At the back of the structure they heard a scratching, then whistling. The whistling turned into humming. The humming turned into singing. The singing became an opera.
After the general retreat they slowly scrubbed off the strange, vibrating feathers.
The price was one fish. But you shouldn’t complain. If you complain the owls will get you.
The fencing was a half-rotten, broken series of wooden slats. Painted across the most intact section were the words “THEY BITE”.
At the bottom of the glass was a message instructing him to release the psychic link with the circling owls.
But moving the boulder out of the way only allowed more owls to gather.
Eventually they came out of the forest with a secret knowledge and coated in soft downy feathers.
The gardener denied that there had ever been strange noises behind the padlocked door.
A cluster of owls huddled around the remains of her dog, like buzzards.
He lay down on the cool damp ferns and moss. “I can’t go on”, he said. “But you’ll go on,” she replied.
Standing in the thicket he loudly pronounced that they would return, take back the stuffed owl and reclaim the bog.
She looked around the edge of the mirror carefully, anxiously. Not sure who was watching.
Clutching him in a viselike manner, he roughly pressed his face onto his face. They bristled.
Her explanation was long and peppered with academic references. Meanwhile the psychoactive had begun to take hold.
Hunched around a table, hushed, secretive, the children played their game, Demons & Doorknobs.