The Line Goes Quiet.

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.

A relic from a bygone era, Polish Chickens were specially bred for their large and fluffy feathers. Adept at collecting dirt and dust while gently wiping away smudges, these birds would often be used to clean and ‘put a shine on’ a large variety of objects. While they have largely been replaced by synthetic feather dusters in the modern era, they can still be found in the employ of people who truly appreciate vintage biotechnology.

Renowned the world over for their preternaturally calm demeanour, Capybaras are often assigned as companion dogs to people with anxiety disorders. While there have been no formal studies as to the efficacy of these chilled-out canine assistants, anecdotal evidence suggests they have a fairly significant anxiolytic effect. Above, a Capybara companion sits and waits with their assigned human (a backpacker with agoraphobia) while they tie their shoelaces.

Unfortunate victims of a bio-engineering programme gone horribly wrong, Surf Scoters live every moment of their life with a whole dinosaur skull in place of a bill. Fortunately for these malformed Melanitta the skull's mouth and nostrils are connected to the Scoter’s digestive and respiratory systems, but control of the skullmouth is retained entirely by the restless spirit of the long-dead dinosaur. 

Above, a Scoter grapples with the terrifying reality it is forced to endure while the grafted skull enjoys a tasty snack.

Incapable of traditional flight, Western Meadowlarks maneuver through the world by leaping with powerful legs. Capable of jumping three times their body’s length completely vertically, these springy Sturnella are hardly hampered by the lack of flying ability; many casual observers have been fooled into believing they take wing due to the speed and precision of their numerous jumps. Above, a pair of meadowlarks judge the leaping form of a third.

"Just passing through?” the Rooster asks, wary of your intentions. Nobody has moved to this town in twelve years, not since the mine was worked barren. The Rooster knows everybody here, working as he does in the gas station on what passes for a main street, and he does not recognize you. He also knows the sort of trouble a body can cause when they’ve no ties that bind to a location, and the silence following his question grows deafening. 

"Yeah, uh, yes sir,” you stammer, wholly unprepared for the distrust palpable in what would be otherwise an innocent question, “I’m on my way to ████████ and thought it might be best to fill the tank up now so i can head straight home after.” 

Two slips of paper are slid across the counter: the merchant’s copy of the credit card transaction for you to sign and a copy for you to keep. You autograph quick as you can; the silence again attacking your eardrums is broken only when you hand over your signature. “I reckon you’re right,” the Rooster says, “It’d be best you not stop in here again.”

You leave.