Midnight Theater, 8 March 2008

Fiction

No, please I just quit drinking
It’s on you? Well, if you insist…
Whisky will do just fine, love
What do I do as a living, you ask?
Why, I’m a writer, my dear
I am amongst those who are brave enough
To map territories, other people
Can only dream of

You want me to tell you a story?
I do not think that is a pleasant idea, love
For the map I draw are not entirely pleasant to begin with
Another shot for a story? Well, if you insist….
Alright then
I have a story for you
Listen closely

******

There was a crow, and it was, as crows usually goes, black and sharp and ugly.

It was ugly, and it has no name.

Let’s call it simply, The Crow.

You see, The Crow was not a terribly interesting crow. So much so that he was shunned by his fellow crows. It was not because it was ugly (and it was), nor was it because of its voice (which was coarse).

The Crow was shunned because it was a poet, and this is true.

There was also, by chance, a man. And the man, as man usually goes, was arrogant, greedy, and intelligent by nature.

He was handsome, and he had a name.

He was called Edgar.

You see, Edgar was not a terribly interesting fellow. So much so that he was shunned by his friends and family and women. It was not because he was not handsome enough (and he was), nor because he was weak (and he was not).

Edgar was shunned because he was not a poet, and this is true.

But of the luck in the world, he fell in love with a woman, who was a virgin, and enjoyed poetry, and will not accept any man, no matter how good looking he was, unless he was a poet.

We shall call her simply, Virgin.

For days and months and years Edgar have been watching her, every single movement etched in his brain. The way her bottom moved when she walked, the way her lips pursed every time she was agitated, the way her finger always played around with her dark, dark flowing hair. The way she…

In short, he was in love with her, and quite madly, sadly. The fact that Virgin only wanted to marry a poet broke his heart to tiny, tiny pieces. Every day he would wallow in his sadness, scribbling gibberish on the wall in his pathetic (if I may say so) attempt to create what could pass up as a form of poetry.

Edgar wanted to become a poet. To be able to steal Virgin’s heart, and to gain respect amongst his peers.

Now, our friend The Crow, it was growing tired of its fellow crow, who never understood the value of poetry, the beauty of word play. Other crows prefer simple, and terrible croaks to express themselves.

The Crow wanted to become a human. To live amongst those who can appreciate what he did best.

You see, The Crow have been watching Edgar, knew his trouble. It was deeply interested in this man, who was the exact opposite and yet remarkably similar to itself after a fashion. So The Crow devised a plan, which might not exactly be called devious, but one that is morally challenged nonetheless.

And so at night it visited Edgar, who was now scribbling on the wall with his back to the open window.

Edgar, it croaked. Edgar turned around and was perplexed to see a crow perched lazily at his window.

“You are… A crow.”

I am at that, The Crow croaked.

“What… business… Do you have with me?” Edgar said.

I am offering you a bargain, Edgar. The Crow adjusted one of his feather with its beak. One that will allow you to steal the heart of the girl you love.

Edgar looked at his wall, which was then covered with ink. He faced The Crow again.

“Who… What are you?”

I am a crow, Edgar, as you can plainly see. It paused. But that which you see with your eyes can deceive you. Eyes are merely windows, my friend, and yours are to narrow to understand the beauty of poetry. And it too, can be deceiving.

Edgar scratched his head.

The Crow croaked hoarsely. I am a crow, and I am a poet. That is what I am.

Edgar was a smart man.

“I see. And what is this bargain you want to make with me, crow?”

I want to become a human, Edgar. I want a human vessel, one that will allow me to become a true poet, one that will not be shunned by his kind, instead respected and loved for his work. You will help me get a human vessel, Edgar. Preferably male. You know how.

And he did, too. It was simple really. Take any human, female or male, kill them by slicing their throat, let their blood be drained completely (for the blood is the sea on which life sets sail), and preserve the body. That was how they prepare an empty human vessel. And that is how they do it now, I believe.

Edgar was deep in thought. He asked The Crow,

“And how is that going to help me steal Virgin’s heart?”

I will give you talent, human. Talent to weave words and meaning into an endless labyrinth, talent to tell a lifetime worth of story in one word, talent to tell a short story in a string of words.

Edgar was stunned. The Crow was going to give him the ability to become a poet, something that will surely win over Virgin’s heart. He weighed his option. A devious smile crossed his face.

“When do you want the vessel, crow?”

Tomorrow, human. By the crop field. Midnight. Do not be late.

The Crow croaked once, twice, thrice, and then flew away into the darkness of the night. Edgar was already sharpening his knife when the flapping of The Crow’s wings were gone.

So it was by midnight the day after that encounter that Edgar was standing on the crop field, alone. A human figure was lying down at his side.

Soon after, Edgar heard a flapping sound. The Crow descended rather ungracefully and perched itself on a branch of a dead tree.

You have gotten a vessel, I see, The Crow croaked.

“Yes I have.”

Very well. Look into my eyes, human.

Edgar was ready to strain his eyes to try and gaze at The Crow’s eyes, but strangely enough it was visible even under the cloud-covered moonlight. Edgar blinked once, uncertain of what he should do to receive the talent.

And suddenly, it was there. He felt stirring in his head, akin to tree branches swayed by the wind. He blinked again.

It is done.

And Edgar knew it too. He was, to his surprise, a poet.

Now. Your end of the bargain.

“Of course, my friend,” he said. His tone was unpredictable.

The Crow descended from the branch, and landed at the side of the body. Edgar took out his knife.

“I promise that this will not be painful at all.”

Promises are poetry, Edgar. It can be true, and it can be false.

Edgar smiled. He took The Crow in his hand, and deftly sliced The Crow’s throat.

“You have forgotten one thing, my friend crow.” The Crow’s blood was flowing, dripping on the human figure on the ground.

“Poets, as do writers, are liars.”

At that, the cloud covering the moon moved, and the moonlight shone on them.

The human figure was now completely visible. It has no face, it had no finger, it had no elbow, it has no knees.

It was no more than hays, arranged and tied in a way so that it took a human figure. It had a hat, and rags as a shirt and trousers.

The Crow croaked once, the life already fading away from his eyes.

“But I’m not completely ungrateful, crow. I will use your new… Vessel… to scare away your kind, which you hated so much. Be thankful at least for that.”

The Crow was dead. The last drip of blood have left its body. Yet strangely not a single stain was visible on the hays.

Edgar gazed at the dead crow’s body. He found a perfect word for the moment, and he knew he had to say it then and there. He smiled, content.

“Nevermore, crow. Nevermore.”

**********************

Well, that is all there is to it
You did not like that story?
I warned you, love
It was not going to be pleasant

You like it? Do you now?
I thank you then
Ah, but I have to be going now
It is not raining anymore

Another story, love?
I am afraid I cannot
I have overstayed my welcome
Another shot for a story? Well, if you insist….
Very well then.
I have a story for you
Listen closely….

inspired by Neil Gaiman & Edgar Allan Poe