The Day I Climbed a Tree & Peacock

I've been meaning to write some of my bipoplar adventures down but have never got around to it so when fellow vocalist Paul Stewart set this unofficial challenge up it gave me the push.

https://vocal.media/writers/pauls-super-fun-multi-part-unofficial-challenge

So, this is Part One: Write a 245 word about yourself telling me, especially me, who will be judging you all, some stuff I don't know about you. 

A few summers ago, I escalated into mania. Retaining enough insight to recognize I required urgent psychiatric intervention, I attempted to secure an emergency appointment with my GP. Despite knowing my diagnosis and hearing me explain my dilema the receptionist informed me no appointments were available that day. Knowing my condition would worsen within 24 hours, I took matters into my own hands.

I entered the surgery’s courtyard, climbed a large, sturdy tree, and accessed the clinic’s low roof. My sole objective was to compel the staff to acknowledge the urgency of my psychiatric crisis. It was a warm day; I wore good shoes and felt safe, though that might have been the mania. I sat with my feet dangling over the guttering. Passers-by and patients alerted the staff, and a reeptionist came out to chat. I explained that since my appointment request was turned down, I would wait on the roof for a cancellation.

Extraordinarily, an opening appeared. Minutes later, I received unprecendented attention as an immediate emergency response triggered. The local police, my GP, a psychiatrist, and a crisis team nurse arrived. Following a calm negotiation, they coaxed me down without injury or arrest. Inside, the crisis team conducted an immediate assessment, validating my manic episode. My bemused partner, who never knew I could climb, was contacted and took me home alongside the nurse. There, they administered a sedative pill, decelerating my manic symptoms and stabilising my condition.

Next challenge in Part One: Write a 365 word story, strict word count about a peacock. I completed an MA in Creative Writing about four years ago and was quite pleased (unusual for me) with a short story I wrote about a man and his father both in grief who changed into foxes. My peers and tutor did not support this ending and I didn't trust myself enough to continue writing in this manner so I am grateful for this challenge, and the ongoing support I get from my fellow Vocalists, to start to find my own voice again. Expect many more tales of shapeshifting!

Peacock

The train was too heavy. That was his first lesson.

At thirty-seven, after his forty-second unsuccessful first date, Art felt entirely invisible. Desperate to change this miserable fate, he walked into the deep emerald forest, vowing to live exactly like the wild musters.

He began on all fours, mimicking the pecking of the flock. He no longer took coffee; instead, he feasted on raw seeds, wild grains, and beetles, his fingernails splitting from scratching the earth for garden snakes. The social hierarchy was brutal. The males tolerated Art, but only at a distance. During the intense midday heat, Art finally stripped his tattered shirt and rolled in the dry dirt, learning from the birds how to take dust baths to clear parasites. At night, he dragged his bruised body up a massive oak tree, roosting precariously on an open branch in the shivering cold.

By the fourth month, Art no longer thought in English. He communicated in piercing, high-pitched cries to warn his feathered family of wild foxes that lurked in dark shadows. His skin had hardened, and his spine had locked into a majestic, rigid line.

The breeding season arrived. Territorial boundaries were scratched into the dirt, and the clearing transformed into an arena of colour. A dominant male fanned his massive train, positioning himself at a forty-five-degree angle to the sun. He quivered his feathers, creating a low rumble that vibrated through the ground. A cautious peahen stepped forward, coldly assessing the symmetry of his brilliant eyespots.

A primal power flared in Art’s chest. He stepped into the clearing, threw his head back, and let out a deafening cry. He raised his bare arms, and as he tilted toward the sun, a sharp burn ripped through his shoulder blades.

His skin split. With a rustling sound, hundreds of emerald quills erupted from his back. They unfurled instantly, cascading into a massive train shimmering in electric blue, gold, and violet.

Art focused his mind as his body began to vibrate. His beautiful new feathers rattled together, producing a spectacular wave of color and a deep acoustic hum. The peahen stopped. Ignoring Art’s rival, she took three elegant steps toward him.

Art was finally seen.