Branch Allegoria

By Thomas McClure

I descended from the branch after the sun had finally set; the day was done and as the moon started to reflect upon the puddles along the street, it was time for me to reflect upon the sights of the street. I glided to the ground, it was a quiet night, one of the less systemically busy nights of the human’s seven-day cycles. Walking took longer, I know, and it would be far quicker to fly, but I’m not getting any younger and I can take my time, it’s not like I will miss anything world-changing, we’re only birds.

I could see Allegoria down the street, it’s dark looming branches extending over the metal fences of the park, escaping human conventions. The dead fluttering tree grew closer as I worded my stories right. What order was it in? It had been a long week of decent stories for me. I had seen a couple in an old converted phone booth; looked romantic. I had seen the birth of a child. A political interview. A couple of gardener partners finding love with one another. Some very imaginative schoolchildren; they’re the best. There was a hospitalised man who, in his best moments, recited decades of knowledge to me, a strange bird-like creature at the window, but could hardly breathe when meeting any of the nurses. Finally, just peering into windows a few minutes ago I saw a man on the phone, talking for hours about everything and more. It’s a diverse world we live in, I assure you that.

Turning the corner, through the grand gates of the near-abandoned park, I watched as all the races woke up upon seeing me. The black thick branches grew thinner as every surface sprouted many wings and flapped around, cawing and cackling in excitement. A stunning murder of ravens and crows and blackbirds and many other races of bird that still seem like hatchlings to my kind. This generation was in good beaks; stupid beaks as well, like they’re getting less smart ever new set of hatchlings, but that’s probably me just getting old.

An older raven, a lady by the name of Xoe, flapped to the most prominent branch and without pause began her tale of a woman putting human-made body parts, of metal and soft stuffs, onto herself to replace that which she had lost. The birds went wild for it. Good for them, of course, but that wasn’t my kind of treat. I liked the more sociological thrillers. I’ve seen empires rise and fall, had my hand in a few, but for once I’d like a story shared these bird brains could actually comprehend, because otherwise it’s only me retelling and simplifying things and there’s little joy in that.

Telling stories isn’t easy, we all know that, and it’s worth congratulating those who merely try, but there is also a greater layer of what they mean to it. Most of these birds merely state what they have seen, a ‘plot’ with nought else, but what does that even mean? Where’s the moral? Where’s the character?

How does each story represent the one telling it? Sure, they’re only birds and likely haven’t influenced world events like I have, but who’s going to fact check any of this? The audience believes because the performance doesn’t work if they don’t. I’ve told them I’ve been to the moon, and at this point, with the things I’ve done and not done, and said and not said, who knows, I might have, but from what I’ve seen in my long life I wouldn’t be surprised if I awoke one morning to find that I myself never existed then I’d be shocked but understandable, I mean, a nameless bird from a nameless race with an impossible history, how could I be real? So I indulge and often change events I have seen so they fit how I feel for that day. If I’m hungry I change the inspiring story of a woman with arthritis to one where she is starving on the street. If I don’t like the pollution in my park then I take liberties with the story of an angry father and reshape it so the focus, the theme, is all about the toxic elements of capitalism. They, uh, didn’t like that last one because I had to explain what capitalism was and they rightfully realised how much of a plot hole it was that such a thing would exist without any humans stopping it. What can I say but Yikes; bird brains?

Speaking of Yikes. The story told by Xoe seems to be the only one that wasn’t hiding some awful ideas. That one walking away just now told an apparently riveting tale that basically ended with ‘domestic abuse is good’ and no one really minded. Do these kids not realise the impact they’re having? The world is going to-no, I’m not going to be that kind of grump old bird. I just remember a time when very few birds got a chance to speak, so only the most perfectionists had the opportunity to rise to the top, but now we have so many more opportunities for more birds to join, of course the murder is going to have more bad ones. Everyone can tell a story, meaning more good stories and more bad stories. That’s how things go. Also means that seagulls can tell stories which they couldn’t back in my day, which was another kind of yikes, we’re doing better.

The last bird is nearing the end of her story, I’ll likely go up next. I’ll need something simple; I have to stop overcomplicating things for them. Confusing is not interested. I also need to be consistent. A few moons ago I told a story of an adorable child’s birthday party back-to-back with a horrific murder suicide. Didn’t help that it was a direct sequel.

So, I need a night-ending collection of stories under a single theme. One that promotes positive messages, or at least actively tries to, and connects with these ravens in a way that makes them feel warm inside, as to fix my curmudgeonly reputation.

I’m actually quite nervous, now I think about it.

I’m not the best at storytelling, I’m actually quite new to speaking to such a large crowd, so I hope things go okay. I hope I’m not too old for them, either, I haven’t missed my prime yet, right? I’m barely a fifth of the way through my expected life, I have eons left. If I mess up, surely, I’ll have other chances. Maybe I should just give up and fly off back to my own branch. No one probably wants to hear me anyways. No, then I’ll only be disappointing myself. If I do badly then that’s a learning opportunity, right? I’m doing this for them, but more importantly I’m doing this for me. To prove to myself that I can.

I hear human singing in the distance, I remember what some of the people I’ve seen have been mentioning; a new year. It must almost be midnight for them. That must mean it’s what they would call the 31st of December 2019. Almost 2020, it probably will be when I start speaking. Oh boy, what a way to start the decade. Too bad very few of these birds will even notice. Oh well, it means something to me.

That’s me got seven stories in my head now. I honestly expected to have ten by the end of this week but I’m not that good. Oh, and I promised at least eight. Okay, I’ll come up with one on the spot. No outlines or metaphors or rewrites or in-depth connotations to anything grander than me. Maybe I’ll just say what I’m thinking now. Oh hell, I’m too tired, haven’t slept in days, I’m an old man and I think I drank something green spilled onto the street earlier so my heart isn’t beating right. I don’t have the capacity to do much else.

I flap up to the branch. I see the younglings before me, friends old and new and acquaintances and those I want to get to know better. God, I love them. It must be great to be one of them. Okay, no more stalling. Remember, it’s better to try, to do, even if it’s not that great, than to never do at all. Can’t hold it off any longer. Time to do something with my life, time to get out there. Make the connection with these birds. Time to caw.

Tell them how you feel, what you fear, what you love, what you want, what you need, what you see, what you know, what you don’t know, what you are, what you aren’t. Tell them straight how much you need them, but however you tell it, try not to make it boring.

I swallowed and opened by beak at New Years; “The Connection Collection”.

The End

By Thomas McClure

Word Count: 1,492