Fisher strums away on his guitar, slowly at first, tentatively plucking away at some mystical chords that fill the night sky like fireflies. His deep tone lifts up those little critters as his words weave up and around their fluttering wings. He’s all but a silhouette at this time of night. Surrounded by the light of his own harmonies, oblivious to our lightless picnic table, one could say he’s being quite selfish. He’s off again underneath that old tree, trying and trying again to “make it Real,” as he says. We never know what he’s talking about when he says that. All he does is strum away on that old guitar that we found in the attic, and to us it always sounds the same: beautiful.

            Maybe by some wrath of God he’s cursed with stage fright, or maybe he’s onto something that’s bigger than us, but we can’t see it. He doesn’t know it but we always listen to him play when he thinks he’s being sneaky. Creeping off to the pond? We follow through the woods. Holing himself up in the attic? We’re always there with our ears glued to the attic door, trying to get a glimpse of that “Realness” that he seems to need. Trying to get a whiff of that supernatural force.

            Mamas always trying to get him to perform in front of us. She’ll mention it while she’s passing out dinner or sometimes she tells him how much she’s craving some authentic live music, but not even for Mama will Fisher strum on that guitar. Mama always gets ruffled when that happens.

            “You wake up in the God hour to practice and we aren’t allowed to listen?” he shrugs her off, giving her his charming little grin before walking out the door into some secluded spot that he hopes is as lonely as it looks. He’s definitely gotten pretty creative with the spots that he picks. We’ve seen him sneak off to abandoned clubhouses, clothed in cobwebs and birds nests, entrances so dusty and moldy that he can barely walk in without pieces falling off. He even took out a rowboat to the middle of the pond, playing to the old sun until it peaked over the hills, pink crooked fingers clambering over the horizon until we saw it’s face.

            “Waiting for its smile,” he says like some tortured poet. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a girlfriend, or she would have dumped him for spending more time on the Real.

            “Got no time for women,” he says when asked about it at the table. Munching away on spoonfulls of rice, mouthful of potatoes, he shrugs and tells that straight to Mama’s face. He’s pretty lucky that Mama doesn’t smack him right on the spot. With a handsome face like his, it’s almost a sin that he hasn’t had a girlfriend yet!

            “I’d even be fine with him bringing a man home!” she says, throwing her hands in the air as he chews away at his food. Thinking about it I guess he really doesn’t have too much time on his hands, with his chase for the “Real,” entertaining the sun, and having to sleep 8 hours every day, he sure doesn’t have too much time on his hands. We’re all just a bunch of chasers anyway. Whether it be Fisher and his elusive real, or Samuel and his daydreams, or even Jessie with her chase of escape from our home in the woods, we’re all looking for something to keep us going. 

            Sometimes we think that the only thing Mama’s after is Fisher, the rest of us just being accessories. One time in the summer, he disappeared for a day. Mama went crazy of course, flipping over bushes and tearing down the forest looking for him, making crazy stories about how an axe-murderer, or kidnapper had probably taken him in all of his beauty. We knew it was best not to get in Mama’s way so we just sat in our rooms, drawing pictures and making up our own stories of what could have happened to Fisher.

            “Maybe he finally got a girlfriend,” Jessie said from her small bunk, huddled in her sheets. She was the oldest of us at a whopping 15 and had recently gotten her first boy. He had been an average-looking fellow with curly brown hair and a voice made of golden hay and swirling breezes. He had been nice to all of us young’uns, mainly because he wanted to look nice in front of Jessie, so we tolerated him and his unimaginative eyes, and his crooked smile.

            We all had rolled our eyes at her.

            “Fisher wouldn’t do that, you know how he is,” Samuel had said from his spot on the rug. She pouted as we let her know how dreamless her theory had been. Fisher wouldn’t have left for such an empty reason! He was a man of proper thought after all.

            “Maybe he’s with the sun,” Samuel continued, giving a smile. “Maybe he’s playing her some music and just making her laugh all day,” he said with a clap of his hands. “I bet that’s it!” he concluded with a proud smile. Little Samuel was doing the family proud since the young age of 7 with comments like that. The teachers loved his “creativity,” meaning in a few more years they would say he had no motivation in their classes anymore, which was true. It had happened with Fisher and Jessie had gotten herself out of that predicament.  

            Then we heard a whisper from little Deborah, a girl with dreams bigger than all of us at the age of a toddler.

            “Real,” she giggled from her crib. Our mouths dropped, we were all so shocked.       

            Maybe Fisher had found that beautiful Real. He had found what he been looking for this whole time. We all raced outside save for Jessie who just dismissed us as illogical infants, towards Mama as we gave her the great news! She didn’t need to worry about Fisher! He had found the Real! And what did Mama say for all of our hard work?

            She didn’t. She didn’t say a word. Merely turned us all around and gave us a smack. As they say, actions speak louder than words, and they definitely had taken some oratory classes the day before because our backsides had never hurt so much as that moment. And of course with our brilliant minds, we went back into Jessie’s room and began to think of reasons for why Mama would be so distressed about Fisher finding his dream.

            Well, he came back the next day, caked head to toe in dirt, guitar hanging from a strap on his shoulder.

            “Where have you been?!” Mama hollered, leaning on him the entire next day. “Not a single note, or message left for any of the young’uns! You just thought it was ok to take off?!” And on that day, Mama cried for the first time in our known history. Mama who had been raised by Darkness and Hatred, the most hardened soul on the Planet Earth and our one and only God, broke down and cried. We damn near had heart attacks the sight was so shocking.

            “Sorry Mama,” he said, putting his free arm around her. “Won’t happen again ma’am,” he still offered no explanation, but honestly, we never pushed it. If Fisher wanted to tell us he would have, and if he didn’t want to tell? Well he never would. His lips were heavier than the Piano that was kept in the living room that we would every so-now-and-then, experiment with.

            Mama never let Fisher out of her sight from that day on. When he went to school? She needed teachers to ensure her that he had come into class. When he went to his friends? She needed their parents to call her, to assuage her trembling.

            “Mama I told you it wouldn’t happen again, don’t you believe me?” he asks sometimes, knowing that Mama is just as stubborn as he is. She’ll turn to him, looking him in both eyes, and then say in the most austere of tones, “Boy, even when I am underneath your feet, food for the worms and other disgusting scum of our planet that lie beneath the surface, even when I am nothing more than bones picked clean in a rotting old coffin, you will not leave my eyes,” and he’ll always nod in defeat, accepting his fate for another day or two.

            And now as we watch him play, it seems he’s speeding up a bit. His fingers climb up and down the fretboard with practiced dexterity. His head slowly bobbing up and down as he strums faster and faster, the fishes jumping up and down from the pond and the fireflies coming in a bit closer. He’s being quite auspicious, giving them the privilege of listening in on his search for Real when he won’t even enlighten his own family members. Yup, I reckon they feel quite pleased with themselves. Heck I bet even the moon is smiling right now, finally getting her share of the music after the sun has hogged it for so long.

            “Don’t you ever get curious Mama,” Samuel asks as he watches the figure underneath the old tree. “Don’t you ever get a bit curious about what Fisher is up to?” He takes a bite out of an old apple, face scrunching up at the sweetness. He passes it over and I follow suit, it’s rude not to accept someone’s gift after all.

            Mama chuckles from her spot.

            “None of you understand yet, but you will. Believe me you will when you’re older, much older. Maybe it’ll be twenty, thirty, hell maybe fifty years before you realize what your older brother is up to, but believe me you’ll understand.” She beckons for the apple and takes a large bite of her own.

            “We had a good batch of these this year,” she mumbles through her mouthful. Samuel just shrugs, averting his gaze to the old pond. The moon is full tonight, and it sure is pretty.

            “Are you curious, Marie?” she asks me. “Or is Samuel the only one?”

            “Of course I am Mama,” I respond. “Fisher’s been looking forever and we still don’t know what he’s looking for!”

            Mama laughs. Her silvery hair reflects off the moon.

            “Go fetch your brother, Marie it’s time to go back in,” she stands up from her chair, scoops Deborah from her position on the bench, and strides back towards our sweet home. Samuel gives a yawn, picks up his trash and follows Mama, sluggishly dragging his feet in the grass.

            Clambering over the logs and extruding roots, I make my way towards Fisher’s place in the tree’s lap. His pace has slowed down, smoothly flowing over the air like fresh milk and tree sap. It really is pretty, even if it’s going to stop when he can smell me coming.

            “Let’s go Fisher, Mama says to come in,” the music stops. He sighs, and then he comes, handsome face illuminated by the pale moon as it kisses his cheeks goodnight. The fireflies applaud before dissipating into the indigo lines of the horizon.

            “Did you find the Real today Fisher?” I ask. He chuckles before putting his hand in my hair. It’s rough and his fingertips are like scales from hours of practice.

            “Not yet I’m afraid Marie, but maybe tomorrow hmm?” he says as he puts his arm around me.

            “Sounds like a plan,” I tell him as we walk into the house. The door lightly shuts behind us, barring the mosquitos from entering. I can hear Jessie talking on her cellphone to her new boyfriend. He likes tight clothes that emphasize his puny muscles and long smooth hair that covers his eyes. Can’t see what Jessie sees in that insect of a human being. Mama doesn’t like him either, but we can’t tell Jessie anything. She’s a “grown woman” now and she can do whatever she wants.

            “G’night children,” Mama calls from her room.

            “G’night Mama!” we call back. And as I crawl into my little bunk, huddling up in my blankets and listening to the snores of Samuel, I can almost swear that I hear the moon calling from afar, whispering tales of excitement and creativity that Mama don’t even know about, keeping me alive like the Real does for Fisher, or like Daydreams do for Samuel, or even like Reason does for Jessie. Yup that’s her voice, coming in sweeter than Fisher’s songs, as she starts whispering tales that can keep my curiosity at bay for a bit longer while I wait. I close my eyes for the night, and like the rest of my family, I start chasing.

 

2: The Woman who Fed the Birds

 I used to know a woman who would feed the birds.

But I don’t think she was ever really right in the head. I remember walking past her, trying to sneak a peek beneath the cavern of blankets and scarves that swallowed her. Sometimes I’d be lucky, and I’d get to see one of her eyes. If I was really lucky, I’d be able to trace the fingerprints that outlined her irises. It would only take a split-second for her to turn her head, but as time went on, I guess I just got quicker.

            While I never saw her walk to her spot on the park bench, and I never figured out her name, I did know that she always came prepared. Walking past I would sometimes catch her picking off some crumbs from a loaf of bread that she seemed to have been saved just for the occasion. And every time she threw a piece or two, a flock of birds was always there to receive. The sounds of beaks clacking against stone pavement became my daily symphonies and sidewalk performances, and sometimes I’d even bring some bread of my own, just so I could hear some of those birds put on a show for just me. She never looked. I guess she never felt the need to.

            From then on it just seemed like common sense to try and understand this woman. I woke up early, as early as I possibly could. The sun was gray when I wiped away the water droplets from my window, and I remember how sad it made me that I couldn’t watch it turn yellow. I took a sip of water before bundling up in my cleanest sweater and heading out the door. The air was cold when I opened the door, water droplets seeming to have frozen in midair as I pushed through the heavy atmosphere.

            Of course she was already there, and I would learn to expect that of her, but I was pretty shocked on that first day. It was as early as I could manage, and I would always wish to get there first in the days to come. The birds had already formed a nice cluster around her, clacking against the pavement as she threw piece after piece into the swirling mess of feathers. I walked over to her and sat down next to her. The birds barely acknowledged my existence, climbing over my feet to get to their crumbs and continuing what I could only assume was the first act of today’s production.

She was like the birds in the sense that she didn’t seem to notice me either. She just kept on picking pieces off of her bread and throwing them into the crowds like roses. I remember we were like that for a while, just me awkwardly twiddling my thumbs as she applauded and showed her support for the birds. And that’s how it stayed that day. Before I knew it, she packed up her picnic basket, emptied the rest of the bread crumbs out and went off on her own way as I sat there watching the bobbing gray and white heads of those little creatures.

            She moved quite gracefully for someone who had been sitting on a park bench all day. I was pretty shocked as I watched her walk away, as I rightfully should have been. With the bitter taste of regret soaking my gut, I spitefully thought about following her, but after a moment I realized that no good could possibly come of such a situation. I stayed and watched the birds for a few more moments, mulling over the bad words in my mind before letting out a sigh and headed home, put my cleanest sweater in the laundry basket and went to sleep, considerably disappointed at the day’s outcome. I fell asleep, thinking about my wasted day and how I wasn’t able to watch the sun change faces.

            I can’t remember how many days followed this pattern. I can’t count the disappointed tosses and turns. I can only say for certain that she had no intention of talking to me. I have come to realize that no matter how long I had stayed, I would have only been greeted by the same results if I had chosen to use silence as my methods of approach. Besting her apathy was simply a task that could not be done. It would take a phenomenon of sorts to change my current lack of speech, and as fate would have it, it did.

            After my daily routine of contemplating over the sun’s moods and feelings, I strode out the door, convinced that I was to be met with the same aggressive passiveness that this woman seemed to wield. I walked down the sidewalk and into the park where she was certain to already be, and sat down next to her. Quite shockingly, I was quite wrong in my assumption that this was to be another simple part of what had already become a daily routine.  

            The first thing I noticed was, ironically, the silence. Yes, something that I had braved for numerous days up to this point only now seemed to strike me as odd. She didn’t speak as she looked at the birds, this time an ensemble of crows. They hopped around, murmuring amongst themselves as they clacked their beaks together with a patience that seemed to be diminishing at an alarming rate. It was then that I began to fear that my presence had somehow broken her mental capacity as she had stopped feeding the birds. A loaf of bread, fresh and warm sat in her picnic basket, but it was untouched. I remember thinking that I had seen a tear in her eye, but I’m quite sure that it was just my imagination.

            “Why aren’t you feeding the birds, ma’am?” I had asked. It was surprising to hear my own voice slamming against the hollow atmosphere of the bird’s usual performance hall. The words must have slipped through my teeth, or maybe I had reached a boiling point of sorts, but regardless of my excuse, I can only say that I didn’t mean to say it. The statement hung, slowly drying out in the gray fog of the morning, but to my utter surprise, she spoke.

            “I’m not quite ready yet,” she told me. Her voice was very gentle, but also one of the most haunting things I had ever heard. It was like the exhaustion of being kind, as if all of the pain in the world had been thrust upon this woman’s shoulders, and she had responded with a “thank you.” She shook her head, but still didn’t look at me. She never would turn her head to spare a glance. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, to be honest,” she continued, her voice quivering with the slightest tinges of uncertainty.

            While I had no idea what she was talking about, I went along with it, hoping that she would continue. “Just one more sentence or maybe one more uttered word,” I almost pleaded. It was all I needed.

            “What will happen when you’re ready ma’am?” I asked.

            “They’ll sing,” she whispered, and then laughed. I shivered as she did. Like I said, she had quite the eerie voice.

            “Don’t you like their song?”

            “I love it. It’s the most beautiful thing,” she told me through her blankets. She folded her small hands in her laps as she looked up, away from the crows and went on. “They sing to me about, well, about anything that could possibly matter. There is nothing in this world that can compare to it.” And as she sighed, the crows flew away, leaving behind their feathers as they were picked up by a tornado of shining black wing beats. She watched them go, hands trembling, seeming to fight the urge to reach out to touch one of them.

            In the months that followed, I would only become more and more confused by her words. It would only take a sentence of hers to drive me into madness, tearing at my pillow in a desperate attempt to make sense of what she was trying to tell me.

            “She’s insane. Utterly insane,” I would tell myself, a half-finished plate of dinner patiently waiting at the table as I paced my dimly lit living room. But maybe I was crazy too.

Because I never could seem to stop myself from entering the park to the chorus of the birds.

            “What makes the crows different from these pigeons?” I once asked as she tossed fistful after fistful of breadcrumbs.

            “Well these pigeons are never the same,” she told me. “I’ve never fed one of them more than once.”

            “But the crows are always the same?” I asked as she nodded. “How can you tell? They all look alike to me,” I had continued, feeling brave.

            “They look the same to me too,” she laughed before going silent once more for the rest of the day. I would always try to identify if this were to true. Once I followed a pigeon, watching and trying desperately to memorize all of its movements. My hopes were crushed as it jumped into the writhing mass of hungry birds once more, never to be recognized again. I remember hoping that the little bastard would starve.

            “How can you tell them apart?” I asked her as my curiosity slowly began to build up from within. I had begun to lose sleep, trying to formulate theories as to what she was trying to tell me. Tossing and turning had too soon become a nightly occurrence. Staring at the night ceiling, occasionally blinking had also become a very prominent activity.

            “I listen to them,” she had responded. But then she sighed as if disappointed. “They’re always talking about the same things in different voices.”

            Pushing down my incoherent thoughts and internal rage, I asked “If you love the Crows’ songs, why aren’t you ready to listen to them?”

            “As I was once told as a child, love isn’t love if it hasn’t hurt someone,” and then she refused to say a word.

That was how my days were spent. One question at a time, one little bit of info squeezed out, giving me just enough to fuck with for the evening.

            Then one night I couldn’t fall asleep. The moon glimmered from my window, watching as I contorted my body into random positions, trying desperately to find that ultimate niche, but to no avail. Whether the blankets were too hot, or my position was too scratchy, nothing seemed to work.

I’m not entirely sure what compelled me to put on my nicest sweater and walk out the door, but it’s what I did. The moon was a luminous shade of green when I walked out of my house. My feet slowly scraped across the sidewalk, slowly dragging me to an all-too-obvious setting. But to my surprise, as I neared the park entrance, I was greeted by a fascinating sight.

Tall, thin, draped in a large black overcoat, he was quite an intimidating specimen of a human being. He carried large boxes, at least five of them and plopped them down on the sidewalk before slowly opening all of them.

He whistled a small tune, shrill yet bold, and out they came. Almost unseen because of their color, but ever so visible, I watched as the crows emerged from within the boxes. I watched him as he picked up the boxes and walked away from the park, tears streaming down his face. He continued down the walk until he turned a corner and faded into the distance.

I stayed there until the morning sun came, knocking on the doors of every house on my side of the street, and that day I just watched. I watched as the sun changed from gray, to yellow, to red, and then to purple and then to black again. I walked back home and slept for at least twelve hours after that. It must have been something close to twelve hours.

            When I walked back to the park again the next day, the woman wasn’t there. There were no breadcrumbs on the ground. The birds wandered around, curious as to where the food had gone, and without a second thought, I ran away from that city. I ran far far away, across the plains and the highways, over large oceans and long winding train tracks, but it seems no matter how far I run I can still hear them. I can still hear the songs of the crows as the sun changed from yellow to red, their beaks pushing against the concrete to the delight of that woman with the scarves, finally ready to eat.