyard, running with the cold against my face to my favorite spot, my pigeon coop. It’s where I’ll find my very best friend, Ralph—my pet crow. Looking past the coop into the thicket of nearby trees, sure enough, I see him. Sitting high above in a large elm tree watching over the backyard. He’s waiting. I whistle for him. Phwwwwhht. I know he sees me, but he doesn’t come. Maybe he knows something isn’t right about today.

The coop looks cool nestled against the back of the house, and the pigeons are happy here. I keep ten to twenty birds. It fluctuates depending on Mom’s mood and how much noise they make. I’ve had some of the same pigeons for three years. They have distinct personalities and I’ve even named them. Since I enjoy learning about NASA and outer space, I’ve named a pigeon after John Glenn, the first astronaut who traveled in space, and after Neil Armstrong, the first astronaut who walked on the moon. And because I love my video games, several of my pigeons have fun names like Alex, Ender, Dragon, Lukas, Blaze, Luigi, Toad, Mario, Diddy Kong, Yoshi, Toadette, Princess Daisy, and then just for fun, my white-with-brown-speckles pigeon is Mr. Beak.

Dad and I built the pigeon coop for my seventh birthday. I’d begged Mom and Dad for months to let me have one. I promised to take good care of my birds and to keep the coop neat and clean. After months of persuading, they finally agreed.

We built it over several weekends. Dad had every tool he owned sprawled across the yard. Saws, hammers, a drill, and screwdrivers lay here and there. The neighbors thought we were building a room onto our house instead of a small stick-and-wire coop. After hundreds of reminders for me to be careful, we got through the project with only one visit to urgent care—for Dad. He had a run-in with his nail gun. It wasn’t serious. He nearly nailed his big toe to a plank of wood. Actually, it was a little funny, but Mom didn’t laugh.

The pigeons coo as I twist the wooden latch to climb inside. It’s a song I never grow tired of. Today, for the moment, it lifts my spirits. On a wire shelf tucked in a corner sits an old brown jug where I keep extra treats for Ralph. It’s a mix of peanuts in the shell and small boxes of raisins. Every day, after school, I make my way to the coop. It’s always the same. Ralph knows the routine. But today is different. A gloominess is in the air, telling me there won’t be many more trips to the coop. As these thoughts swirl around and around in my head, Ralph joins me.

It’s a happy reunion each time he comes to me. A year ago, Dad cut down an old oak tree in the backyard that was dying. I asked him to leave the stump for Ralph and me. It’s raggedy with the bark falling off, but I like the way