Perched, and sat, and nothing more

Mountainside Cemetary 
Oh, the weather outside was dreadful, and of boundaries, Beauregard was... forgetful!

Damp little wings took him to the edges of some grand cemetery, where he perched on a bleak iron fence outside the space.

Now, mostly here to see if anything else showed up, he was happy to announce his presence.

"Once! Upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..."

He hopped to the next iron spiked post, delicate bird feet clinging to damp metal. But he realized quite immediately this was not a poem he had neatly memorized, and so he would have to improvise his best with what he could recall.

"Suddenly there came a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."

Something else, and nothing more? He bounced to the arched sign, letters spelling out the cemetery name, and strutted along the length of it.

Then, in the croaking, squawking voice he assumed the named bird to have:

"Quoth the raven: NEVERMORE!"

set any time from 5pm on into the night, drizzly weather outfit


Hey, that was Ted, because he was really something else! Or actually just, pretty regular tonight, dripping along on a nice chilly walk under a protective layer of peacoat. A meeting and beers with a collaborator, just your general good Ted stuff, and a head full of ideas about incorporating canvas into fired ceramics had him wandering heedlessly, completely unaware of his surroundings until the little shouts in the mist reached a full crescendo.

He looked up, at where the sound was coming from. There was a fat little bird there, prancing. The recitation seemed to have stopped, and he smiled a little dreamily at the pigeon from beneath his beard. "Twee-twee-tweety," he greeted it! Unaware that he had completed a sort of inversion.

Company, company! The little bird bobbed forward, beady eyes blinking down at a hairy man below. Alcohol and the good sort of blood, this one!

His tail feathers twitched, head tilted. It was always a delight to be tweeted at.

"Chirp chirp," he said in return, hopping slightly down the dip in the arch. "Tweet tweet?"

It was all from a decidedly human voice, but perhaps his new friend had imbibed enough not to mind.

Ted was maybe a little tipsy, but only enough to give him a moment of pleasure at the bird coming closer before the voice coming out of it sank in.

That was like...what the fuck? Like. Was this a parrot bird? Except if little gray birds in Colorado talked, probably wouldn't he know about it??

While his gears grinded, he stared up open-mouthed. And he paused for a very long time.

Eventually: "Aluminum phyllosilicate."

Beauregard could almost hear the man's mind working, puzzling through something bizarre in a package that otherwise seemed ordinary. He'd witnessed nearly every sort of reaction a person could have to a talkative bird.

This did not prepare him for the one he received. The words came out as something he could only understand a few seconds later. Small bird feet shuffled a bit nearer to one another, and he bowed deep to look from above.

"I am defeated!"

Aluminum... phosphate? What was it?

AAHHHHHH! What the heck!! This fucking bird could talk!!!!!!

Ted did not have a prepared sequence of actions for this scenario! He got real scared and knee-jerked up some protective luck, except without a real threat or a real idea of how he needed protection, what he actually managed was to set off alarms on every car within a quarter-mile radius. How unlikely! And jeez, just, what the fuck!

He was on the opposite side of the street next time he checked in, and he panted breathlessly as he tried to spot the magic bird. How likely was it that a bird might spontaneously explode??

What happened next was startling for everyone involved!

There was an explosion of sound, and Beauregard puffed into panicked feathers, flapping backwards off the arch with the intention of wildly flying away until he caught his wits about him.

But this was a poorly considered plan. The cemetery was, essentially, surrounded by something of an invisible wall, and he crashed into it as any bird might into a glass window. It was merciful that he hadn't moved far enough to gain much momentum, but it left him all essentially tumbling, flapping into some grass below.

Quite ruffled and bruised (if primarily his dignity), he huffed, looking out at the man with indignance.

"Lucky I didn't break a wing!"

Still!!! Pretty scary!!

Ted's hands were up as if he were goalkeeping in soccer, which might be useful, you know, if the bird flew at him. Instead it just talked!!!!! "What the fuck are you!"

That wasn't very kind at all, was it? Beauregard looked over the man, considering some forceful hand to calm, but that had a way of erasing part of the thrill of it all.

"A bit hurt, if I'm truthful," he answered, letting little bird shoulders slump.

Some part of him readied to be charged at; frightened individuals could be so unpredictable!

Ted wanted to charge away from the bird, thank you, but there was enough distance between them to make it possible, momentarily, to stay. Still he did NOT feel good about witching hour cemetery birds who talked. He ogled the thing intensely! "Man, no, you can't be cute right now." This was some haunted serial killer bird bullshit. What the fuck!

That begged an obvious question!

"What can I be, then?"

His intention here had hardly been to terrorize, but now that he'd managed it unintentionally, Beauregard did not see a reason to stop.

All the way across the street, Ted made a squirrelly, uneasy sound, his arms crossing. He would still like a lot to just bail, but? What if it was fast or something? Maybe he could back away like you were supposed to do with bears.

It was still talking, and it occurred to the man belatedly that he ought to pull out his phone and record the instance; his hands managed it clumsily, the camera dark. "Honest, maybe?"

Ted, don't talk to the haunted bird!!

Oh, woe. There was a dreaded cell phone aimed pointedly in his direction. Beauregard was hardly the tech savviest, but he knew well enough what a cell phone used as a camera looked like.

And so, he did only what was natural, breaking into elaborate bird song, hopping in little vacant circles in the grass.

Honesty was best not recorded and shared on... Facebook, he assumed.

Yeah, that was it for him. He had no good reason to push this, and he was thinking of LOTS of good reasons to just get the fuck out of here. So with his phone still out, he initiated a brisk backwards shuffle, trotting back the way he came.

Oh, woe.

That was that, and Beauregard would watch the man scuttle off before finding his place on the fence again, preening at his feathers until they felt dry and tidy enough to perfect a flight back to his car.

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