a fable
Shrike had caught Finch by the neck and was flying around looking for a thorn to impale him on.
“Can I ask a question?” said Finch.
“Shoot,” said Shrike.
“Well, first, you’re supposed to drop me when you talk.”
“Why’s that?”
“That’s what happens in the fable of the fox and the crow!”
“Can’t say I know that one.”
“The crow has some cheese the fox wants, the fox asks it to sing and the crow sings and drops the cheese. So when you answered my question, you were supposed to drop me and I was supposed to get away. Then I deliver a moral like if someone has something you want in their mouth, make them open their mouth, they’ll drop it and you can get away.”
“I guess this fable isn’t that one,” said Shrike.
“How can you talk and not drop me?”
“I speak out of the side of my beak. I’m a big Bogart fan.”
“But what kind of fable is this? What kind of lesson is going to be taught? Everyone knows how this is going to end.”
“Perhaps it’s more theatre than fable.”
“What kind of theatre rejoices in the death of Finch? For one thing, I’m a far better singer than you.”
“If this were to play out otherwise, you might want to consider flattery makes more friends than insults. Besides, some people like horror movies. You never heard of the Grand Guignol? Ah, here we are.” Shrike impaled Finch on a handy barbed wire fence.
Finch’s ghost hung around, “See what I mean? Anticlimactic. What’s the meaning?”
“I don’t know. I think you can draw a lot from this. Consider it avian realism, if you like. This is what is natural.“
“That’s it? That’s all you got? You’re supposed to this unique situation into something that illustrates a universal trenchant observation.”
“Whoa. Trenchant. That’s a pretty big word for a dead finch. Tell you what, I’ll work on a moral while I’m eating.”
Shrike went back to feeding. After watching Shrike tear out his intestines, the ghost of Finch thought he had better things to do than stick around.
The moral of the story is: it ain’t over until the Shrike sings.
Alt moral: some songbirds can be awfully wordy.
The little girl and the great actor
a Christmas ghost story
It was Christmas time and the theatres were filled with audiences eager for pantomimes, romances, comedies. And the greats.
The Great Actor was sitting in his dressing room waiting for the start of the great play, King Lear. He was King Lear.
As he applied makeup to accentuate the wrinkles in his face, dusted his hair to make it even greyer, he thought, “I don’t need this make-up. Look how old I am.” He stared at his image before him.
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