Digital Ischemia


The Twelve Days of Twistmas part 4/12

The Christmas song twisted into a series of linked short tales, fabricated around tortuous puns. Begins at part 1.

I’d checked on Nicole et al of the Advent Aviary the previous evening and found them all snug in their individual ventilated and insulated abodes. Santa Claws remained content in her quarters, with turtle comforters, so I closed the window, and fed and watered all. I wondered if they wouldn’t prefer to be in communal accommodation but not everyone’s an extrovert. I wasn’t after more chores. This whole bird business was growing … wings and legs.

The night had been whistly but apparently also productive as there were two eggs courtesy of Nicole and Noelle. With hungry gratitude I yoinked them for my breakfast. On toast. Not French.

While fruitlessly pondering the origin of the expanding menagerie, I found I was whistling. Not like the wind, more like a warble, mimicking a whirling, ascending ululation outside. With resigned curiosity I peered out the window, expecting to see… well, birds; yet more blasted birds. But, no. Nothing.

I would not be enticed outside. I would not go looking. I would not accept ‘curlew’ as ‘calling birds’. Feeble. Whoever was concocting this ridiculous feathered festive frivolity would have to try harder. Harder than choreographing curlews. Easterly wind makes me grumpy.

By mid-afternoon I still hadn’t settled. This blasted invasion was contrary to my hermitage. I stared at a bar of resolutely non-festive chocolate, knowing eating it wouldn’t make me feel any better. Wishing I knew what would. Then I heard a gunshot.

I became totally rigid. I couldn’t process an unfamiliar sound so my mental activity seized up entirely. Waiting for something to happen that I knew how to respond to. I heard another shot. Closer.

Two gunshots apparently does mean something to my subconscious. By the time the sound of a further shot had cracked through the walls I was at the kitchen door, incandescent with imagined injustice. I believe I shrieked several inarticulate obscenities.

I suppose I had in mind some Buchan-esque bored baronet, planting the assorted feathered fauna about my abode as an elaborate shooting gallery. My bobbing about among the targets merely added to the sport.

A fourth shot ricocheted off the hill. It seemed further away. Les trois mademoiselles seemed completely unmoved. No blood. No falling birds. No tweed. I strode about the yard a bit, burning off my adrenaline, as an afterthought eyeing the area for disturbance. Nothing.

I rounded the corner and peered in the pantry window. Santa was going at her seeds with oblivious regularity. I suddenly felt less rigid and more … flaccid. My knees failed as I vividly recollected myself steaming into the line of fire. Unfounded embellishment. I must have been hypoglycaemic. Should have had the chocolate. I leaned into the hut wall for a while.

The fizzing in my ears subsided and my eyes began to discern shapes through the white mist. From above came a bubbling sound. I could just make out an off-white tail feather poking from the gutter. I staggered a few paces away from the hut and looked back.

On the roof edge were perched four collared doves. Near enough.

The Twelve Days of Twistmas continues at part 5

1 Comment »

  1. […] The Twelve Days of Twistmas continues at part 4… […]

    Pingback by The Twelve Days of Twistmas part 3/12 | Digital Ischemia — 28/12/2018 @ 12:58

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