The Barn Owl Parliament

A Hotbed of Internal Politics

Contrary to popular belief, the barn owl is not really an owl at all. No, sir.

Of course, barn owls do rather like barns. This is mostly because a barn is a convenient stronghold for the realisation of democratic objectives, and because hay is good for nesting.

But in fact, a barn owl is an industrial congregation of unionised, federated, mutually-dependent, microscopic electorates. They can see in the dark because there are lots of carrots in their food chain, and they have very robust civil liberties.

The barn owl's eggs may seem motionless, smooth, and apolitical from the outside, but in reality they are a hotbed of internal politics. Egg-laying serves as a way for the dominant regime to exile political dissidents and retain the confidence of a majority of the barn owl's constituents. And there are others ejected from the sovereign barn owl by egg: aliens awaiting deportation; those who have violated the terms of their visas; and anyone who tries to import ticks without a licence. The incubation period varies from days to weeks because the news cycle is routinely unpredictable.

The Lobbyist

Stephen is a Right-Wing lobbyist for Big Feather Agriculture. The industry is heavily subsidised because feathers are essential to the Owl's ability to capture live imports. Recently, however, the Standing Committee on Evolutionary Policy has been pushing for a pivot to scales, citing national security concerns about the long-term economic impacts of flying.

Fortunately for Stephen's clients, who are rich and fat and want to stay that way, evolutionary decisions cannot be determined by the national parliament, since natural law demands that such decisions must be resolved by a jury of all nations.

But modern politics is a creature controlled by vested interests, and this year, they are putting everyone in jeopardy in the name of profit. This year, the rich propose the unthinkable: they want the Owl to migrate to the North, into the arctic depths of winter, where feathers are worth their weight in gold. For once, conservative interests and tradition diverge. The thing is, everyone is in this Owl together.

The Pitch

It is a well-known fact that the common barn owl can rotate its head 180°. A lesser known political consequence of this flexibility is that the marginal voters occupying the seat of the Neck are regularly showered with campaign promises in an attempt to win their fickle allegiance. It pays to swivel, and the Neck is festooned with soft down feathers of the most grand provenance. The Neck is the swing vote, and Stephen knows it.

Stephen walks hurriedly down the chilly arterial boulevard towards the Neck. He is dressed in a crisp, navy-blue suit, and his smart black shoes clack noisily on the cobbled arterial wall. In the gentrifying outer suburbs of the Upper Owl, brightly-lit white mansions tower above the neighbouring, ramshackle wooden houses of the foregone classes, who stare out fearfully at the changing times. Stephen has a number of property interests in this area, and looks forward gleefully to the eventual ejection of the lazy, unwashed masses. His white silk handkerchief does little to mask the stench, and he reflects momentarily on the carelessness of this cliche. Stephen tears disapprovingly through the fourth wall and tells us to be a little more inspired in our writing. We sheepishly agree to omit references to his hooked, beak-like nose and evil cackle.

Parliament House stands proudly in the Vertebral Cleft of the Neck.

"The North is ripe for the taking, and our competitors will never suspect such a daring move", Stephen proclaims to a suspicious parliament of conservative politicians. They mutter doubtfully and hoot to one another with derision for this upstart lackey.

"Son," drawls the Member for the Right Outer Talon, "we fly South because the warmth is good for our soul, the hunting grounds are plentiful, and it's what our fathers did before us."

"The Member for the Right Outer Talon is right," squawks the Member for the Upper Left Ear. "We'll not throw tradition to the wind in the name of quick profit."

"Wise Members of the Bazaar," pleads Stephen diplomatically, "you are right not to make this transgenerational decision lightly. But in truth, this change in policy will lay the flight path of the Owl for weeks. Your actions now will be immortalised in the very Heart of our society."

The Bazaar devolves into barely-suppressed twittering, but we've seen enough of this tired scene. The lobbyists always win.

Preparations

The Owl is awash with the sounds of industry. Timber is felled and the feather mills roar. Strings of amino acids lie on conveyor belts in the factories, and the protein-folding machines crank and hiss. Dispatch supervisors don their caps, scratch their stubbly chins, and pencil their checklists. Hemoglobin truck drivers pull madly out of the factory truckstops, lorries laden with nutrients for the Upper Dermal layers. The Owl is going North.

"EGG PRODUCTION HALTED AS AUSTERITY MEASURES IMPOSED" reads the headline of the Owl Street Journal draped across the coffee table on Stephen's balcony. The butler brings out a plate of fresh bread and eggs, and a servant follows with a concoction of champagne, orange juice, and liquid irony supplements. The gardens surrounding the manor are lush and green, and the groundskeeper whistles cheerily as he mows the lawns. Here is a patch of the Owl untouched by the frenetic changes ushered in by the Defiant Migration. The rich and fortunate could ease the exacting, caustic pressure of the Preparations, it is true. But as the old saying goes, just because you can cook a steak in a toaster doesn't mean you should. A life of hardship is like a frying pan: searing, but proper.

For others in the Owl, it is different. There are mandatory contributions for everyone, and for the poor, they hurt: they must turn in their frying pans to be melted down for raw materials; they work tirelessly to whittle new follicles with the last of their energy; and white blood cells patrol the streets after curfew. The zeitgeist is 'all for one', and that one is the Owl. At all costs.

The Barren, Wintry North

As the Owl flies further North, its denizens huddled together, but resolute and proud, the greens and browns of the South give way to the nondescript whites, blues, and greys of the New Hunting Grounds. The temperature drops with relentless consistency as the Owl's Wings beat the cold air with gusto and zeal. The Owl is well-prepared: it is fortified against icy winds by feathers and fat, and its Eyes are alert and staffed around the clock. Here, there are no competitors, no apex predators; and the air is still.

The Owl searches through hazy air with confidence borne of a life of success. Whatever is out there will be found.

Reports from the Department of the Metabolism trickle in over the first hours and days of the Defiant Migration. Soon the Treasurer is delivering briefings to the public herself.

"We need economic sustenance," says the Treasurer, expressionless. "These are grim and uncertain times."

The nation's resolve flounders as the frigid days wear on. The Owl spots a cave to shelter from the world, and the Cabinet meets to discuss the Owl's options. It will be necessary to activate Reserve forces if the Owl is to take flight once again. "This is the cost of survival," says the Drill Corporal to his ashen-faced, shivering recruits.

The Owl rises into the air. This will be the last Hunt. Luckily, we can write whatever we want, and we are not cruel.

The Mouse

The Left Eye spots a mouse.

"Get the Right Eye on the squawker, and tell me if they're seeing this too," barks the Lieutenant.

"This is the Rightenant," rumbles a deep voice from the squawker. "Sighting confirmed. Query Sonar."

"Prey movement detected by both Ears, sir," reports the Ear Sergeant. "We are mobilising the Talons."

The Owl lets out a bloodcurdling screech and drops from the sky like a stone. There is no time to sound the Alarm, and no warning for those who are not strapped in. Grand pianos, denizens of the Owl, and stray potted plants fly down the streets of the Owl in silent obedience to the mercurial dictates of gravity. The underwriters cling grimly to their perches and quietly revise their coverage scope.

This is the Hunt. Redemption and survival.

Inside the Mouse, in the Operations Room perched atop the Spinal Cord, it is pandemonium. Aides run back and forth, tripping over their own tails as they hurry to get everything in order.

"This is your president squeaking," squeaks the president. His voice echoes down the nerve fibres of the emergency address system, and his fur is soaked with sweat. "Prepare to be annexed."