United Kingdom

Will fight you if you aren't kind to yourself.

There is nothing else remotely interesting about me that I could write here.
No, that's literally it.

Message to Readers

If anyone could give any feedback at all on this, that'd be brilliant :)

it's Still Life, i guess

March 5, 2021


Hear the thunder of cascading waterfalls, feel their cool spray kiss your cheeks with the tenderness of the first rain bruising the first flowers in the Garden of Eden. Don't eat the apple; don't heed the serpent; don't move.
Instead, you watch in awe as the Kingfisher erupts from motionless waters- so still they could have been solid- in a flurry of the blues and golds and splashes of white that mark royalty, a silvery prize writhing in his beak, the dawn stars glinting in the scattered droplets of displaced water. You recognize their regality is deserved. 
Slowly, effortlessly, you sink to the floor, fingertips grazing the damp sod. In practised silence, you kneel in the shadows, unwilling to encourage the final curtain on the finest show that life can offer. Internally, you beg for an encore- beauty derives from nature (this you know); she was here before humanity first walked and will be reborn long after they've run their last lap. 

From your seat in the shadows, you feel like a veil of contentment has settled over the scene: you have been accepted into Eden, and you will not be disturbed so long as you do not disrupt the peace. 
Sighing almost inaudibly, you slide the backpack from your shoulders, feeling both a literal and emotional weight fall away- it's threadbare and as old as you are, the once vibrant red canvas now more of an unremarkable brown. You don't mind. It smells of your home, your mother. Grinning, you think back to placid days lounging in the sun, her hair falling in sheets of yellow wheat beneath the ridiculous hat she refused to ever take off. The summer sun beat down on you, tanning her skin and burning yours a painful pink the same shade as the flowers that defended that hill like stentorian soldiers protecting Rome. What were you, six? Seven? It didn't matter. Timid rabbits would scurry across the fields, constantly toying between crossing the line of the safety to satiate their curiosity at these strange creatures that ate cucumber sandwiches and drank pitchers of lemonade, and surveying you both inquisitively from a safe distance. It was often the second option they chose. 
The sky was the cloudless blue of Hawaiian seas and it was...terrific. A perfect day.
It seems almost bizarre to you that the same sky towers over you now over ten years later, albeit occasionally interrupted by forking branches or chattering magpies. 
A couple fly past your eye-line. instinctively, you raise two fingers to your head in a lazy salute.
"Two for joy," you mutter drily.  
Around you, the forest has trickled into life with the rustling of creatures in the undergrowth, the amicable bubbling of the brook, but above it all you can still hear the steady chatter of the magpies as they soar above the trees and beneath the clouds. 
The old superstition creeps into your head: 

One for sorrow, 
Two for joy, 
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver, 
Six for gold, 
Seven for a secret, never to be told

''What secrets to magpies have anyway?'' your mother would say whenever someone was careless enough to mention the birds around her, "What happens if there are eight magpies? Who looked at a group- a parliament, a murder, a...pride? Whatever- of magpies and went, 'Great Scott! It's perfect, it's brilliant, it's worthy of a cryptic poem!' and was then sane enough to be taken seriously?"
Her outrage with magpies grew exponentially each time she saw them. You could never work out what it was about the birds that offended her so much- you had always considered them so endearing, so surprising, so reflective of life and nature and the futility of maintaining the ideology of 'it's all either black or white'. 

Magpies are not black and white. 

On the contrary, you thought, sat uncomfortably on the damp earth, once you looked at them up close, they are quite the opposite. Dazzling sheens of green and deep blue and a purple more purple than you can imagine waltz gracefully across the wings of a magpie, painting every third feather as its own Starry Night, each as unique and alluring as the last. The belly and a flash on the wings are pure white, but the black that covers a magpie's head and back, wingtips and tail, are far from black when you actually look; you can make out red and violet and green on the tail, blue and green in the wings.
Truthfully, they're beautiful creatures. You'd even say they're remarkable. 
They've landed now, on an elderly conifer tree a few dozen feet away. Hopping and chattering their way across the bark, their beady eyes scrutinise the ground for a glimpse of something pretty for their nest.
Magpies are a little bit like people, you think, mostly intelligent, can sometimes talk coherently,  love unconditionally, and when they aren't satisfied with how their day is going, they just scream. Honestly, you're unsure why your mother opposed them- the two were quite similar. 
They're also brilliantly bold and beautiful beneath each seemingly identical exterior, and deserve far more love and appreciation than they get. Shaking your head, you extract a battered polariod camera from your equally battered backpack, and raise it to your eyes. Then, focusing the lens upon the tree and its inhabitants, you take the picture with a click. Grimacing, you wait for the abrasive whoosh as the picture prints, grab it, and silently wave it until it dries. Only then do you take a look. 

You smile, you lie back against your bag, and you close your eyes. 
It was perfect a picture, for a perfect day. 



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  • March 5, 2021 - 1:10pm (Now Viewing)

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  • Mpm#1

    AAAhhhhhh this is so refreshing to read. You don't just read this piece, you feel it, you live the moment with the character. This my friend, is beyond exceptional. :)

    4 months ago
  • WrenBirdWrites

    Re, again also Lol; I know! They are the cutest dang lil' bird ever! hehe I used to get called wren when I was little because I was "small and round" Lol I always thought it was cute tho. And now a few people still call me that XD

    4 months ago
  • WrenBirdWrites

    Re: Thanks so much! And I love Wrens and Ravens hehe :)

    4 months ago
  • kathryn siena

    this is so beautiful!

    4 months ago