Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(15)

Ben doesn’t wake until after one P.M. His dreams were replays of his protracted late-night conversation with Marnie. They stood in the living area. Neither sat or made themselves more comfortable. He remembers part of their conversation going like this:

“When did you first read ‘Something About Birds’?” “Five years ago, I think.” “When did you move to the city?” “Three years ago, I think?” “You think?” “I’m sorry, it was two years ago, last September. It seems like I’ve been here longer. I don’t know why I was confused by that question.” “As an adult, have you always lived alone?” “Yes.” “How many miles away do you currently live from your mother?” “I’m not sure of the exact mileage but she’s in another time zone from me.” “Tell me why you hate your job at the restaurant.” “It’s having to fake pleasantness that makes me feel both worthless and lonely.” “Have you had many lovers?” “Only two. Both relationships lasted less than two months. And it’s been a while, unfortunately.” “What has been a while?” “Since I’ve had a lover, as you put it.” “Have you ever held a live bird cupped in your hands and felt its fragility or had a large one perch on your arm or shoulder and felt its barely contained strength?” “No. Neither.” “Would you prefer talons or beak?” “I would prefer wings.” “You can’t choose wings, Benjamin. Talons or beak?” “Neither? Both?” And so on.

Ben does not go into work and he doesn’t call in. His phone vibrates with the agitated where-are-yous and are-you-coming-ins. He hopes that asshole Shea is being called in to cover for him. He says at his ringing phone, “The New Dark Review will be my job.” He decides severing his already fraying economic safety line is the motive necessary to truly make a go at the career he now wants. He says, “Sink or swim,” then playfully chides himself for not having a proper bird analogy instead. Isn’t there a bird species that lays eggs on cliffs in or near Ireland, and the mothers push the hatchlings out of the nest and as they tumble down the side of the craggy rock they learn to fly or perish? Ben resolves to turn his zine devoted to essays about obscure and contemporary horror and weird fiction into a career. He’s not so clueless as to believe the zine will ever be able to sustain him financially, but perhaps it could elevate his name and stature within the field and parlay that into something more. He could pitch/sell ad space to publishers and research paying eBook subscription-based models. Despite himself, he fantasizes The New Dark Review winning publishing industry awards. With its success he could then helm an anthology of stories dedicated to Wheatley, a cycle of stories by other famous writers centered around “Something About Birds.” If only he wasn’t told to take down the bird head photo from his various social media platforms. He fears a real opportunity has been lost, and the messages and emails asking why he took down the photo aren’t helping.

Instead of following up on his revenue generating and promotional ideas for The New Dark Review, Ben Googles the Irish-cliff-birds and finds the guillemot chicks. They aren’t kicked out of the nest. They are encouraged by calls from their father below the cliffs. And they don’t fly. The chicks plummet and bounce off the rocks and if they manage to survive, they swim out to sea with their parents.

Ben transcribes the rest of the interview and publishes it. He shares the link over various platforms but the interview does not engender the same enthusiastic response the bird head photo received. He resolves to crafting a long-term campaign to promote the interview, give it a long life, one with a tail (a publishing/marketing term, of course). He’ll follow up the interview with a long-form critical essay of Wheatley’s work. He reads “Something About Birds” eight more times. He tacks a poster board to a wall in the living area. He creates timelines and a psychical map of the story’s setting, stages the characters and creates dossiers, uses lengths of string and thread to make connections. He tacks notecards with quotes from Wheatley. He draws bird heads, too.

That night there is a repeat of the knocking on his front door. Only Ben isn’t sure if the knocking is real or if he’s only dreaming. The knocking is lighter this time; a tapping more than a knock. He might’ve welcomed another visit from Marnie earlier while he was working on his new essay, but now he pulls the bedcovers over his head. The tapping stops eventually.

Later there is a great wind outside, and rain, and his apartment sings with all manner of noises not unlike the beating of hundreds of wings.





WW: Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? It’s the question the title of the story all but asks. I’ve always been fascinated by birds and prior to writing the story, I’d never been able to fully articulate why. Yes, the story is strange, playful, perhaps macabre, and yet it really is about my love, for lack of a better term, of birds. I’m flailing around for an answer, I’m sorry. Let me try again: Our fascination with birds is more than some dime-store, new-age, spiritual longing, more than the worst of us believing these magnificent animals serve as an avatar for our black-hearted, near-sighted souls, if we’ve ever had such a thing as a soul. There’s this otherness about birds, isn’t there? Thank goodness for that. It’s as though they’re in possession of knowledge totally alien to us. I don’t think I’m explaining this very well, and that’s why I wrote the story. The story gets at what I’m trying to say about birds better than I can now. I’ve always felt, as a humble observer, that the proper emotion within a bird’s presence is awe. Awe is as fearsome and terrible as it is ecstatic.