The Corvine Curse...
That squalid little crow has once again returned to usurp my dusk with it's soul splitting squawk. This creature is molting and malnourished, an obvious outcast from whatever despicable culture that abandoned him. He must have sensed my oncoming feeling of contentment. My life was reaching the tipping point of happiness, but now I look forward to a backslide every evening before the sun lays to rest in the west. He arrives right when the colors in the sky are their most spectacular, when that little ember of joy, deep within me, is about to catch... But then he comes, perching his frail frame on a branch of an old box elder tree, where he scares all the squirrels away; he has no respect for the silent.
I've tried to make myself scarce at first. Avoiding his daily visits by going to the movie theater, walking around the mall or around the neighborhood. But for some reason I could always hear his cry, barely perceptible in my mind, like some telepathic shock therapy. I started to find that I couldn't follow the typically straightforward dialog of movies. During car rides I would find myself sitting at intersections not noticing when the traffic light turned green; the honks from preceding cars would blend into the mental echo of the crow's gripe. At the mall, my usually viable memory started to consistently fail me and I would spend as much time wandering the parking lots as I did the aisles of the stores. I came to realize that I was the prisoner of this loathsome demon.
Long after I had given up trying to escape, I decided to address this corvine goblin as would the Greeks of old. On my way home from work one day I stopped at a hobby store and purchased a precious little bird house in the style of a Victorian home, complete with a pointed gable and large porch. I was feeling crafty and clever; if this bird was to infest my tree , the least I could do is show some hospitality. Well before he was to arrive, I had the house assembled and tied securely with hemp rope to his favorite branch.
I was eager with anticipation. I imagined that if he were to squawk at all, that there would be a distinct excitement underlining the shrills. He came a little later than usual that day, but when he did he perched himself on the farthest branch from the charming little house and griped loudly and almost with anger for much longer than usual. The next morning I found the house laying in pieces on the pavement. It seems the beast pecked through the twine sending the home crashing below. I was bending down to gather the remains when I heard a harsh cry from above. I looked up just in time to see the bird flying away, leaving a small plume of ecdysed feathers in his wake. It seems that my thinking was out of synch with his own; we were destined to suffer together.
My last glimmer of faith was centered around winter's arrival: hoping that with the shedding of the leaves I would also be spared this curse and praying that the purity of the snow would drive this infernal animal south. The leaves fell and then the snow, but the crow still remained. Seemingly, crows have not the strong penchant for migration as do their peers, but more likely, this particular one was exiled from every land but my own.
With the earlier nights, this beast began it's rant from the moment I would return from work. It was driving me mad. I would pray for it to become hoarse or drop dead to the ground like so many leaves before. I became desperate, and would play music at deafening levels but nothing seemed to drone out the thundering squawks. I considered moving but feared that this creature would follow me to the end.
I finally decided to buy a gun and put an end to this misery. I purchased a shotgun, figuring that I wouldn't need to aim well to kill with a gun like that. I brought it home with a box of shells. While unwrapping it I relished the purity of this weapon. I noted that the smooth, black chambers smelled like vengeance. I loaded the double barrels, one for the past and one for the future, then went out to the box elder. Elated with a firearm weighing heavily in hands, I strode across the lawn, snow crunching underfoot. When I got to the tree I grew confused... What animal did I set out to kill?
I've tried to make myself scarce at first. Avoiding his daily visits by going to the movie theater, walking around the mall or around the neighborhood. But for some reason I could always hear his cry, barely perceptible in my mind, like some telepathic shock therapy. I started to find that I couldn't follow the typically straightforward dialog of movies. During car rides I would find myself sitting at intersections not noticing when the traffic light turned green; the honks from preceding cars would blend into the mental echo of the crow's gripe. At the mall, my usually viable memory started to consistently fail me and I would spend as much time wandering the parking lots as I did the aisles of the stores. I came to realize that I was the prisoner of this loathsome demon.
Long after I had given up trying to escape, I decided to address this corvine goblin as would the Greeks of old. On my way home from work one day I stopped at a hobby store and purchased a precious little bird house in the style of a Victorian home, complete with a pointed gable and large porch. I was feeling crafty and clever; if this bird was to infest my tree , the least I could do is show some hospitality. Well before he was to arrive, I had the house assembled and tied securely with hemp rope to his favorite branch.
I was eager with anticipation. I imagined that if he were to squawk at all, that there would be a distinct excitement underlining the shrills. He came a little later than usual that day, but when he did he perched himself on the farthest branch from the charming little house and griped loudly and almost with anger for much longer than usual. The next morning I found the house laying in pieces on the pavement. It seems the beast pecked through the twine sending the home crashing below. I was bending down to gather the remains when I heard a harsh cry from above. I looked up just in time to see the bird flying away, leaving a small plume of ecdysed feathers in his wake. It seems that my thinking was out of synch with his own; we were destined to suffer together.
My last glimmer of faith was centered around winter's arrival: hoping that with the shedding of the leaves I would also be spared this curse and praying that the purity of the snow would drive this infernal animal south. The leaves fell and then the snow, but the crow still remained. Seemingly, crows have not the strong penchant for migration as do their peers, but more likely, this particular one was exiled from every land but my own.
With the earlier nights, this beast began it's rant from the moment I would return from work. It was driving me mad. I would pray for it to become hoarse or drop dead to the ground like so many leaves before. I became desperate, and would play music at deafening levels but nothing seemed to drone out the thundering squawks. I considered moving but feared that this creature would follow me to the end.
I finally decided to buy a gun and put an end to this misery. I purchased a shotgun, figuring that I wouldn't need to aim well to kill with a gun like that. I brought it home with a box of shells. While unwrapping it I relished the purity of this weapon. I noted that the smooth, black chambers smelled like vengeance. I loaded the double barrels, one for the past and one for the future, then went out to the box elder. Elated with a firearm weighing heavily in hands, I strode across the lawn, snow crunching underfoot. When I got to the tree I grew confused... What animal did I set out to kill?
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