Masterful Storytellers, Blue-eyed Shags Are Sought Out The World Over For Their Creativity And Narrative

Masterful storytellers, Blue-eyed Shags are sought out the world over for their creativity and narrative sensibility. While very few of their tales have ever been traditionally published, their most resonant stories are often adapted by other species into culturally-appropriate versions. Unfortunately, these poet-inclined Phalacrocoracidae are rarely monetarily compensated for their creative effort or editing expertise; instead they offered vague assurances that the exposure will be “like, totally worth the same as cash”.

Above: a Shag parent tells the ancient morality play of the Three Little Shags and the Big Bad Skua, which is at it’s core an allegorical lesson about the legal protections and enforceability offered by verbal agreements, napkin-backed contracts, and notarized terms and conditions.

“And as you can see by my ID card I am in fact a grown adult and so I am very allowed to watch this R-rated movie.”

“You two forgot your trenchcoat.”

“... ... SHIT”

The Nanotech plague of 3218 was one of the most devastating “grey goo” incidents of the common era’s fourth millennium. Unlike the nanotech plague of 3047 which merely transformed many North American trees into shining metal statues, the 3218 plague afflicted a large population of birds in Oceania and Southeast Asia. Above, a Spoonbill is rendered by the errant nanotechnology into a variety of machine parts and utensils in a cruelly ironic twist on it’s name.

“I still don’t understand what the problem is” blithes the Waxwing. “Just go to the ████████! No one is stopping you.”

You pause, attempting vainly to figure out how to explain that anxiety does not work that way, how incredibly overwhelming the world is even when you are able to cope with it, how you have been trying your best all of this time, and how utterly broken you feel that your best is barely, barely equivalent to a ‘normal’ person having an off day. You wonder why you had to deal with the indignity of this conversation in the first place; Jules is only out of town for a weekend, you should have been able to pick up your stuff in peace. Your ex’s mom acting as a housesitter was the last thing you expected. Or wanted.

You sigh.

“Look,” you begin, “I appreciate that you’ve always been supportive of me, but I really don’t feel like I can do this right now.” You pause to try and search for the right words but find only the deep well of shame and sadness trying to fight their way back into control. You try to head them off at the pass: “I’m sorry. Thank you for the tea and for helping me pack. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

You leave.

40% of all perched bird sightings in North America are in fact fraudulent due to the work of a rogue Disney Imagineer. Fired for their inability to synchronize motion to audio, they have dedicated their life to proving themself competent by building and installing thousands of animatronic birds in the wild. Above, a facsimile of a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak bobs and sways a half-step out of time with the accompanying audio track.

Rose-breasted Grosbeak

Military Ridge Trail, WI, 5-16-17

The line goes quiet.

You pull the phone away from your head to make sure it didn’t disconnect, which causes you to miss the first part of the Oriole’s response.

“-want me to do with this information. It doesn’t really change anything, does it?”

“I mean, not really,” you hesitate, “I just... I think maybe I was hoping you would have an opinion on it, that you would tell me you suspected or it surprised you or something. Does that make sense?” The note of pleading in your voice betrays how uncertain you are about the entire situation.

“I guess...” the voice on the other end responds, painfully unconvinced. “But you have to remember I never got to meet Jules, so I have no idea how you two got along. And you’ve posted what, half a dozen times on facebook since I left for school? Maybe if you were less of a shut-in recluse I might have been able to offer something worthy of consideration, here.”

You say nothing, the age-old accusation from your closest friend made all the more pointed in the years since they accepted a full-ride scholarship from out-of-state and left, immediately after going to ████████ without you. A fear grips your heart, that you are ossifying into a relic of the past, remembered fondly but not often thought of. This feeling is only strengthened as the Oriole continues:

“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you were looking for but I gotta go, I’ve got stuff that needs checking on at the lab. Talk later!” she promises, but you know both that she will forget and you won’t work up the courage to call again.

“Goodbye.” you respond.

You hang up.