When it comes to my creative writing, it is rare for me to write something
that I am truly proud of on the first—or even second—draft, which is the
natural state of things. After all, “A writer is a person for whom writing
is more difficult than it is for other people.” (Thomas Mann) That explains
my excitement when I just happened to sit down and write out probably one of
the loveliest, most heartfelt scenes from my Tales of Ishanni series during
those eternal desk-warming days mid-pandemic.
…
For context, I want you to imagine a man—actually, a bird man, but more
specifically: I want you to imagine a man who is mostly human in appearance
but with large trailing wings, the brawny physique of a snowy owl, and the
vibrant plumage and stark white face of a blue-and-gold macaw, save for his
bushy white eyebrows. This man carries the weight of a mixed heritage
(I mean this in relation to his bird features) as well as incredible grief
over the recent tragic death of his childhood friend—a blue jay—who considered
this man “one of the jays.”
What image does this paint in your mind? This man would also like to know,
for he is far less certain.
What Bird Looks Back?
Dianne Yett (Gunma)
In a magical futuristic world where humans have evolved animal traits,
Lord Ora is a magical beautician with the vibrant feathers and wings of a
blue and gold macaw. Occasionally, inklings of his father’s strong snowy
owl features fight to be seen, especially as Ora mourns the recent death
of his best friend Jay. However, the pretty beautician can always find
comfort in his equally-bereaved husband Bard, a contrastingly dour
mockingbird man. Jay’s memory thereby lives on in their loving bond, sky
rest his spirit.
[. . .]
The day that Lord Ora had decided would be the first day to open the beauty
parlor after a short bereavement period came with little notice or fanfare.
It was also, unfortunately, one of those days that Ora sat before his gleaming
vanity, an impressive assortment of cosmetics at his well-polished fingertips,
and stared into the mirror, but knew not what kind of bird stared back. It was
a perfectly normal day by all other accounts, a day by which he promised
himself that he’d accept clients again, but his first client—himself—required
far more than his personal capabilities could manage in that most critical of
moments.
He examined the colors, hoping to suss out the defining qualities of the
figure that peered back at him, hopeful and wanting of care, but not knowing
what kind of care was required. Did it want to be an owl, tall and strong,
confident and brave? Or did it want to be a macaw of brilliant, sleek plumage,
eyes sharp and bright?
Or did it, rather, prefer to be a mix of the two? Or perhaps neither? Owl,
said the whites of his bushy brows.
Nay, cried the gaudy greens at his scalp and golds that grasped his neck.
And the feral blues billowed. ‘Like a jay,’ said his fallen friend once at
the dawn of their acquaintanceship oh so many suns ago. That’s gotta be it.
He’s got blue, so he’s a jay. And Ora did pine for that beautiful time when a
blue bird kind of like him turned from a fair-weather schoolmate into an
indelible friend. Jay “the Blue’’ was a pretty bird in his own right.
Ora had nary a second to process the grief he’d so stubbornly pushed aside in
the determination that whatever bird he should be would live on in valiant
repose, never letting grief crack his sumptuous façade, which blared back
white, bright and loud, demanding he mold it into something beautiful again.
He froze under the pressure within and outside to make something of himself,
but he couldn’t decide what that something needed to be. What it should be.
Or worse, what it will be if he does nothing but stare dumb into the cold,
dead glass. His head sank and his feathers puffed awkwardly as the mounting
pressure made him feel about ready to explode...
But then, a bit of gray intervened. A dreary little mockingbird slid quietly
into his lap, sidling in to rest his dull gray face against the lord’s downy
chest, matching heartbeats and breaths with his. Ora leaned back in surprise,
glancing behind at the bed that now lay vacant under a messy mass of blankets
for the first time in a while. The little bird that long resigned himself to
a vacuous living death over the loss of Jay had suddenly animated just long
enough to nest under his pretty bird’s wings.
Bard tucked himself in such a way that he was reduced to two black wings and
a disorganized cluster of wild gray hair sinking into Ora’s plumage. Ora
realized that he rather liked the muted grays and blacks, which dampened his
invariably loud color palette.
