My Imaginary Raven

By Mark Kemp

An ordinary man and a cheeky raven explore an everyday world of tacos, hot sauce, glowing orbs, and interdimensional cats. Serious shit simmers beneath the surface, but the team retains a sense of humor in the face of unreasonable demands. No ordinary novel, this is a logbook whose pages spilled loose from their binder and were tossed in an old box, confounding all who came to view it. This is the record of two extraordinary and honorable entities, written by those who lived it.  This is their story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Kemp
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393030911

Mark Kemp

Mark Kemp has been writing about popular music and culture for two decades. He has served as music editor of Rolling Stone and vice president of music editorial for MTV Networks. In 1997 he received a Grammy nomination for his liner notes to the CD Farewells & Fantasies, a retrospective of music by '60s protest singer Phil Ochs. Kemp lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he works as the entertainment editor at The Charlotte Observer.

Book preview

FORWARD

What follows is a collection of papers which were exhumed from the collapsed subsoil in the basement of a single-story suburban home, after they were found by an independent inspector who turned them over to officials in the City's codes and structures department, who in turn passed them on to officials in the State's historical records division, who then transferred them to this research assistant stationed in the sub-basement of the university museum.

The 8 ½ x 11 inch, single-sided papers, which appear to be pages from a journal or log book, were contained loosely in an old box previously used to transport 24 8-ounce bottles of Lucid Lava Ghost Pepper Salsa.  There is no guarantee the collection is complete, and it is strongly suspected that many pages are missing.  An attempt was made to arrange the pages in proper order, but accuracy was not possible, when no truly rational means of doing so was available due to the nature of the writings (which some may find disturbing.)  Entry numbers and titles have been added for the reader's convenience.

The papers are presented here with the intent of recording data and facilitating the propagation of knowledge, and with the hope they prove useful to someone, no matter how unusual their field of interest.  Nothing within these texts has been verified.  They stand on their own as faithful renditions of the original documents now housed in a secure facility.

––––––––

Martin J. Longwood

Research Assistant to Louis Boles

Museum of Additional Artifacts

Arthur Moray University

MY RAVEN DOESN'T EXIST

My raven doesn't exist.  He is my constant companion.

Cole was perched on my shoulder while I worked on the daily crossword.  Four letters: 27 Black bird. 

No, it's not 'COLE', it's 'CROW,  I said.  He shifted his weight.  Yes, I know you have a little problem with crows.  I wish you'd let go of that.  That's true, I haven't had them steal my peanuts.  He cawed in my ear and flew up to the ceiling fan.  The fan was not running, but when he's in a thrill-seeking mood, he will ride the vanes.

They wanted an answer by noon.  I'm not even up by noon.  Bastards.  Another cup of coffee and I would be ready to think of an answer.  Cole was worried, as was I.  These people didn't screw around.  When they got up in your business, you were likely to fall.

The truth was, I HAD seen it all.  I witnessed every terrifying moment of the event.  The police wanted that story.  And the other people with guns wanted me to lie.  The police knew I was there, knew that I saw it all, and were putting heavy pressure on me.  I refused to talk without a lawyer, and somehow, it was taking me a long time to find a lawyer.  If I cooperated with the other people, I might live—at least until I was no longer needed.  If I cooperated with the police, I'd live until they couldn't protect me.  Dilemma.  I hate dilemmas.

I am a finder of things, and a giver of things to people, often things that they need without knowing that they need them.  That is my work, among other assignments.  It is my raven that tells me what to give, and who to give it to.  He is a smart raven, which is saying a lot.

I heard a quiet knock at the front door.  Shit.

Two of them stepped in.  They both looked so ordinary, their faces neutral.  Guys you wouldn't even notice half the time.  To me they looked insubstantial, like they were only 90 percent there.  They addressed me by name and informed me that their boss would like an answer.  In my mind there really wasn't much of a choice.  I lied to them, and agreed to lie.  They nodded approvingly.  The taller of the two, who I just then noticed had a faint scar across his upper lip, reached out a hand to shake mine.

Cole misunderstood, I think, and flew at at his face in a flurry of wings, the man beating at him with his hands and screaming.  He dropped to his knees, holding his face.  Blood streamed through his fingers.

His companion pulled out a gun, trying to draw a bead on Cole.  I wouldn't do that, I suggested.  He looked at me with fear and suspicion.  Cole dropped to the man's head and raked his scalp.  The man ran to the door, my raven clinging to his head, and flung it open. 

Help me! screamed the first victim.  The man looked back at his compatriot, whose eyes were raw bleeding meat, hesitated one second, and ran.

I went to the door and called after him.  Wait!  You forgot something.  He stared at me in panic.  You are not going to leave that mess in my living room, you worthless piece of shit.  I could tell he didn't know what to do or what to believe.  Get in there and take your friend.  He needs help, you moron.

He darted inside, put his arm around the guy, and led him out to the waiting car, and they were gone.  I went inside and looked at the blood on the carpet.  I was not happy.  But then I remembered that my raven was not real, so the stains would not be real, and I went to the kitchen for an olive sandwich.  The bird would have a taco, as usual.

BIRD GONE

My raven went missing one day.  He's rarely out of my sight, so when he wasn't there when I got up, didn't watch me intently as I brushed my teeth, did not show up at breakfast, I knew something was wrong, or at the least, different and unexplained to me.

I went through my day feeling as if something was missing.  Of course, something WAS missing, and I knew what it was.  Who it was.  I bent down to pick up a quarter from the sidewalk, and there was no thrashing of wings as Cole swooped in and beat me to it.  Somewhere at home or nearby I'm sure he has a major cache of money.  Knowing him, it is separate from the other treasure troves.

I sat alone at lunch, picking at the reheated peanut stew.  He loves peanuts, and will even put up with the sweet potato in the stew, though he makes a fuss about it.  I imagined where he might be, or what he might be doing.  I didn't go to the dark possibilities.  I'm kind of a weenie that way, but whatever.  In my mind I saw him flirting with a young raven, entertaining it with an involved and raucous story, until it flew away unnerved.  Sometimes he talks to crows.  They find him annoying.  That's what he told me, but I suspect it goes beyond annoyance.  I have apologized to them on three occasions, when Cole went way too far.  They acted like they didn't understand me.  People nearby in the park seemed to question my words, as well.

Have I mentioned that my raven is imaginary?

From what I can estimate, Cole is a very old raven.  I don't have a grip on his exact age, but comments he has made seem to indicate he has personal knowledge of times gone by.  He does look great for his age.  His feathers are glistening black, and his eyes are as sharp as ever.  The tip of his beak curves ever so slightly to the left.  I doubt anyone but I would notice.  He professes ignorance, and suggests my human vision is to blame.

He can be a bit of an ass, but I would be lost without him.  That day, I really was lost without him.  I had taken a side path in the woods, just to see where it went.  It went nowhere, I found out, and I had no idea where nowhere was.  If Cole had been there, he would have flown to the treetops, ascertained our location, then berated me for a poor sense of direction.  But he would have led me out.

I stumbled upon two folks having a rest behind some bushes, who told me where to go (away) with great urgency.  I felt lucky that they did not steer me wrong.  I ended up on the main path and hurried out.

I kept searching the sky, but there was nary a raven to be seen, and hardly any other birds.  Why were there so few birds about?  I began worrying about something killing birds, but I put that out of mind and stopped for a pretzel with mustard.  It was dry and tough, but I should have known it would be. 

I filled a bag at the grocery with things we needed, like peanuts, tortillas, beef jerky, and three kinds of hot sauce.  You never know when someone will get hungry.

When I got home I stepped in the house, shut the door with my foot, and plopped the bag on the kitchen counter.  I saw a shadow on the table.  I looked up and saw Cole sitting on the ceiling fan.  He wasn't facing me.

So,  I said to him.

He looked down at me blankly.

Where were you?

Nowhere.

I expressed my disbelief.

But I'm imaginary, he said.  You have said that many times.  If I was imaginary, then I would be nowhere.

Except in my head.

I don't want to go there.  Too scary.

I made tacos.

I'M NOT A NEAT FREAK

I'm not a neat freak.  Not a slob, in my view, but not tidy.  Yet some things bother me.  For some reason, I have to keep the refrigerator clean, while the counters can be splashed with stains and spills, and the stove spattered with red, brown, and green. 

I don't vacuum the carpet every day.  Or every week.  Whatever.  But every time I do, there are little bits that the vacuum won't pull up.  No matter how many times you roll over it.  This time, I could take it no longer.  I got down on hands and knees, and plucked the bits free from the pile with my right hand, and collected them in my left.

I had worked my way halfway across the room, when I felt something in my cupped left hand.  Cole had added a short piece of pink yarn to my collection.  I wondered where the hell pink yarn had come from.  I didn't have anything pink, as far as I knew.  Cole continued to help me pluck up the debris.  He was better at it than me, but he took a lot of breaks.  He could be useful, but he didn't stress over it.  I heard the flapping of his wings, and he dropped down with a cup in his beak.  A container for the debris.  I thanked him, but knew he'd expect more reward than that.  My treats were rarely mine alone, except for cheese doodles.  He actually hissed at me when I offered him one.  Unfortunately, I will never know the story behind his aversion, but I'm certain it is not a matter of taste or health, as he eats pretty much anything else.

When we finished combing over the entire carpet, I stood back and admired our work, while Cole sat on my shoulder, rubbing against my ear.  He's a nice raven.  Except when he isn't.

A SWEET DAY

It was a sweet day, with the birds swooping from tree to tree while the honey bees hovered over the clover flowers in the grass at our feet.  In the pond beyond, ripples spread from the paddling ducks and melted into the shore.  Cole sat on the bench beside me sharing my tortilla chips.  Twice a ground squirrel darted up to snatch a wayward chip.  Cole squawked a bit, but he knew there was more in the bag, so he didn't expend energy pursuing the thief. 

There was really nothing of importance happening. 

I breathed in the air, and smelled the scent of the day, a bit flowery, a bit minty, a bit earthy, but with no distinct odor.  The breeze through the leaves made a whispering rustle that said everything and nothing.  Cole hopped up from behind me to my shoulder and lay his head against my own.  There was no more certain sign of a happy raven, and I wasn't feeling so bad myself. 

You might have called it a perfect day.  But who cares about perfection?

I reached back and stroked Cole's beak with one finger.  I don't know why, but he likes that more than on his head.  The feel of his beak was familiar and comfortable—the only time I feel it is when we are both very relaxed.

A single white cloud floated over us, trailing its shadow on the ground.  It didn't look like anything except a cloud, but that was fine, I love clouds.

What can I say?  It was a day when nothing happened.

LIFE WITH AN IMAGINARY RAVEN

Life with an imaginary raven is interesting.  I use that word with full recognition of its complexity and vagueness.

On Thursday I finished my work early and went out for a walk in the night air.  It seems to concern Cole when I go out at night, and he trails along to protect me.  At least, that is my favorite theory.  An alternate one is that he is hoping I'll stop somewhere for food.

There wasn't really that much open this time of night except for fast food.  Only the drive-through would be open.  What would they think if I walked up on two feet?  Would they ask, Does your raven want something?  Of course, they wouldn't.  He is imaginary.  But I didn't want food.

I didn't know what I wanted.

I let my legs lead me.  They aren't reliable guides, but they are at the least motivated to avoid dropping me down open holes.  Up ahead a street light flickered and buzzed.  Just as I passed under it, it went out.  I thought I heard a sigh.  I went on toward the next light, and the next after that.  Many of the houses looked very similar, though I expect in daylight I'd see that they were different colors, and some of the lawns would be brown. 

I had been getting a feeling of being nagged, by a certain bird, and I finally stopped and asked.

What already?

He flew across the street, so I gave in and followed him.  Or was it my legs that followed?  At any rate, we ended up on the other side of the street.  It became clear my raven was leading me somewhere.  I only hoped it wasn't something involving food.  He led me far enough that I felt lost, and then we turned the corner, and there it was.  A tiny little restaurant between two houses, its lights still on, and people inside.

I went in.  I knew Cole would want to come in, too.  As long as he went unnoticed, I didn't care.  He can be supernaturally stealthy.  It's a little creepy.

Two women in white were sitting at a table, quietly talking over a meal involving lettuce, while a waitress in black stood behind the short counter.  She eyed me blankly.  I went up and took a stool.  She handed me a menu and poured a glass of water.  I don't drink strange water.  I ordered a turkey sandwich on rye, with a pickle and slice of peach pie.  It was the only pie that was left.  The pickle was for Cole.  I know, I know, but what can I say?  That's Cole.

Does the bird want its own plate? I heard the waitress ask.  I shook my head and she went back to cleaning a coffee maker.  I looked over at Cole, who was picking at the pickle I'd laid out for him on a napkin.  He glanced at me with what seemed to be a wink, and went back to his pickle poking.

I felt like something was not right there, and finished up quickly, leaving behind a reasonable tip.  As I passed the two women, they looked up with knowing smiles.  I stepped outside and went around the corner.  I stood silent on the sidewalk in the dark.  Cole landed on my shoulder and pecked at my ear.  He only does that when he seriously wants my attention. He flew down the street and I followed, and we were soon home.

What was that all about? I asked him.  He flew to the top of the refrigerator and waited for beer.  He rarely drinks, and neither do I.  We shared a bottle.

HOUSETRAINED

A housetrained raven is a blessing to all.  Once you get used to having a nest of twigs and branches on top of the hutch, the rest is smooth sailing.  While he does zoom through the house, he has only crashed once.  He's really an ace flyer, just a bit of a showoff.  In December he adds ornaments and tinsel to his nest.  This year I am going to offer to add lights.  A visitor might think the nest was a holiday decoration, but I don't have guests.  With an imaginary raven, it could get awkward, you know?  It's not that I'm an introvert, I'm not.  I'm a hermit.  Sort of.  It's not like I have a hut.  Someday I'll build one in the backyard, when I get around to it.  Cole wants me to build a tower, or grow a tree, but I don't have the patience for a tree.  Have you ever watched them grow?  It is an underwhelming experience.  It's slower than baseball.  I do like trees, I just don't want to be responsible for one.  I'm not really responsible for Cole, he is his own bird.  I feel protective of him, but he is a friend and colleague, not a pet.  Nor a plant.  As I said, a housetrained raven is a blessing in so many ways.  I'm glad we don't need a litter box. 

––––––––

There sits a large raven named Cole,

Outside the house on a pole.

He watches for folks,

With daggers and cloaks,

With intention to pilfer our souls.

I CAUGHT HIM TYPING

I just caught him typing on my laptop!  I had no idea he could type.  Hunt and peck, sure, but still he's fast!  A person might wonder if he was an ordinary raven, or something else.  I know the truth.  Yes, yes, I know he's an imaginary raven, but I mean something other than an ordinary imaginary raven.  His knowledge in most subject matters is vast, and he's not afraid to show it.  I have to say, his spelling is good, too. 

Our Chinese meal should be delivered within the hour.  Cole likes to open the fortune cookies.  Up till now, I hadn't realized he was looking for the fortune inside.  I wonder what he gets out of them.  Other than the cookies, he likes kung pao chicken, especially the peppers.  Sometimes he dunks food in water before swallowing it.  At first he did it in my drink glass, until I caught on and provided a bowl of water.  Meal times are interesting in our interspecies household.

Cole has not yet mastered use of a fork, let alone chopsticks.  He may well yet learn the fork, but I'm afraid chopsticks will always be out of his reach.  Unless, I guess, he spread out on his back and used his feet.  Or hovered over the food.  I'm not going to bring this up with him.  He comes up with enough harebrained ideas without my suggestions.

I'm just now realizing the implications of this new development.  He and I can start emailing each other.  I am afraid.  I am very afraid.  I am really, seriously not sure I want to read his every thought, it's bad enough hearing many of them in my brain.  Curiosity will compel me, but regret may follow in its wake.

Oh, here's the food.  Perhaps Cole can review it.  That would be interesting.

PIMPLE

My raven has an abscess.  That's what he calls it.  It looks very small for an abscess.  More the size of a pimple, if you ask me.  He claims it is NOT a pimple.  Ravens do NOT get pimples.  (He used the caps in his email.)  He can't reach it with his beak, or he'd handle it himself.  Feet won't work for this.  So ... he wants me to help him.  To drain it. 

You want me to pop your pimple? I shouted.  I didn't mean to shout, I was just shocked.  I mean, he and I are close, but not that close.  I can hear someone asking (No, really—who the hell are you?), if he's an imaginary raven, why are you imagining him with a pimple?  For one thing, it is not a pimple.  For