Bookish dragon with a pen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookish_dragon) wrote2008-10-21 05:04 pm
bookish_dragon) wrote2008-10-21 05:04 pm
Entry tags:
Short story
The short story I finished earlier this week. 559 words. Tell me what you think.
A small owl is sitting in front of me on the table. He doesn't speak much, except to say his name is Hoot. Or so I interpret it. I don't speak Owl very well, which is making our conversation rather halting. After the failure to tell me his name he is silent. Maybe he's not up to trying further.
I don't know why he's here. He flew in through the window and landed on the table. I look out the window to avoid looking at him. It doesn't help. I can feel his eyes resting on me.
I reach out a hand to touch him. He lets me, never taking his eyes off my face. He's very soft. I trail my fingers along his abdomen, enjoying the feel of his feathers. And I start writing. Like Hoot, the words fly in. They demand an out, an existence on paper next to the one in my head. I am writing, with Hoot looking on.
A letter resting on the doormat tells me the forest will get cut down. For my viewing pleasure, and a new estate they want to put up. Hoot grows quiet as I read it out loud to him. He is not surprised by the news.
I feed him pieces of bunnies, caught in the meadow behind my house. It's been a week since he arrived. He hasn't spoken much. He thanks me for the food. He's reluctant to go out by himself. He will go, sitting on my shoulder, at dusk. His claws dig into my shoulder when I walk too far into the meadow, and we get too close to the forest that stretches out for miles. He acts like an exile.
He stretches his wings and flies around inside the house. From the top of the china-cupboard he looks at me. He keeps an extra eye on the old computer I use for the text-programmes. In the past month I have written more than in the year before that.
I talk to him throughout the day. What's for dinner. What I am writing. Where are my glasses? He doesn't answer. I fill in the silences as I putter around.
The pile of finished manuscripts keeps growing. I need to send some off. I stay home. It's an hour's journey each way to the postoffice, time I spend writing and revising. Hoot hasn't gone outside in over a week. He sits in front of the window with his back to it. He doesn't want to look outside. He's restive. The noise of the chainsaws doesn't bother me.
Bunnies are getting harder to come by. I feed Hoot dead birds lying on the forest's edge. Not the owls. He isn't eating them.
He grows more silent by the day. I keep talking to him. He's stopped listening. I go on talking, to cheer him up. He ruffles his feathers during my conversation and doesn't look out the window.
I wake up. The sun spills across the room. The cottage feels empty. I shuffle into the main room. Hoot's gone. A couple of feathers lie on the keyboard. I look outside. The blue sky reaches to the far horizon. There's nothing to hinder it, nothing at all. I place the feathers on top of the monitor and write. I keep on writing. Hoot is watching me.
FIN
A small owl is sitting in front of me on the table. He doesn't speak much, except to say his name is Hoot. Or so I interpret it. I don't speak Owl very well, which is making our conversation rather halting. After the failure to tell me his name he is silent. Maybe he's not up to trying further.
I don't know why he's here. He flew in through the window and landed on the table. I look out the window to avoid looking at him. It doesn't help. I can feel his eyes resting on me.
I reach out a hand to touch him. He lets me, never taking his eyes off my face. He's very soft. I trail my fingers along his abdomen, enjoying the feel of his feathers. And I start writing. Like Hoot, the words fly in. They demand an out, an existence on paper next to the one in my head. I am writing, with Hoot looking on.
A letter resting on the doormat tells me the forest will get cut down. For my viewing pleasure, and a new estate they want to put up. Hoot grows quiet as I read it out loud to him. He is not surprised by the news.
I feed him pieces of bunnies, caught in the meadow behind my house. It's been a week since he arrived. He hasn't spoken much. He thanks me for the food. He's reluctant to go out by himself. He will go, sitting on my shoulder, at dusk. His claws dig into my shoulder when I walk too far into the meadow, and we get too close to the forest that stretches out for miles. He acts like an exile.
He stretches his wings and flies around inside the house. From the top of the china-cupboard he looks at me. He keeps an extra eye on the old computer I use for the text-programmes. In the past month I have written more than in the year before that.
I talk to him throughout the day. What's for dinner. What I am writing. Where are my glasses? He doesn't answer. I fill in the silences as I putter around.
The pile of finished manuscripts keeps growing. I need to send some off. I stay home. It's an hour's journey each way to the postoffice, time I spend writing and revising. Hoot hasn't gone outside in over a week. He sits in front of the window with his back to it. He doesn't want to look outside. He's restive. The noise of the chainsaws doesn't bother me.
Bunnies are getting harder to come by. I feed Hoot dead birds lying on the forest's edge. Not the owls. He isn't eating them.
He grows more silent by the day. I keep talking to him. He's stopped listening. I go on talking, to cheer him up. He ruffles his feathers during my conversation and doesn't look out the window.
I wake up. The sun spills across the room. The cottage feels empty. I shuffle into the main room. Hoot's gone. A couple of feathers lie on the keyboard. I look outside. The blue sky reaches to the far horizon. There's nothing to hinder it, nothing at all. I place the feathers on top of the monitor and write. I keep on writing. Hoot is watching me.
FIN