An owl flew into my car when I was driving home
yesterday.
It was dark, and I was surprised.
It was only a graze (I think that helped),
and I lost him in my rear view mirror
(but not in the road, thank goodness).
I tried to decipher what it meant
as the jeep next to me drove faster
to make it through the yellow light.
I couldn't think of anything.
Yet when I got home the internet informed me,
(in a strange twist of irony),
that the owl symbolizes night vision and
clairvoyance.
Find more comfort in the liminal spaces, they say.
(I don't know who they are - experts on such things perhaps).
I'm not sure about that.
All I know is that it makes me remember the time
when a different bird flew into the side
of my car.
A crow, too busy having fun to realize it's proximity
to the road.
What a strange coincidence to be hit by birds, and not
the other way around.
As if I'm the spiritual guide,
sent to remind the various fowl
of the dangers of not paying attention to
their inner eye.
And it's strange that it happened twice.
About the Creator
Brooke Farrar
Inspired by Lemony Snicket, who kindled a flame in my childish mind, and I am constantly in awe of Douglas Adams' ability to gather seemingly ordinary words into a confusing bouquet of inspiration and hilarity.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
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