Odd Collector
Birds are better than people.
They don’t linger and draw out conversations that would otherwise be short. They’re quick to listen, but quicker to flee should someone get too close or loud. Best of all, they come and go as they please, never forced to see an unwanted encounter through.
I wish the world was filled with them.
I have this “see them all” kind of book, same concept as the quarter collection things. They have a spot for you to put the feather…kind of fucked up if you think about it. Going around and plucking one from them, I can only imagine how it looks. There are a few I’d pluck.
One of the birds that fascinate me the most is the California Condor. They’re like humans in a sense — flocking around a dying person ready to prey on them for social media clout. Who has a better angle? Who has the whole scene? But condors are better, they flock around for survival — humans? Just to be a shit face.
They tend to fly around rock hills, so I find myself searching for a carcass that has enough flesh to feed a group. I was considering killing something myself, but there are more carcasses as of late — I might bring a bat or something in case an animal is running around.
There’s a mountain not too far from my house, I usually see kids perched up there like they’re a superhero looking over their city. Sometimes I wish a hawk would snatch them up. They stay howling during the day like a distress call for their league of “little shits.” Today was different though, there was an air of peace — maybe my wish came true.
The mountain has a natural path leading prey to its peak. As I climb the mountain, my heart falls into my stomach. It reminds me of those cheap movie lines, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” I decide to follow my gut before it was too late, but a moist heat glided along the back of my neck. Fear crept its way into my legs as I place my hand on the spot and my knuckles graze against a bald and wrinkled surface. I turn my head to investigate only to end up suffocating.
My nose fills with moisture, taking me back to my childhood — a time when my parents took me to a public pool.
The kids in my neighborhood were terrorizers. “Check this out!” They yell in excitement as they held my head underwater — my environment becoming the faint sounds of muffles.
I jolt my head away in shock — my nostrils retaining function again.
I yelp. “The fuck are you doing?” It’s an old lady, beyond evading personal space as she looks down on me with her sagging skin. Her nose extends over my head with a sharp curl at the end — like a claw ready to puncture my skin should I back away any further.
Her posture remains stiff, only her mouth moves. She asks gently, “do you bird-watch?”
Her sags seem heavy, hanging from her jaw and drooping over her eyes.
She gently asks again, “do you bird-watch?”
She needs help.
I muttered “yes,” as I raise my hands to the side of her face and lift.
She needs help.
She was a shag dog, and as I raised my hands higher, I see it. Her eyes aren’t warm like her speech.
She asks, “do you birdwatch?” I can’t tell if it’s because of her eyes, but her tone was menacing. I feel myself drowning again, gasping for air. Those split moments of breath coupled with the images of people watching from the pool’s edge. Just staring and taking in the sight — no one helps.
My body trembles and my mouth manage to twitch out an answer. “Yes,” I mutter as I pluck a hair from her head.
I drown, but not before I see the flock.
