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Scopaesthesia
there is no face in the window.
asylum.
a·sy·lum
/əˈsīləm/
noun
1. the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.
shelter or protection from danger.
2. an institution offering shelter and support to people who are mentally ill.
how confidently i announced
that ghosts were nothing more
than figments
of an imaginative (or perhaps deluded)
mind.
$2,000. help wanted.
i thought,
what the hell? why not?
the cameraman never dies.
it never crossed my mind
that the cameraman
could suffer a fate worse than death.
there is no face in the window.
they even provided me a camera;
some fancy gadget
they ordered off of amazon
that claimed to be able to record
the paranormal.
it was heavy. i figured if a ghost came at me,
i'd go down swinging 300 dollars
worth of equipment at their dead face.
we saw nothing.
honestly, as much of a skeptic as i was,
i've always hoped something
(or someone)
would prove me wrong.
as we walked through the hallways,
grainy, dim-lit footage marking our path,
i found myself hoping:
show me something, anything.
we marched along for hours,
with a kid four years younger than me
narrating the scene.
"12:34 p.m., eastern standard time...
no signs of any activity yet. my name is
kevin schumer, i'm here with my crew
and tonight we are joined by..."
he pauses.
"the cameraman," I finish,
which prompts a few uneasy giggles.
yep, that's me,
the eternal watcher.
i see and i record
for posterity.
there is no face in the window.
we were there until four a.m.
our eyelids had grown heavy.
our livestream had exactly one viewer.
perhaps that was why
i felt like i was being watched.
nothing had happened. no doors
had slammed, no windows broken.
we were alone.
yet i could not shake the feeling...
there is no face in the window.
i drove myself home.
headlights lit up the parking lot.
yellow lines. black asphalt.
then darkness again
as i made my way up
three flights of stairs
to my apartment.
my lights refused to turn on.
a power outage? or had my power
been cut?
i did not know. i was too tired to care.
tomorrow, my check would hit
my account
and then i could solve the problem
of late rent.
i laid down,
in nothing but boxer shorts,
awaiting the release of sleep,
and found that
i could not hold my eyes shut.
a feeling was sinking into my spine
like a numbing injection
and i found myself tingling with
some unseen awareness.
i was being watched.
there is no face in the window.
it has been
three weeks
since i had looked outside
that night
to reassure myself
that i was alone.
there is no face in the window.
yet the feeling did not leave.
it only grew.
more and more, i believed
i was hunted. haunted.
there is no face in the window.
each night i check the door,
the closet, the bed, the window—
wait, the window—
tonight,
(one last desperate cry,
the moment before the mind
shatters)
THERE IS NO FACE IN THE WINDOW.
it has followed me home.
now i will follow it home.
to my sanctuary.
to my asylum.
i am the face in the window.
you will feel me watching,
just as i felt it.
when you look outside tonight,
do not trust your eyes. trust
your instincts.
there is a face in the window.
Dead by Dawn
I was home alone when they came. My boys were trekking up Mount Kyanjin Ri in Nepal and I was getting a little staycation. No cooking, minimal cleaning, reading, writing and sleeping without being awakened by earthshaking snores or multiple visits to the bathroom that didn’t coincide with my own.
I always thought I would have a heart attack and die if someone broke into my home in the middle of the night. Alternatively, I saw myself grabbing the surprisingly sharp pocketknife I keep by the bed and shocking said invader with a nicely placed jab to the neck…or wherever my flying fist might land.
I did neither.
It was my third night alone and I was sleeping like a baby when a hand covered my mouth, startling me awake for the seconds it took another set of hands to put pressure on my carotid arteries. At least, I assume that’s what he did. All I know is one second I was ready to bite a hand and scream, the next I was waking up in what appeared to be a one-room cabin. I was laying on a cot, hands and feet bound, while seven men sat watching me.
“I hope you don’t think you can actually get a ransom for me. We own a small business. We don’t have major profits. We pay our bills and have no debt. That’s it. You seriously chose the wrong side of town. You know we live on the blue and pink-collar side of town, right? I mean, you saw our house. What were you thinking?”
I babble when I’m nervous. Needless to say, I was nervous.
“You have been chosen,” said the only un-bearded fellow.
You can imagine where my mind went but all I said was, “Is this some kind of religious thing?”
“No,” replied a different guy.
“Kind of,” said a third.
Right. “What have I been chosen for?”
“To kill us.”
I giggled, also a nervous habit. “Great. Give me a gun and the keys to a car.”
“It is not that simple.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“We were sent here long ago as punishment. We had to live and suffer as you humans…”
“Whoa, what. Wait. You humans? Um, I am sure I don’t really want to know, but, if you are not human, what are you?”
“There is no word for us that you would understand.”
“Fallen angels?” I said, giggling again while my skin had goosebumps and a sheen of sweat.
“More like gods, than the angels that come to your mind.”
“Well, if you are gods, how did you get sent here?”
“We angered the Creator. Our punishment is eternal damnation. Eternal damnation is living and suffering as a human without end. We cannot die.”
“Then how am I supposed to kill you?
“It is the night of the seventh moon in the seventh year of the seventh century since we were relieved of all that made us gods and forced to be but men.”
“Okay.”
“On this night alone, and not again for another seven hundred of your years, the barriers between this plane and ours will open for seven hours – from now until dawn. In that time, if we are killed, we will finally throw off the chains of our earthly imprisonment and return to our true existence.”
“And if I kill you, I get to go home?”
“Yes.”
“So, give me a gun.”
“As I said, it is not that simple.”
“Yeah, I remember. So, what’s the deal?”
“We cannot just let you kill us. We must run away from you, and we have to try not to die. You have to catch us and stab us seven times with this dagger,” the un-bearded one said, pointing to a very pointy knife with a bejeweled handle that I hadn't noticed on the cot next to me.
“Well, I guess you’re stuck here because there is no way I can do that. Have you looked at yourselves lately?” They were seated, but it was obvious they were all in the over six feet, six pack, I eat steak for breakfast and bench-press your mom group.
’While the barriers are down, you will be able to tap into energies and powers you’ve never dreamed of. But you must figure it out on your own or else it would be considered cheating, and we will continue to rot in this hell.”
“Tell me how you really feel.”
“I did.”
“Oy. Anyway, I have never killed anyone, and it is not on my list of things to do. Couldn’t you take me home and get someone else to do it? Why not hire a contract killer or something.”
“We cannot hire someone. That would be cheating.”
“And this isn’t?”
They looked at each other.
“You have been chosen by the Creator.”
“You are fricking kidding me. You must have really pissed him, or her, off.”
“Clearly since we are here.”
“No, I mean, I am the last person in the world to choose to kill someone. Seriously.”
“If you do not kill us, you will die.”
“As I said, last person. I’ve been suicidal since I was 12. Get it over with. Just shoot me now.”
“You do not want to die.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I definitely don’t want to stab seven men.”
“If you do not find and kill at least one of us an hour for the next seven hours, you will lose a finger each hour. If you do not kill us all by dawn, those you have killed will rise as we have ever done these last seven hundred years we have tried to die in the many wars that have plagued the earth, and you will be beheaded – by seven strokes of seven angry immortal men.”
“That sounds horribly painful.”
The only one who hadn’t spoken looked at me with haunted eyes and said, “It is.”
I wasn't certain we were talking about the same thing.
“Fine, I guess I have no choice. Untie me.”
They looked at each other with a sense of hope or dread, not sure which. “You must free yourself. And you must do it without one of your fingers.” As he said this, one moved quickly to flip me on my side and, using something that must have been made for cutting off fingers, he snipped off my pinkie.
I was still screaming when they left the cabin.
I wasted fifteen minutes of the first hour whimpering. Then I started to think. Okay, if the walls are down, so to speak, and those guys were supposedly like gods, I must be able to tap into some powerful energy.
Why would I be chosen? I thought. Well, because it had to be someone who didn’t want to kill, who had a healthy fear of a painful death if not death itself…what else? Maybe also someone who wanted to believe in other worlds and beings or varying layers of existence… who wasn’t power hungry.I suspect someone who sought power would have a field day figuring out what powers he could get tonight and how to hold on to them.
I just wanted to get home so I could see my boys again. I might even take off from work and hop on a plane like they’d wanted.
A half hour had gone by before I thought, so, if the walls are down, on this amalgamated plane, my pinkie is not gone and the bindings on me do not exist.
And it was so.
I took a deep breath. OMG, I thought. I wanted to think myself anywhere but there, but figured I would end up fingerless and headless, so instead, I grabbed the dagger and went out the door. I thought myself into the form of an owl, carrying the dagger in my claws. I flew above the surrounding forest and began my hunt.
I found the first within minutes. I landed in the branch above where he hid, retook a human form and landed a death blow before he knew I was there. And then I added the six to complete the seven stabs.
And yes, I meant “a human form.” Why take my normal, five foot seven, 120-pound form when I could be six foot six carrying two hundred fifty pounds of pure muscle?
I thought myself into owl form and set off to find the other six.
I found all but one within the first three hours, but I hunted all night for the seventh, flying miles of circles around the cabin. I finally flew back to the cabin to rest and think. As I was landing, I saw him through the window. He was sitting, looking at the door, a gun in his hand.
Hmmm, I thought. Either he doesn’t want to go back, or he has to make a good showing.
I flew up to the roof. I heard him speaking.
“I know you are near. I can feel you. You will not be able to kill me, and my brothers will come back, and we will have to stay here. We will take your head and we will have life still. I don’t want to return to the ether. I have grown to love this world. I do not want to leave it.”
Great.
I wondered how to get in the cabin without being seen. Then I thought, why go in the cabin? If there were no air in the cabin, he would suffocate and die. Bingo!
I could hear him choking from my perch on the roof. Within moments, there was silence.
I flew down and peeked in the window. He was on the floor, unmoving. I thought restraints onto his wrists, just in case, and removed the gun from the room. Then I entered, dagger at the ready. As I stabbed him for the seventh and last time, his body faded away or perhaps it was just me, for I found myself standing over my bed in my home. Alone.
The dagger was still in my hand.
To sit in silence is to face oneself. A break in conversation to hear what the other has to say. The other: your feet. The other: your organs. The other: the pain in your back whose cries are stifled by social anxieties each day when you leave the house. A locking door to an empty room, a place of silence. A place of overwhelming complaints, of longings, of terrible, horrible things. To sit in silence is to sit in chaos.
To sit in silence is to reflect into the mirror that is the undistracted heart. When the room floods, what is it that rises to the surface? What sinks? And which will you remember to move to a higher shelf? Do not fret though. The sunken and forgotten with age will become treasure that will be most novel to rediscover. By someone else of course, not you. The next tenant, hypothetical grandchildren, or a sparrow to use for their nest. To sit in silence is to scramble to the top of the trash heap.
To sit in silence is to gaze into the crystal ball you have spent your life creating. To revel and to mourn. To anticipate and predict. To worry and to dread. To sit in silence is to be assured that all is factual that is broadcasted from you and if the forecast is dire, you need to take shelter soon.
To sit in silence is to levitate in a spacious moment. At the counter between customers when the store is empty. On the near-empty bus late at night between stops. On a walk as the battery on your phone finally runs out. To sit in silence is not to sit at all.
To sit in silence is to squirm uncomfortably in your chair, in your clothes, in your skin. To sit in silence is to notice you are physically alone, and to realize the music, the podcasts, the radio are not your friends after all. To sit in silence is to notice silence. To sit in silence is to remember how untethered you are. Levitating, cartwheeling, sleeping, gliding, landing and launching. All you do to feel as though you are going somewhere, reaching something, reaching someone. To watch time pass and feel it pass to always arrive at the same place. To sit in silence is to face oneself.
The Life I Chose
I woke to dust motes. They drifted lazily, basking in the light from my open window in the early sunrise. I rolled my eyes at them. A year or two ago, I might've gotten lost in the way they looked like a thousand shards of glitter. I might've smiled softly and lifted my fingers to send them stirring on a tiny, frantic breeze. Today, like every other day for the last six years, they only reminded me of my utter ineptitude. I couldn't keep my bedroom dusted, for Christ's sake, how could I be expected to achieve anything truly substantial at all? Not that I wanted to. No. I'd greedily retreated into the mundane, into normalcy, routine, whatever. This. This is the life I wanted. This is the life I chose.
The words haunted me as I scurried into the bathroom and slathered body wash under a tepid stream of water. They slithered along my skin along with the brisk toweling down I gave myself after. They sang with every sweep of the hair brush. Hell, I could even hear them in the spritz of perfume I applied: one spurt to my wrist, one splash on my collarbone. Like every other day, it was the same. My body fell into a rhythm, moving without me giving any conscious thought at all. It was so mindless, I was hardly surprised when I found myself sitting at my desk at work with no memory of the drive, stacking paperwork tidily, as I did every morning. I settled into my chair and nursed at my coffee. My insulated mug kept it a little too hot, so I pried off the lid, let the steam fog my glasses and took in my cluttered desk. The stacked papers were the only thing that looked vaguely organized. Little trinkets were scattered beneath my monitor, a tiny carved dragon, a chipped miniature disco ball, and a bottle cap my daughter had colored with swipes of rainbow crayon. A stained floral mouse-pad sat under my keyboard, the passage of time marked in splashes of spilled coffee and remnants of sandwich crumbs. When I'd gotten the promotion, Daniel had bought the huge mousepad for me. He'd handed it to me nervously, unable to meet my eyes under trembling lashes and muttered, "For that dreary office... something pretty," his voice had caught in his throat as he'd dragged his eyes up to meet mine, "pretty. Like you." I smiled at the memory. That'd been the beginning of the end for me. Those words that'd so obviously taken every ounce of Daniel's bravery to utter had been my undoing. They'd been the beginning of my stagnation.
Daniel was... comfortable. I'd fallen into him like a feather bed. He'd wrapped me up and offered up everything I'd ever dared to dream: a house in the suburbs, two gorgeous kids, a nice-ish car, and a decently good-looking and kind mate to share it with. What more could a girl want? My smile turned bitter and broke, falling off of my face and drowning in my now lukewarm coffee. This is the life I wanted. This is the life I chose. I didn't have anything to complain about. I should be happy. I was happy. If I said it enough, maybe I'd finally believe it.
I spent the next three hours clacking away at the keyboard, organizing figures into columns on my spreadsheet until my eyes went foggy from staring at the screen. I leaned back and pressed my fingers into my eyelids, rubbing a bit to dislodge the fog. A soft knock sounded on my door and Patrick poked his blonde head in, "Hey, you know what day it is, right?" A mischievous grin unfurled above his sculpted jaw.
I smirked, folded my arms, and rocked a little in my chair, "Nah. Enlighten me, Patch."
"Well, muchacha," he snickered, "it is noon, on a Tuesday. I saw Mateo's food truck parked on the avenue. Taco Tuesday. You in?"
"Thank fuck. Yes, I'm in."
Patch barked a laugh, "Is that any way for a boss to speak in front of her underlings?"
I grabbed my coat and gave him a shove as I passed him in the doorway, "Oh, screw off," I chuckled, "you know you love me. And you, Patrick, are not my underling."
He held up placating hands, "Whatever you say." His eyes sparkled with glee and my stomach dropped a little. I took an extra second to look him over, knowing that was as far as it'd ever go. Was Patrick nice to look at? Yes. Very. Did he and I like to flirt? Yes. Was he the only thing that made this miserable job worth it? Also yes. Would either of us ever act on the current of white-hot attraction that flowed between us? No. A resounding no. I had everything I ever wanted, and so did he. Both of us were married with the kids and the house and the doting spouse. So we looked... and looked... but never, ever touched. Well, not really, anyway. Not the way we wanted to.
Patch and I took a long lunch, though that wasn't unusual. We got lost easily in conversation and went over our hour nearly every day. Sometimes when we sat at the sticky picnic table on the sidewalk beside Mateo's Famous Tacos truck, Patrick would let his knee brush mine. He did it today and something sparked when his eyes met mine. I jerked my leg away like I always did, but I knew he'd seen in my eyes that I'd relished the touch. Like he always did. He smirked. I grinned. We both laughed in quiet knowing as we made our way back to the office. This constant hovering on the knife's edge with Patrick was the only thing keeping either of us sane.
The next hours passed in a blur of stirring papers and clicking pens. When it was over, I made the drive home in much the same way I had made the drive to work. I arrived without really knowing how I'd gotten home. Had I stopped at the red lights? Had I gone the speed limit? What music had played? I didn't know. I didn't care. I smacked a kiss onto Daniel's cheek and plopped one on the top of my daughters' heads as I made my way to my customary seat at the dining table. We ate spaghetti and spoke of the same things we always did. How was school? The girls grumbled some half-hearted reply. How was work? Daniel and I muttered about something or other. Anything exciting happen? Everyone mumbled a dead-hearted no.
After dinner, it was our customary race to be free of one another's presence. The girls sequestered themselves in their bedrooms, where angsty music echoed off of the walls. Daniel made his way to the sofa loosening his tie and picking up the remote. I scrubbed dishes and guzzled two glasses of red wine before settling into an armchair with a book. We all made our lazy way to beds, after checking locks and brushing teeth and slowly slipping out of the day's wrinkled clothes. I settled under the covers next to Daniel and the both of us continued what we'd been doing in the living room until finally heaving a mutual sigh, turning off our lamps, and whispering goodnight before turning away from one another in bed. When Daniel sighed a third time into the darkness, I knew it was coming.
He rolled towards me and twined his fingers into my hair. My toes curled...a little. Daniel knew me well. He knew I liked it when he pulled my hair... a little. He ran kisses down my neck. I ground my bottom into him, but didn't roll over. I reached behind me and shoved my fingers into his hair, too, urging him to keep pelting my neck in kisses. I wished he'd bite me, but he didn't. His fingers were clumsy as he pulled the waistband of my night shorts down and ran an exploratory thumb down my center, making sure I was ready enough. I was. That'd never been a problem for us.
We fucked like lazy spoons, clacking about in the cutlery drawer. When I came, I pictured Patrick's face. I'd done it for so many years, I didn't even feel ashamed of it anymore. It's not that Daniel wasn't attractive or that I didn't love him, even. He was just so... ordinary. Safe. Normal. We were bored of one another. It's why we always turned out the lights before finding release. He didn't want to see the faces I made in the throes of...well, whatever it was we did to emulate passion. And I didn't want to see his face, either. His face was as familiar to me as my own, and-- there wasn't any magic in that.
Daniel handed me a tissue and kissed my cheek. "Good night," he said.
"Good night," I echoed. But I didn't fall asleep. I couldn't, though it'd just been an ordinary day. A heaviness settled over me, an ache at the center of my chest that grew until it felt I'd tear in two. I stared at the silhouette of my closet door until it blurred into meaninglessness. Daniel's breathing turned thick and wet, asleep. And with every breath I heard those words I kept telling myself: This is the life I wanted. This is the life I chose.
Maybe if I said it enough, I'd believe it.
Robin(g Death)
"You have no control who lives or who dies." She all but spits in my face. I wipe it furtively anyway, her vitriol enough to drown.
I sigh, turning to look over the stables I own. We own. "Maybe not. But I sure as hell can try, cant I?"
My eyes land on a dark horse- a Seattle Slew. I named him Robin after my late brother. The horse lays on its side, huffing uneven breaths despite the open air the field provides. The vet said it might help, but his eyes are cast further down on his broodmare, a fine horse that stands nursing their new foal.
"You can't stop death."
"But she stops for us?" I sarcastically quote, mapping the strong muscles of my prized animal. I had bought him to secure a fortune- I mean, a race horse? One of the cream of the crop? He surely would have brought glory. At least a dollar to the farm. But I quickly valued him far beyond that- far beyond my own brother, I hate to admit. He is family, as much a dog or cat. He became sick the moment I offloaded him, and hasn't been able to do much but rest the poor bastard.
"No." My wife says, turning to look out at the farm. It feels easier without her heavy gaze on me; one I had promised would survey a bountiful future, now drawn to the very dying of our soil. The horse never wavers his dying gaze from his loved ones. "No, death hasn't stopped. She rests. Even death must rest, must she not?"
I shrug noncommittally. "Does she? I watched my entire family die first hand- one after the other, barely a few months apart. Not much a rest, is it?"
"Oh William, you are such a negative man." My wife chuckles, and I quirk a smile instinctively. "No. Death takes those that she must. She is not cruel. She simply takes those begging for release."
"You say my ma, pa, brother and sister- god my sister, barely five- asked for death?" I growl out. She does not flinch.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But death must sense fight. I imagine your family-" She turns quickly to me, and I nearly buckle beneath her wide-eyed stare. Her hands grip my face, forcing me to steady on the fence. "Oh Will, your family was sick. They were in so much pain. Surely you did not wish them to survive and suffer still? From paralysis? From a risk of relapse?"
I shake my head quickly before I can imagine my young siblings ensnared by wooden wheels and bed-bindings as they lash against their fevers. "Of course not. But couldnt death give them a chance? Grant them mercy? Restore them?"
Her hands, firm and sturdy, stroke my face like I am something good. She is as piss-poor as I, yet pulls me forward as though I am worth the land in weight. "Prayers fall on deaf winds, scattered by the winds of begging for release." She tugs me by my jaw and I helpless to follow, inhaling her sharp scent of sunshine and earth. Her smile puts the darkness to shame, though I feel a banging of guilt like the sturdy slam of the guillotine to wood at my own thoughts of deserting her.
"William, what is it you wish?"
Without hesitation, I reply. "Health. Happiness.." My eyes drift to the delicate bump beneath her tunic, though I am not brave enough to touch the poor child she nurtures when I am barely capable of feeding her. "Survival for our family. Security."
She smirks, all the bit enticing she had been nearly five years ago in that tavern when she had been little more than an overworked barmaid. "You've yet to name him: our son."
I can taste the beginnings of her smile, and shrug with a whisper of a response, "What about Robin? After my brother and our stallion."
"Do you not suppose it bad luck?" She asks with a tilt of her head, and I pull a few inches back to admire the framing of brown locks around her gentle, wondering face.
"No." I grin as I let my hands fall from the fence finally to her hips, my thumbs skirting the edge of her expanded stomach. "Luck is benevolent to have found me you."
She grins, bright and brilliant and I admire the slight lines years of happiness have bestowed her, whereas mine revel worry of the fall of empires. However, her gaze is not on me.
Without glancing away from the field, her fingers find my jaw, softly prompting. "Look."
Robin stands on shaky legs, his wild foal bounding happily around him in circles. The mare nuzzles the sturdy neck of the male, who chuffs into her own mane.
I blink wildly, my hands falling to grip the fence, ready to vault over. My wife is making for the house; undoubtedly calling for the vet. However, she stops to shoot me an impish grin. "Better find a better name for our boy by the time I get back."
How dare I doubt such a woman, I wonder as I leap across the field in bouts of energy no amount of money could ever bestow me. So long as I have my family.
You Idiot!
“You Idiot!”
The words, her words, echoed in my head,
constantly,
continuously,
every day for the last six years.
Of all of the ideas she had,
all of the songs she sang,
and all of the blessings she gave,
it was only these words I could not distance myself from.
“You Idiot!”
I should have told her the truth and I should have told her the instant I knew.
I wanted to shield her from the impact it would have on us.
If she knew, it would destroy all she ever worked for.
If she knew I knew, it would destroy her.
She would become a shell of her past.
That person you remember fondly until you remember why you are remembering.
It always ends poorly for such people.
She was now such people.
“You Idiot!”
I hear it.
I see it.
I can even taste it.
Her words resonate and permeate my senses.
Her words drive me toward a resolution, six years too late, but better late than never.
I can’t save her.
That ship has sailed.
I can’t save myself.
I will never be the man she wanted.
Sometimes I believe that ship was never meant to sail.
“You Idiot!”
But I help those that don’t even realize they need my help.
These people I target dangle on the precipice of ruin, only inches from despair.
From their POV, they see only their past, maybe my past.
From my POV, I see their one possible future if they are to have any future.
I am an idiot.
But, for today at least,
I can prevent another from joining my club.
a little sister’s wisdom
Someone once told me that owls have ancient wisdom behind those big round eyes. If only we could decipher their calls we’d know all the secrets to the universe. I wish they’d communicate this ‘wisdom’ a little quieter because I’m a light sleeper.
It wasn’t a wise decision to go on this trip. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. If I were an owl, I might have known better. I thought I could become someone I’m not for the week. But I’m ‘indoorsy’. Camping is not for me.
I’m standing on the front porch of the log cabin we’re staying in, looking up at the moon, peeking through the trees. I think it’s a waxing crescent, but I’m not sure. I was never an expert on such things.
There’s a creak from behind me and then a soft voice.
I turn around and lock eyes with Lily, who’s wearing my hand-me-down pajamas.
“I can’t sleep,” she whispers.
“Me neither,” I whisper back.
“They’re so noisy.”
“The owls?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re just talking to each other - kinda like us.”
“About what?”
“Ancient wisdom.”
“Can you understand what they’re saying?”
“No. Can you?”
“Yeah.”
When I ask her what they’re talking about she proceeds to hoot like an owl.
I laugh and roll my eyes at her.
“Can I have some?” She asks, pointing to the mug I’m holding.
“I guess,” I say and hand it over.
I know her well enough to know she’ll hate it.
She sips it and makes a face.
“Ew,” she says.
“You say that now, but when I’m asleep and you’re still here with the owls, you’ll wish you had this.”
“It makes you sleepy?”
“It’s supposed to.”
“I’m already sleepy, but I can’t sleep.”
“Same.”
There is a moment of silence before Lily speaks again.
“Do you want me to tell you a story?”
“About what?”
“What the owls are actually saying.”
She whispers, as if not to let the owls know that she’s aware of their secrets.
“Sure.”
We head back into the cabin and lie down in our sleeping bags, huddled close together.
In moments like these, I selfishly wish that I had an older sister, someone like me who I could tell stories to when I was 8. But then again I am grateful to have her all to myself, which might be a little selfish, too.
I feel stupid for being angry when my parents announced I’d be having a sister. I was a melodramatic mess in the months before I met her.
But now, I wouldn’t give her up for a million bucks or all the wisdom in the world.
Lying there in our sleeping bags, Lily starts telling me about the owls. I don’t remember what she said because I fell asleep about five minutes in.
Lily is one of the best storytellers I know, so I know wasn’t boring. Maybe she knew the magic words to make me fall asleep.
I bet that’s what the owls taught her.
The View from the Edge
There was once a fledgling hatched among eagles' eggs. No one knows how it happened, least alone himself.
He was raised like everyone else, and when the time came, he teetered on the ledge, like Mama Eagle had demoed, and plummeted with all the other eaglets, happily flapping his wings, catching the up wind. High in the skies he noticed nothing different, but getting closer to the ground, he was unnerved.
Why he had-- agh! no head!!
Just look at that shadow! Look he did in broad daylight. He pondered on it. He had eyes and vision and yet-- it didn't occur to him that he was built different-- he immediately grieved that something was missing. He hunched himself into his shoulders more so.
No one had treated him any different. And till he saw this shadow of himself he had felt no issue. Night fell. On the ledge, he watched critters scurrying far below, black, busy, similar yet different. He inched towards Papa Eagle, to settle his brooding conscious:
"...I am not an Eagle."
"Raptor, you're an Equal."
"What then am I ...really?"
"We see far in the light, that is freedom; we Eagles are Seekers.
...you, Owlet, see far in the dark, that is wisdom. Owls are Seers.
Are you wondering why there is only one of you here?"
"Yes. Surely I am not the only Owl?"
"No, indeed, there are more Owls than Eagles; but, throughout this world, there are far less Seers than Seekers."
11.10.2023
FFF#4: Owl challenge @ChrisSadhill
The Enchanted Owl
Each night, the owl could be seen, even at a distance, as he made his flight across the skies. Against a backdrop of moonlit clouds, his silhouette was striking, creating a nearly manlike image in its magnificence. He appeared much like an ethereal creature derived of ancient days or a mythological god. There was no doubt as to his importance in the world’s grand scheme of things. He was a creature of allure, of mystery, and of dreams.
From the bedroom window, Luna welcomed the owl’s arrival each night after the moon rose high. He swooped in with an ominous shriek, perched proudly on the high tree’s branch, and then proceeded to cock his head at a ninety degree angle to study her with rapt intensity as though he could perceive her innermost desires. His amber eyes always struck her to the core, filled with both mystery and ominous wisdom, and something more: something akin to unknown truths. Oh, but how Luna longed to know what the owl was thinking whenever he looked at her in such a way.
Tonight was no different. The owl watched her, enraptured by the sight she made as she stood in the moon’s glow. When he looked at her in such a way, she was wont to wonder if he were a mere bird. Instead, her mind drifted to other possibilities. Perhaps her nocturnal visitor was a man, a mortal, who had fallen under a spell of enchantment – a kind, handsome man who was a lover of all things associated with the moonlight. Oh, but the way the owl studied her. What did he know? What did he long to say? There was certainly much more to this owl than what met the eye.
Tonight, Luna recognized that the owl’s appearance was different somehow, and yet, she could not put her finger on exactly what made it so. His eyes of amber fixed on her without interruption, with an intensity unlike previous nights. Impulsively, Luna leaned out the window and extended her hand. Cooing softly, she beckoned the owl with a smile of utter innocence. The owl shifted, straightening to an impressive height as he plumped his feathers, apparently well pleased by her actions. Slowly, the bird moved along the branch toward Luna’s outstretched hand, his eyes never faltering in their focus of the woman in the window, a figure in flimsy white, enshrined in flowing strands of long, red hair, much like a fairy or garden nymph.
Luna’s coos became softer, sweeter. The bird stopped just short of the window. A need to touch the owl engulfing her, Luna lifted her hand and stroked the amber streaked feathers. As she did so, the owl’s eyes lightened to spun gold only moments before the moon shifted behind the clouds, leaving them in darkness.
Suddenly, in a flash of light, the moon reemerged to illuminate the window and a tall, broad shouldered man who stood before it. Confusion filled Luna, and she stumbled backwards.