Rose Starling 

A short story “translated” by Alfredo Lopez

   It wasn't until I was reaching my half-life that I was given the charity of a name, but for the sake of the coherence and continuity of this story, know that the author and privileged narrator of this twisted tale is Ms. Rose Starling.

    Much like many that were in my situation, I couldn't recall who I was, where I was, let alone what I was.  I was born in captivity, well that’s actually not true. See I was chained up, locked in a small circular deice that transported me— as well as many other— across the ocean. Once at the harbor, I was released from the capsule and immediately placed in a cage, and from that moment onwards was denied many freedoms that are basic necessities of life. This cage was filled to the bursting with others that were too weak to fend for themselves, there is no law here, only anarchic survival. Many a times, I would have to fight with the others in the cage for scraps of food, which was fed to us through a two inch hole in the cage wall.

     Many of us died of disease of course, but most of the time we just went mad. I heard tale of a great man that once said that insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over again, expecting change. Truer words have yet to be spoken. It was a great ally to many, insanity, especially when the auctioneers came. Auctioneers would frequent the market place, always in search of the fittest and the strongest in the lot. Whenever the cage opened at the request of the auctioneers, a few of us would lay on the ground and scream. Quite rarely would they take anyone that showed signs of weakness, insanity being among one of them. But sooner or later, everyone would get taken away, through a gate that seemed to swallow anything that went through it, and nobody seemed to know why. Those few that had heard whispers of what became of those taken seldom repeated them, a courtesy of sorts. It was genocide, had to be. No other word comes close to defining a mass disappearance of this magnitude. It is genocide.  

   A day that stood out in infamy, from among the lot was the day that I met a rather peculiar fellow. They called him Jim Crowe, (I never asked why, but I assume he was named after a famous musician). He resided in a lone cell to the left of where I was situated, (or was it to the right? The cage was clear on all sides in order to negate privacy, so I never could figure what way was which, but there he was) quite comfortable in his lonesomeness. As I said, he was a rather peculiar fellow, the best way to describe him would be that he looked really out of place, almost as if he was painted on to the foreground.

   "I say, lil' chicky, look ma' way!" he hollered. Ignorance in this case, was definitely not bliss, for this creaton was gifted in his ability to persuade. It wasn't until the third or fourth repetition, when I lost all patience in my being, that I took note of him.

   “Now, why you lookin' all scaed fo'? You ain't lookin like you hab a case of the nut case, so I say again, why you lookin' all scaed fo'?" I don't know what it was that compelled me to commence a conversation with this spawn of Satan. At times I wonder if it was the intimidatingly crazed look in his eyes, (believe me or not, they were as red as blood), or the ghostly paleness of his flesh. Anything lacking in personality, was certainly made up with his appearance, one can’t deny that he was something pleasant (if only) to look at.

   "I didn't realize I looked scared. What makes you come to such a conclusion?" I finally managed to say after awkwardly staring at his bleak complexion.

   "Now, I've seen many lil chickies in my day, but never one so scaed lookin' as you. Mayhaps it’s yo’ fuchsia that yo’se concen'd about? Well, let me tell yo, yo’ ain't got nothin to fea'. Yo'se too small fo the oven anyways. I've seen, hell, I've smelt what they do to them other bad nuts. Yessuh, they cook de’ soul st’aight outta dem."

   Again, I can't explain what it was that compelled me to develop the conversation with this white Devil, but the curiosity of what he said moved me to question my "fuchsia".

   "What ovens do you speak of, if I may ask?" I inquired.

   "Ain't you eva wonda whe' they took all them otha folk? Well chick-a-poo, them auctioneers take them ol' bones to be put outta thei' mise'y. Polly not the best way to go bout it, but heck, it wo'ks. But like I say, yo'se looks like you gon make it th'ou in one piece" He smiled.

   “What exactly did we do to harbor such hatred, I don’t look much different than you, and surely you aren’t going to the ovens”. I said.

   “Wha makes yo’ tink it’s bout looks’?” With this, he chortled until he nearly choked on his own joke, which only he seemed to understand. The next day an auctioneer took him, I never spoke or saw him again. Strange fellow.

   Sometime after I had my cheerful conversation with my dearly beloved and certainly missed friend, I had a distantly greater pleasure of meeting a man by the name of Peter Nest. He was the warden and “caretaker” of the fellow inmates at the prison. He was a rather small man. Certainly had a fire under his penguin suit though. Most of the time that I ever saw him, he would be yelling at one of the caretakers. One day he really went off on one of his spiels, and it all happened because of water. It went something along the lines of a guy giving us a few extra drops of water, followed by Peter’s boot going into the other guy’s shin. Made me feel sorry for the guy, hard as that is to believe.

   “The hell are you doing Angel?!”

Now I can only imagine a boot to the shin, but what really must have hurt, was the manner that this man was speaking because this Angel guy was really shaking. He must have been cold…

   “Giving them water sir?” replied Angel

    “Look at how much water you are wasting, giving it to them! All that water could be going towards the growing of our lawns, the cultivation of food that you selfishly eat, each drop you waste is another drop you waste from my pocket!”

    “Sir, with all due respect, it’s only water.”

    “-Only water?”

   Dear reader, I wish you could have seen the look on their faces. Angel looked ready to soar towards the heavens at a Hail Mary attempt to escape. The absolute look of terror on his face was enough to drive me into a frenzy of excitement, as well as half the flock in there with me. The thing that really amped me up, was the look on Peter’s face. He looked like he was going to lay an egg! I’d like to think that Angel knew what was coming after that, because soon after his objection, he was on the floor with a broken beak. Blood oozed out of both nostrils, and I thought Peter was going to scold him for wasting even more fluid, but he had other plans. He said something under his breath, something along the lines of “Rats with wigs”, I couldn’t really hear him, but a brief image of rats with powdered wigs, signing a declaration of some kind came to mind. Anyway, I couldn’t make out what he said because he picked up the cage, and he threw it half way across the room.

   O a sight to see, All the Rats taking flight’

What so loudly we bail’d at our captor’s shrill screaming.

Whose broad beaks and bright wings, through the perilous flight

O’er the rafters we watch’d, we so stupidly were dreaming

And the slingshot’s death stare, the birds bursting in air,

Gave proof in its sight, that our cage was still there,

O say does that feathery rodent, yet slave

O’er the heads of the free, and the cage of the naïve!

 

 Colors were shooting out in ever given direction, and I didn’t know if my head was playing a trick on me or if it was actually happening, but the loveliest tune was happening all at once. I came to my senses sooner or later, but looking around decided against joining the others. Watching the others flying wildly about a cage—two feet in all directions, for years mind you— I came to familiarize myself with a caged bird. We were better off in the smaller cage! We were essentially in the larger cage of a certified lunatic. If anything, being liberated from one cage through the sheer emotional disequilibrium of a mad man, simply meant that we would need an even greater mad man to release us from this bigger cage we found ourselves in.

   Within the hour I was back in the cage. More than a few of us didn’t make it back into the cage, anyone that was too much trouble for the humans was taken out with a sling shot. After this I took to singing, in hopes that I would catch the eye of a decent human, one that would take my song to heart and take pity on me, or at the very least season me properly.

   It was a rather uneventful time that passed from the meeting I had with Peter, until I met another gentleman, whom I’d always assumed was called German. I can’t figure out why, but this man would speak German to the captives, despite the fact that we didn’t understand what he was saying. In fact the other men around him seemed to be as confused as I was.

    I saw him for the first time on an auction day. Through the cage, he eyed me in particular. I know this because his cold eyes would follow me as I moved about, and he’d do it with great interest too. But nothing came of his first visit, nor the second (other than the staring). The third visitation deferred immensely from all the others. The first thing that was different was that it was at night, I know this because I was asleep when they took me. The others were startled awake. They sang an opera of terror in real-time, all the while flinging their bodies left and right in a ballet of horror. Trying to process the situation, I struggled under the weight of someone’s hand pushing my body down. I felt something rip, I was so disoriented by the ordeal that it wasn’t until much later that I realized they had broken my arm.

   Dearest reader, it is at this point in time, my life took a rather dramatic turn as it was here that I was introduced a name, and a new friend. My name was promptly given to me the moment that I awoke, it was also at this moment that I was first introduced to the closest companion I’ve ever had. His real name is Sir Barrett Corvus, but our human affectionately calls him Cyd. Much like with Cyd, our human caretaker calls me Alice instead of Rose. He thinks he is so clever! Unfortunately for him, we breathe the same air. Our nicknames are homage to two popular humans that are both known for chasing white rabbits. Our human certainly seems like the type to go chasing white rabbits, after all he does talks to birds. I digress.

   As I was saying, I woke up to my new friend Cyd, which only ever seems to have one thing on his mind: His profession as a singer. He will go on for hours about his adventures and has the most inappropriate tales of his past; he’s falsely under the assumption that they will impress me.

   One thing that does worry me is our German caretaker. German seems to have learned English in the short time I’ve known him, I must be a good influence on him! He seems to prefer me over Cyd, but I’m not exactly sure why (He probably takes Cyd’s six o’clock serenades the wrong way). For whatever reason however, he keeps telling me all these bird puns, and to be honest they’re getting the best of me. This guy is probably as crazy, if not more than that Peter fellow. I must admit, I’m a bit confused. He feeds us well, a bit too well. I’ve gained weight! I mean I’m not complaining, but it would seem like a fat bird is worth more to him that a smaller one…

   Would you believe, that I had twins!? Don’t get the wrong idea, this happens from time to time, but the luck of having two at once! German seemed very pleased because after he saw the eggs, he took Cyd and an egg out for regular inspection. He was overjoyed. I think that he did the right thing, I’ve heard that at times of stress some people tend to eat their own young, so dividing the responsibility between two birds, is certainly better than one. I don’t know where he took Cyd, but I heard him not too long ago. There is also this delectable smell coming from German’s room, I don’t know what it is, all I know is that it is heavenly. Such smells should be not be smelt through the bars of a prison cell. Mmh, that smell, it certainly is to die for.