There's a Morepork on my Street

There's a morepork on my street. He lives in a big Norfolk pine up near the top of the hill, the other end of the street to me. He stands guard up there, when I walk past in the evenings he always sends me off with a hoot. Then when I come back later on in the night he’s still up, standing guard and telling me that he’s still there. Watching me come and go.

His tree is a big one, some of the trees on my street are bigger than the houses, which is saying a lot. His pine must have been there a long time, it would’ve come along with some of the first houses here. Now newer buildings surround it, even a tower of apartments. It still stands proudly near the top of the hill, marking its place in this old suburb in a relatively young city. And it holds in it the little owl with the loud voice. There’s morepork on my street.

The Patchwork Train

Tucked into a little gully there’s a yard filled with old trains. Steam engines gone all rusty and a collection of some of the cars that were towed behind them once. Where there isn’t rust on them, there’s spray paint, in most of the places there’s both. Early on a winter’s morning the fog hangs low and gives the air a milky look. There’s a shed in the middle of the yard and already it’s starting to echo with clangs of metal and the sparks of a welder as the old man who lives there plays with the parts he’s stripped from the dinosaurs rusting outside.

Lights slowly come on through the windows of the houses scattered in the area around the yard. It’s not a densely populated part of the town, on the fringe really. In the houses the people are reluctantly getting prepared for their commutes, it’s business as usual, another cold morning to fight through.

The silence is broken quickly though. A cracking sound rings out, loud enough to wake anyone who was still winning the battle with the alarm clock. The sound bounces around and slowly makes its way up out of the valley, it almost wanted to hang around with the fog and make a party of it, but physics has its way and eventually the ringing ends.

People rushed from their houses and down towards the old man’s yard. A dark grey plume of smoke waved the flag for help. There must have been a dozen of the neighbors accumulated at the shed, all in differing stages of readiness for the day ahead, shirts un-tucked or dressing gowns wrapped around bodies that were still wet from the shower. They all looked into the shed and then at each other. Back and forth, looking for some kind of explanation or at least recognition of the strangeness of what had happened.

There wasn’t any sign of the old man, that was the first thing they looked for. But once it was clear that he wasn’t around, they started to piece together the rest of the scene. There were train tracks leading into the shed, designed to get the old beasts in to work on. The tracks were now glowing hot, smoke was rising off them. On top of that oddity was the obvious elephant in the room, the fact that the elephant was completely missing from the room. You see the old man kept one old steam engine in there, away from the corroding elements. It was his pride and joy, the thing that he scavenged for and pulled apart the others to repair. It had always been in his shed because it hadn’t existed before he’d pieced it together from whatever good parts he could find.

Now the patchwork train was gone and the only thing left in the old man’s shed was a smoking railway track that led to nowhere.

The Robbery

The night-time was dark in the little valley. Tom and Davo crossed the train tracks that separated the trees in the park from the slope of houses between here and the main street. It was quiet, with just an echo of traffic from the street above bouncing off the hill behind them and back again. The house they had been watching was completely dark inside now that the sun had scurried away and dragged with it the last of the light. They could make out the white outline of the fence, a solid white barrier about six feet high.

Tom carried the small ladder with him, it was important that they didn’t hang about too long on this side of the fence, being seen here was the biggest danger. In the back yard of the house was an outdoor table and chairs that Davo could use to scramble back over, but that was much less of a concern. Davo didn’t like being out in the open like this “quickly man, bring the ladder over to the corner” he rasped in that half whisper half bark that people use when they’re trying to be both quiet and heard. Tom didn’t answer, he just scuffed his feet across the loose gravel on the side of the train track and pulled his jeans up with his free hand.

The ladder made a thwack sound against the fence, Davo was looking around anxiously and Tom could feel that there was tension in the air, he chose to deal with the tension by pulling his jeans up again, this time with both hands.

“Ok, hold the bottom of the ladder still for me, when I get over the top just go and hide in that bush. I’ll whistle or something when I need you to come back and help me”.

Tom was just about to pick up the ladder and head for the camouflage of the bushes when Davo stopped and made a kind of whimpering sound. He was halfway through lowering himself into the back yard, only his elbows, shoulder and face were above the fence. Tom lookrd up, Davo looked scared. Tom mouthed, hardly speaking at all “you alright?”

“I thought you said they took the dog with them?”

“They did, I saw it get in the car when I was waiting for you”

“What was that noise then?”

“What n…”

And then there was a screeching noise, not the sound of any kind of dog Tom had ever heard. A sound that was more like a scream than a bark. There was a strange orange flash and Tom thought he saw a shadow looming over the fence, a formless darkness that was twice the size of his friend who’d just disappeared.

Afterwards Tom thought about what had happened, he tried to beat himself up for a while, about the decision that he’d made. But he’d pretty quickly come to the conclusion that he didn’t have any decision to make, given the circumstances there was no other course of action to take. He can’t think of anything he could have done except run. Tom got out of there as fast as he could, he didn’t consider picking up the ladder, and he had moved well past concern for his friend, he had only felt fear.

For the first few days he’d kept expecting Davo to turn up at any moment. Or maybe the police would come around asking questions. He even thought that maybe he should check the hospitals or even the police, but there isn’t a lot of institutional support for criminals injured on the job. After a while other friends and even Davo’s family started to ask Tom if he’d seen him. He couldn’t tell them, so he remembered the second to last time he’d seen Davo and that was what he told everyone, he was almost starting to believe it himself after so many months.

No sign of Davo ever turned up, and after a while Tom stopped expecting it to. It was hard to grieve for his friend when he wasn’t really sure what had happed to him. Part of Tom was also still scared by not knowing, occasionaly he felt the fear that had sent him running that night. This lingering fear wasn’t helped on sleepless nights when Tom was struggling to sleep, when the night was still and quiet and he could swear that he heard that same screeching noise somewhere outside his window. 

The Heavens Opened

As I got onto the bus the heavens opened. That’s the expression isn’t it, ‘the heavens opened”? I’d say I’ve said that a hundred times, you probably have too. It was just a figure of speech until then. The walk home wasn’t appealing with the dark clouds hanging over the city, so I waited for a bus that would at least keep me warm and dry until I was a little bit closer to home.

As the bus groaned up the hill and the passenger on the back seat sniffed away every breath. Every breath I tell you, is that even possible? I thought he should be dead by now, drowned in his own snot. That thought was shunted from my mind when I noticed the heavens literally opening. The skirts of the sky lifted and we saw the heavens and all of the drama that was going on in them. The light shone brightly through the cracks in the cloud but it somehow only managed to illuminate what was going on up there. Down here it was still as glum and bleak as it had been all afternoon.

All of the passengers, even our friend the sniffer, stared out at the windows at the battle going on above us. The Gods were battling in the sky and every time a blow was struck it seemed to knock more rain loose. The bus kept on rolling and listing in and out of traffic, stopping and starting like the battle above. Powerful hammer swings and blocks with giant shields let off sparks and thunder, a thrown body sent down a gust of wind that blew umbrellas inside out on the street. All the time as the bus weaved its way through the rush hour city, the battle made its way across the sky. Sometimes obscured buy the clouds, other times a full view would open up, just as more action unfolded.

By the time the bus got to my stop the action in the sky was leaving. There was still rain, a light drizzle. And over towards the east I could see the last of the flashes and the glimpses through the clouds slowly closed up from my vantage point. My commute was almost over but the Gods looked as if their battle would never end.

World Famous in Three Lamps

I’m not entirely sure if he’s homeless, if he isn’t he must be pretty close to being homeless. Dishevelled and a little bit dirty, but he does have a few possessions. He has his guitar and he has a little stool. I don’t imagine he makes a lot of money at his spot, it’s a busy piece of the street but not a crowded piece.

His guitar seems like it could be out of tune, it’s hard to tell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he only knew one chord. The guitar is just a prop really, something to strum along in the background of his song. Because it’s not the music he’s selling it’s his voice. What change he does manage to collect he earns with his voice, it’s a voice opposite to his outward appearance. His voice is crisp and clear, it’s a voice that cuts, it’s powerful and unforced.

I wonder if he’s ever been a musician, a professional musician I mean. Maybe he used to be famous, or as famous as you can be in this city. I drop a coin at his feet and give him a smile, at least he’s famous on this little corner.

The Post

It’s magic, the way it works is just magic. I can’t tell you how I know but I’ve come across this knowledge one way or another. It’s very complicated and I don’t know all of the intricacies of how things happen but I’ve got a rough overview of the process.

Firstly, someone has something they need to post, sure, we all know what that’s like. It’s happening less and less often but it’s still going on every day isn’t it? Well, then they need an envelope and a stamp. Now I know that you think you know what the stamps are all about but I’m here to tell you that part is actually false, all the stamps are for is the licking. It’s the saliva that they’re after. You take your newly stamped letter and you drop it in the post box on the corner, it goes through the slot and falls into the dark box. You forget about it then, assume it will arrive at its destination and you go on with your day.

What happens will probably surprise you. First it’s the scrapers who jump into action. They pull off the stamp and scrape off the saliva, weigh it, glue your stamp back on and then stamp your envelope with what you think is a postmark. The quality of this stamp, the darkness and alignment is a way of noting the amount of saliva the scrapers where able to get from you. You see saliva is the most important part of this whole process. Human saliva is what fairies live on, it’s their sustenance and their treat. You may think that the scrapers have a terrible job but in fact they are at the very top of the fairy hierarchy, they are the most trusted, dealing with all of that valuable spittle.

After your stamp is placed back onto the envelope with a light glue. Your letter is then past on to the logistical team. This is where things get a bit more complicated. How your particular letter is treated now depends on the postmark that was put on it by the scrapers (not at some “post office” or similar fable you might have heard). The letters that came in with the most saliva are treated with the highest priority. These posters are rewarded with quick reliable and unfaltering treatment, the very best logistical fairies are given these cases, these are the fairies that will one day be scrapers if they keep working hard.

The letters are sorted into a series of magical tubes and chutes, they’re intertwined and knotted and they run all through the town and across the countryside, underground and through building basements and attached to the bottom of bridges. They’re like a giant twisted pipe organ. You might be thinking that you’ve seen the post office people emptying the post boxes. Well of course you think you have, there are humans in on the system and they work very hard to keep up the façade and make people think that the mail is an orderly system controlled by people.

The main problem with the system, of course, is that not all fairies are created equally. There are some who are just about confused by this system as you and I might be, they put letters into chutes that go nowhere, or go in the wrong direction, or maybe just miss their intended destination narrowly. These letters mostly arrive eventually, not that many are lost. But this is why sometimes things seem to get lost in the post. It’s not a flaw in the postal system as such, the system works perfectly for those fairies who have managed to understand it fully, it’s only by the mistakes of the other fairies that things break down a little bit. They aren’t bad forever, you see a fairy doesn’t die, a fairy has a lot of time to perfect its job, eventually they manage to get their tiny little heads around the system. So if you look at it a different way, late mail is really only a learning process, it’s always improving. The only thing you can do to help is to play your part, the one part of the process that you’re in control of is how much postage you pay. So remember to lick your stamps generously, and maybe even leave a few drips coming out of the sticky part you close the envelope with, every little bit helps to get your letter delivered on time. 

Commuter

He waddles his way to the end of the platform, weaving around people and mostly going unnoticed. Once he’s at his quiet spot at the end he glances up to see the arrival time of the next train, two minutes. He stands patiently, looking at the advertising on the opposite side of the tunnel, his head cocked to one side as if he’s contemplating what it means and what it’s there for.

When the next train arrives he shuffles over towards the door, shying away slightly from the warm air pushed up from the tracks as the carriage squeezes along to a stop. One or two people come out through the door, then he hops over the gap (always mindful of it) and finds and empty spot in the corner. When the train shunts back into life he almost stumbles but manages to keep his balance.

The city goes on without him, some people chat, a lot of them read, most are listening to music on their headphones, and all of them are avoiding eye contact. So he goes undetected, standing in his uncrowded corner of the train, a curious look still on his face. When the train pulls into the next stop he’s almost thrown off balance again, then turns towards the door and hops out quickly before feet fall towards him from on the train and off.

He doesn’t head straight for the exit, instead just loiters near a bench for a few moments until most of the people have cleared out, heading to their offices or towards their errands for the day, or wherever else they might be going. When there’s a bit more space on the platform he decides it’s his window to leave, before another train and before the platform fills up with people waiting.

He flaps his wings and lifts himself towards the top of the tunnel that feeds the escalators up towards the surface of the city. He glides out of the station and into a square filled with other pigeons. Spotting his friends he lands and coos a few times, then gets stuck into the days pecking and scavenging, another day at the office for a timid commuter.