The Starling

Be Forewarned: this post includes a graphic image that may be offensive to some viewers. 

As I was on my way to visit my friend Kendal at Sizizis last week, he happened to send me the photo of the starling shown below. His co-worker found the bird, heart removed and laying on the seven of diamonds, positioned on a crosswalk while headed to work. 

Creepy and heart-wrenching stuff if you ask me. 

Despite my immediate repulsion, however, I was drawn in. There is something alluring about the composition of the photo itself; the contrast of reds and blacks, the bright dash of yellow beak, the soft glow emanating from the center. I don't know, but something about this captured my imagination. 

While showering, brainstorming for the writing I wanted to do for the day, the starling's story unfolded. 

While the starling's story unfolded, I realized it was the next step in the short piece David I posted several days ago. 

Simultaneously, a path unfolded connecting every shitty first draft of fiction I've written over the over the past two years. From the starling, through NaNoWrimo, and back to pieces I'd completely forgotten until this moment in my shower. 

I had no intention of connecting any of it. They were completely unrelated stories when I wrote them. Desperate attempts at novel content failed, I assumed. I'm still not convinced I want them all connected. That would be... too convenient. Right? 

I'll go ahead and share the bit about the starling, now. This particular shitty first draft has a found a niche in the imagination chunk of my heart. So much has spawned since its penning, I feel a profound sense of gratitude to the sacrificial starling. Perhaps, I hope, I've memorialized it in some way. A death intended to do harm to both bird and crosswalk, ended up doing good for my art. Poetic, in a way. 

Hunter

By Kay L. Steele 

“You’ve given me more questions than answers. Please. Who is the wolf? Where do I find him? Does your brother have a name? ”

The tiny red-headed girl stood.

“You didn’t tell me your name. Who should I say sent me?” Snow persisted. 

“I am David. And I must now be going. Please. No more questions. The Gates of Hell open as easy as that. You’d better go as well. Remember, you’re being hunted.” With that, David the tiny girl, eyes once again too green, closed her umbrella and ceased to be. 

Thunder rumbled and rain dumped on the hottest day in recorded history -  the only day rain was an impossibility in Olympia. 

     Leaving the park to find the wolf, Snow finds a starling on the crosswalk. The starling is laying on its back, on top of a seven of diamonds. Its heart has been dug out of its chest. Whether post-mortem, Snow couldn’t tell. A worm wriggles from beneath one wing. If she didn’t look at the gaping, bloody wound in its chest, the starling looked serene and dignified. Though her stomach turned, there was beauty in the sacrifice she felt guilty admitting.
     Remember, you’re being hunted, her thoughts drifted back to the red-haired girl under the umbrella like it was a dream.
     A polite honk honk jolted her from her stance above the starling. She stepped over it and proceeded across the cross-walk, the pedestrian signal no longer a flashing warning hand but a stagnant, authoritative one.

     Her back to the starling, Snow didn’t see any of it. To be fair, dozens of people witnessed it directly but didn’t see it happen either. Perhaps knowing who was coming would have aided her in some way. Likely, the knowledge would have done more harm than good. Fear causes a great deal of terrible decisions which spawn brash, irreversible action.
     In this particular instance, ignorance wasn’t bliss by any means. But it did quite possibly prove to be life-saving.

     From the heart-less cavity in the starling’s ribs, stepped a man. In slim black pants and a long black coat, [perhaps try getting NG's Sandman out of your head by the time you edit this and then imagine what this character looks like] he’d have attracted attention if he’d been large enough for those watching his arrival to see him. Though it was pouring rain now, it had been the hottest day on record just minutes ago. The rain was wet, but it was still almost 100 degrees outside.
     As it were, he just stepped out of a starling’s heart-cavity. He was quite too small to be visible.
     He jumped down from the starling, and strode to the street corner in Snow’s direction.
     As he walked he took off his jacked, gave it a vigorous shake, and put on the resulting derby cap. He also grew. With each step, his form shifted and his mass increased. By the time he reached the end of the crosswalk, he was a six foot something man in a black tank and all-black otherwise. A typical olympian. Hardly anyone to bat an eye at. Those who noticed him now couldn’t help but imagine he’d been there all along; that they’d have seen him crossing if they’d been paying attention. The danger of routine, they’d be thinking, is that you drive around practically asleep, going from one place to the next without any recollection of the in-between.