A Beautiful Leader

"Gather around, chickies. I've got a story to tell you before I fly into the great unknown. Now, this story isn't a long one, but it's true, I swear. Listen closely, chickies. I expect you to find the lesson in all of this.

"When I was a young fledgling, there was a great power struggle within the flock. No one could agree on whether or not to migrate, seeing as how our winters were getting warmer every year. The two biggest birds fought and fought, and turned their little ones against each other.

"During one of our mid-autumn city meetings, a glorious, shining black bird circled right around us. I saw the adults shift on the wires, trying to ready themselves for conflict. He did not stop to fight, though. He circled and circled, eventually jumping into a wind stream and drifting away. Fascinated, the biggest birds directed us to follow him. He was to be our new leader.

"He was beautiful, I tell you. Just absolutely gorgeous. His feathers were so smooth that when the sun shined down on him, they looked like one flawless sheet. However, this bird was a weird creature. He never talked to anyone in the flock. In fact, none of the others were able to meet him eye to eye. They were so afraid, everyone stopped questioning his authority. Us little ones were taught to follow and not ask silly questions.

"Sometimes we flew for days--never even nearing our normal path. He never seemed to tire. When our leader did land, he might only allow us seconds to scavenge for food. Other times, we'd stay in one spot for a week, only barely skimming across the ground. I didn't know which situation was worse. Either way, the biggest birds were impressed.

"Onward, we flew for weeks, over rivers, trees, valleys, and wires. Each and every day, it got a little colder. The flock was just starting to believe that the migration would never end when we were stopped abruptly. The leader had been following the wind's every move, causing us to go back and forth, again and again. We were tired--exhausted, really. Some of the mommas had to leave their little ones behind. Birds weren't meant to fly but in one direction at a time, that much was clear.

"One of the biggest birds flew to the front of the flock to confront our leader. He hovered above the beautiful beast, trying to gather his nerve. While doing so, he pooped out the last thing he'd been able to eat in the form of a liquefied berry. The dropping smacked our master, and instantly he began spiraling to the ground. When we all found a spot to land, the biggest of the biggest inched towards the master to see what had happened.

"See now, chickies. We'd been following this guy thinking he'd save us from the cold and provide us a fertile land. Instead, we'd ended up on some concrete in a place colder than even most of the adults could stand.

"Anyway, much to the flock's surprise, the biggest picked up our leader in his beak and through him in the air. Then he stomped on him. You know why, chickies? As it turns out, our leader wasn't a bird. He was a torn plastic bag. And we'd followed it for weeks into a cold, desolate place.

"So, I hope you found the lesson on all of this. Blind faith in something or someone beautiful won't get you nowhere. It'll just get you tired, cold, and hungry."

The Summoner’s Tale

A few years ago, in high school, I was assigned "The Summoner's Tale" from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales to rewrite as I saw fit, as long as the story remained under 300 words. For those unfamiliar with the work, a short description of the character can be found here. The general goal of the Summoner is to make fun of the role of the Friar, especially by making him look unholy. 

In an effort to post on a regular basis, and despite a severe lack of creativity at the moment, I figured I'd share an old piece. Maybe it'll give some literary aficionado somewhere a good laugh.

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The Summoner’s Tale

“I have been chosen for a special pilgrimage,” bragged the humble friar as he held out a basket for food.  “God bless,” the old woman mumbled, dropping some bread, before quickly latching her door.

Satisfied with his provisions, the friar examined his map. First, he was to first travel toward Depford and help someone in need. He hurried down the path, only to find a tavern blocking the way. The friar entered, hesitantly, and waited to ask for directions. “Help!” cried an old man. “My friend has left me alone to drink.” The friar rushed to the needy man, and faithfully remained by his side until both men were sufficiently drunk and happy.  

The friar stumbled out the door towards Rochester where he was commanded to give charity. The long path was covered in newly bloomed roses, so the friar collected a handful as he went. After many hours of traveling, the friar encountered a family of beggars resting beside the path. “Food,” they called. The friar considered their request. He needed the food to sustain himself for the rest of his pilgrimage--how was he supposed to give it away? The friar surveyed his belongings. “These people are so ragged,” he thought. “They could certainly use flowers to brighten their clothes.” He passed the flowers to the family, smiling, and continued without waiting to be thanked.

The friar traveled onward to Sittingbourne, where he was set to preach the word of God to a group of criminals. A while down the path, he found a hole spouting smoke. As he leaned in to take a closer look, the friar slipped and fell into an enclosed room surrounded by flames. “Welcome,” said the devil. “It seems you can’t read a map.”

You wake up with a key gripped tightly in your hand. How did you get this key? What do you do with this it?

I wake with a start in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. Something about my new apartment just doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to blame it all on Big Brother, but I swear something has been watching me.

Feeling my forearm cramp, I mentally pry my fingers out of a fist. In my right hand is a key about the size of my palm with a triangular eye. I have seen this triangle before. Strangely enough, a friend joked during my housewarming party that the apartment must have been an Illuminati gathering place. “Who else would be this obsessed with triangles?” he laughed.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Maybe this is all in my head. Maybe I need to have my apartment checked for carbon monoxide, or mold, or something. Suddenly, a vision rushes back to me. It was a dream. The same dream I had had every night since I moved into the new apartment.

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Aaaaand, that's all, folks. I'll have to revisit this piece when inspiration strikes. I tried. I really did.

Fighting Alone

As I stood in the biting rain, watching the sun rise sharply over the horizon, I considered my newest task. I spent my entire life training for this moment—the moment when our neighboring kingdom finally gained the strength to fight back. My job was to keep them from accomplishing their goal at all costs—alone.

I watched the army as they approached, making sure to track the movement of every soldier. I don’t know how I got into this position. The masters only told me that I was given to them as a sickly babe and trained to fulfill the prophecy of the land. I never heard the prophecy with my own ears—for if I had, the prophecy couldn’t come true. Pushing the skepticism from my mind, I drew a line with my sword on the narrow bridge connecting the kingdoms—half out of nerves and half as a threat to my enemy.

The sound of the approaching army echoed in the valley that surrounded my home. I took a long look at the land in which the masters had trained me, before turning to face my foes. As the neighboring army reached the bridge, they burst forward, yelling. The fate of the kingdom rested on my shoulders. As soon as the first of the enemy reached me, I closed my mind and began a murderous dance with my blade. I swung the blade with unmatched precision and grace, just as I, alone, had been taught.

As quickly as my blade slashed through the air, the soldiers fell at my feet and off the bridge. On and on I blindly slashed with choreographed moves as the sun’s daggers stretched overhead. New lines of men approached just as soon as their comrades fell. I had not been trained to fight such a large army. I could feel my limbs weaken as my sword failed to swing for the first time.

I was sure at that moment I was not the defender of my kingdom. I was not the fulfiller of the masters’ prophecy. As those distressing thoughts crept in, the opposing blades did as well. I fought for breath and replaced my dance of invincibility with throws of desperation. Minor scratches grew into massive slashes upon my body. I fought hard, but they fought harder.

Using my lifelong training, I blocked out the pain and the human impulse to scream. With my blade I found the soldier’s mark, extinguishing one life after another. Before long, the sun had completely slashed its way through the sky and the rain began, again. The last of the enemy had been defeated. I knew not how many men I had crushed, but I recognized the weight would bear heavy on my soul forever. They were people I had never met.

I reminded myself that they were the enemy as I watched the rain mix with blood and run crimson streams across my body. I was just as torn as the men before me—yet I still stood on the bridge, alone, while the others were left to rot.

I’d saved my home and defended the kingdom proudly. Perhaps I had fulfilled the prophecy. The masters would be happy with the old order restored. As I limped toward the kingdom, I fought to accept the grotesque scene behind me. Those soldiers died together, but I will die alone.