The Chick on the Chimney

A Short Story About Feathers In The Vatican

Bianca was a mother on a mission.

"Right there," she said, flapping against the stiff Roman wind and eyeing the small chimney poking from the roof like a rusty breadstick. "Perfect nesting spot. Solid rooftiles. No cats. No humans to shoo us off."

Her mate, Bruno, circled twice before gliding down beside her. "It smells like burnt paper here."

Between them, their chick crash-landed in a tumble of fluff—about as graceful as a molting mozzarella ball. His name was Pico. He was two weeks old, grey and fluffy like a tiny rain cloud. His worldview consisted of three things: fish, fear, and falling off stuff.

"I lived!" he chirped proudly.

"You barely landed," Bruno muttered.

"Don’t discourage him," said Bianca. "Look, we’ve got sun, shelter, and lots of tourists with food around the square. This is prime Vatican real estate."

They settled in. Bianca fussed with twigs. Bruno kept watch.

Bored, Pico began spinning in wobbly circles around the chimney like a dizzy feather duster.

Bruno smirked. “I dare you to fly on top of that thing.”

Pico paused. “That’s… high.”

Bruno shrugged. “Be the gull you were hatched to be.”

With a squeaky war cry, Pico flapped, wobbled, and—by some miracle—landed on the chimney.

He raised his wings in triumph.

---

The Square Below

They didn’t know it, but tens of thousands of humans were looking at them.

The square below was packed with people, pointing phones, gasping, whispering in a hundred languages. All eyes, cameras, and prayers were locked on the chimney. And the birds.

"Is that a baby one?" someone muttered.
"A family of seagulls!"
"Maybe it's a sign!"
"Look at the chick. It’s pooping on top of the chimney!"

In a control room nearby, a TV director instructed the camera operators to zoom in on Pico as if he was directing an action movie.

“Perfetto,” the director muttered, sipping his espresso. “This little fluffball’s about to become a legend!”

---

White Smoke

Suddenly, the chimney gurgled. A cloud of of white smoke emerged and the crowd exploded. Bells rang. Flags waved. People screamed, sobbed, prayed, and pointed.

Pico, startled, fell off the chimney.

He flailed, flapped, flumped—but didn’t fall far. Bruno caught him midair, muttering something about divine intervention. They all flapped to the edge of the roof.

The humans below were still shrieking with joy.

“Did… did we do something?” Pico asked.

Bianca tilted her head. “Maybe. I think the humans have chosen a new Pope. I remember my parents telling me they were here the last time this happened.”

Bruno snorted. “If that’s so, we’ve probably been on TV all the time.”

Pico fluffed up. “So… we’re famous?”

“No,” Bianca said, nudging him. “But maybe we made people smile. That counts for something.”

Pico puffed up. "I pooped on the Pope’s chimney!"

Bianca groaned. "He’s your son."

"Not anymore," said Bruno, flying off.

---

And while TV stations around the world replayed the white smoke and startled seagulls on loop, high above Saint Peter’s Square, with feathers ruffled by the wind and dreams full of fish, Pico slept—unaware he'd become the most famous seagull in the world.