Bird Call (When Birds Make Art): Bird Generation, #2

By Leah J. Castle and Benjamin Westbrooke

A bird said: "They say impressions are just impressions, but Impressionist painters care a lot about the essence of things, so much that a colour is not what it is but how it exists."

The other bird said: "Perfection is a concept, so don't try to reach it; just assume that this thing you love will (always) be perfect. The concept destroys you while the belief maintains you."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leah J. Castle
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201159764

Leah J. Castle

You can always rebel yourself a little more.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Being used to writing does not mean that you’re used to the first page. For a reader, the first page is crucial. For a writer, it is always something that has no connection with the rest, because, in a writer’s point of view, nothing has started yet. If a beginning sounds totally hooked to the following pages, that means the writer has rewritten that section way too many times, so I’ll leave this as it is. The first one.

I’m a very humble narrator when it comes to introducing myself but I have no scruples in saying that a little bit of distortion is rather pleasant than harmful. Nobody is what they are on the first page, anyway.

For instance, if I tell you that you already know me from another story, that my name is Benjamin Westbrooke, that people often say that my eyes are silver but sometimes gold, that my skin is rather pale and my hair is persistently black and unruly, you may or not believe me. But I assure you this: weight is what I lack, and height is what I’m good at. The rest is questionable. An eye cannot be silver or gold! They have bright hues of grey and hints of hazel in the centre, and I often look excited with what happens in my mind, that’s all. When you have unruly curls, the colour and the shape of your hair have a life of its own, but I haven’t yet witnessed my hair less black. But you never know. As for my skin, it’s only pale when I’m not emotionally disturbed. It colours based on the intensity of a flatter. I don’t flatter myself much because there’s no room for that. I’m way too busy criticising myself or thoroughly distracted with the quality of people’s words.

Benjamin Westbrooke is a good name because I have just created it. It feels fresh. I’ll get back to my first name, eventually. You’ll notice.

Weird though it seems, when I was seventeen I narrated the second version of my life and was considering writing a third. I have had many reasons for doing so, and none of them is technically worth describing here, because I have exerted myself so much in my multiple realities that I can’t wait to jump to the next one. There’s a peculiar story in a peculiar book just lying about; it carries the burden of living parallel lives. I’ll take it easy on this one. Which isn’t an easy task. Three years have passed since then, and my hands are still fidgeting, my heart still believes it’ll jump out of my mouth, and here’s the end of the page. It’s a cute little notebook, I’ll probably finish it in five days.

Oof. First page is done. I feel good.

Time to exhibit my current life a little bit, exhaust myself from reality in a few pages, and focus on the novel in which Mr Lepid misses the train. You can never give your life too much importance when you’re a writer. I’m a runaway, so I need a proper activity to cope with the situation.

There’s a fellow peeking above my shoulder as I write. He always does that and he goes by the name of Leonard McArthur, but frankly, I prefer his real name. Lucca is cuter and quicker to scrabble. He hasn’t got a diary but if he ever had, he’d call me Bruce, not Benji.

There’s a myriad of adjectives swimming through the ocean of your mind when you’re talking about someone you adore, but Lucca has not yet looked away from my desk, so I need to be quick. I’m not good at staring at a person and scribbling at the same time. Lucca is the painter, not I.

The fervent description goes as it follows—

No, tell them I’m just your opposite, Lucca is saying.

That’s not quite true.

Bruce, my hair is brown, kind of pale, my eyes are deep brown, I’m not skinny, I’ve got the same height, I sleep and you don’t, I eat and you don’t, I can write but not so much, I laugh less but I’m less nervous, I’m not that lazy, I got rid of my tattoos, I don’t have my guitar anymore, I used to be the goalkeeper, my partner is a weirdo, he calls me shy but he’s the one blushing right now.

Lovely. But he’s lying. I’m not blushing, I just feel suddenly less cold.

We’re both angelic if you think about it. But we’re still runaways.

This is our thirtieth location. It’s something to be proud of considering that we have indeed meandered for weeks through clamped streets with no prospect of comfort since we have spent every penny on flying tickets and fake IDs. We have this imbecile discernment towards our dead parents’ fortunes, so that explains why we’re poor on mild levels, now.

Our apartment is shabby but not vulgar. The tang of oiled-acid is gone, for our eyes are no longer watering. The dust from the clattering ceiling has dwindled and we have finally fixed that bulgy yellowed lamp. My knee is healed but the floor is not. I opened a little crack at the dry wood when I fell off the ladder, and luckily Lucca has improved in first-aid skills. The walls have this peeling physique like thin layers of eggshells coloured with tarnished grey and brown past.

I can’t tell how old this place is. Which pleases me, for some reason. The kitchen has a dirty quality no matter how willingly we clean it, as well as a lovely tendency to smell something between fresh basil and baked potatoes no matter what we cook. The scent invades the room and weaves through the bedsheets and curtains and stays there for eternity despite the large window that swings open by itself. Rain pours in all the time and so the beauty it positively offers. If you see us perched by the window, don’t worry, we haven’t fallen, yet. Not that I remember.

Lucca has broken the door by accident so everything that goes on in the kitchen travels right into our bed, an old cranky one, so we sometimes share the couch. We have slept on the floor, too, but that was an inebriated occurrence that had happened only ten or twelve times if I’m not wrong.

Our apartment is littered with scrunched up papers, worn out pens, feathers we gently borrow from astray birds and use them as quills, blotches of ink here and there, paint brushes drying at the edge of the sink, napkins with many attempts to draw an entrancing chart for our next novel, a vinyl record tattooed with marker pen lyrics, Post-its with six children holding hands, a plastic bag with Samothrace wings painted in bronze, letters to our own old selves regarding the updates about the past we’ll probably forget, books with awful stories with a myriad of notes angrily scribbled by our petulant hands, books with wonderful quotes that deserved being surgically cut by a vegetable knife and plastered on the notebook splayed about the couch, spiralled agendas with obsessive digressions about the future of music and its comparison to vaccines, old Moleskines with oregano decorated at some page with a recipe we’ll never try since we don’t follow recipes, friendly leather at some corner just to add taupe hues of felicity to the picture, and many, many reasons to cross the room as if stepping on soft grass, because that’s what everything feels like: they’re our lawn. Our nature. The soil where ideas and stories grow. Watered by tears or sweat, harvested by abundant hunger or that sleepy three am inertia.

And where the crops go? It depends. If you’re referring to long essays, we keep them to ourselves. If you’re talking about sweet reveries that have turned into readable poems or delicate tales, then we arrange them in a tidy folder and meet a kind and old man. His name is Ceasar. He has a little printer and a passion for paper. He insists on doing it for free, but we insist on paying him back. He insists on not wearing his mask, so we insist on wearing ours.

At any rate, we sell these little publications at the bookstore I work at, and though most people would rather not leave their homes for such an undertaking, they do come very often just to check what’s new. There’s a small cookie can next to the pile of prints and last week we sold practically everything. Especially comics. They’re Lucca’s works because I’m a terrible illustrator and my ludicrous self is smaller than his. At the end of the day, I stealthily grab the can, separate Caesar's part, and go home. It’s very simple and I like to think I’m contributing to people’s happiness because they’re making me happy.

But here’s the sweetest thing:

If you’re referring to swift and abrupt strikes of words that are shot mid-room and that land in timid papers like a world of existence in a few syllables, then we take that very mighty paper to the streets. Literally. It’s a daring activity we found ourselves inclined to ever since the perimeters of our minds started corroding due to the insistent and cunning desire to make music. We miss it badly. We don’t have money to buy a decent guitar and I’m actually studying — hidden behind one specific aisle at the bookstore while people are having lunch — how to handcraft one. Lucca is utterly interested and every time I get home, he asks, So, what else have you found? I miss singing but I can’t. I’ve never been famous but people have heard my voice a few years back. Our band had some kind of respectable success among the school. Who knows who will eventually listen to me and— I don’t know.

That’s when the idea came. You don’t have to make a sound in order to do music.

Words. Words can be musical. So we grabbed all that jumble of incongruous quotes made at our worst hours and shared them across town. We left them on metro stations, bus stops, parks, stop signs, supermarkets, wherever we went. The feeling was oddly invigorating. So much we would often see replies to our notes, like I hope you’re wearing a mask...

A message is everywhere you like it to be. All it takes is the right courage and that brief moment when you escape from a guard or any stubborn traditional civilian that hates young folks on the brink of whatever urban crime. We’re not vandalising walls, we’re just glueing humble papers that will be sodden in the next minute due to rain. Give it a rest, people.

Chapter 2

D ude, it’s four, Lucca grumbled from the bed, eyes squinted at the incandescent bulb. A warm and humid air billowed through the open window, making the papers undulate if one looked at them twice. Bruce lifted his head from his diary, hair in a science-dishevelled state. Come sleep, Lucca beckoned with an aleatory lazy hand. His splayed half-naked body was sunken under a twisted frail blanket as if he had been stirring all night when in fact he hadn’t cared to straighten the sheets, in the first place.

Bruce grinned softly. Almost there, Lu. Just need to add about that strange letter invitation.

Lucca sat up slowly after a great torpid effort and dragged himself near the desk. Um, maybe you shouldn’t, he said pensively, leaden eyes carefully surfing through Bruce’s beautiful mess of papers. I mean, what if someone reads it?

Ah, what a lucky man that person will be, Bruce considered, the smile twisting the edge of his lip with a cunning satisfaction.

Lucca chuckled, snatched the diary, and rolled back to the bed. Aye, let me check what you say about me.

Oh, nothing much, just something that will give fluster to your cheeks if you’re not careful, Bruce jeered, climbing out of the shrieking chair and plopping over the mattress. Lucca hastily skimmed through the notes.

Man, you forgot the mention that we have travelled around the globe.

It brings out uncomfortable topics such as the fretful experience one has when fetching up in an aeroplane full of passengers coughing as if they were in a theatre.

They had masks, though.

And bronchitis, Lu.

Let’s change the subject, then.

I’ll get back to writing.

Really.

We have an important decision to make. Tomorrow. Invariably. I need to diarize this epic moment, Lu.

Fine, fine.

OUR DEAD PROFESSOR had once inquired about my essay, and I, driven by a distorted flash of inspiration, made my way through the Theory of Coincidence. I wasn’t being thoroughly serious about it but turns out coincidences are fond of persecuting you once you mention them out loud.

It was Saturday, surprisingly cold and bright. Lucca and I were celebrating the dainty event in which the sun makes amends with the clouds and lets itself show up above us. It was an endearing surprise to all the humans and especially to the chaffinches that live next to our window. Happy, we strolled to the park a few blocks from home. People often gape as we pass by and though it’s flattering, we do fear of being identified by a gruesome inspector, so we quickened our stride as usual. Our chesterfield coats have this billowing manner at the back, like haunting capes (at least according to the girl that lives next door; she’s pretty and incredibly gothic). I gently pulled the side-hem just to assuage the effect because it’s disrespectful to the sunny weather if you’re walking like a bat. Lucca did the same and we ended up snorting. People gaped again and I considered trying a high-five just to make them embarrassed.

Our favourite park has those types of rinceau-like fountain with blind naked damsels sculpted around the plinth, holding a bowel next to a fat angel that has lost its left wing at some point. The garden needed a kind haircut and brushing, but Nature fends for itself. There weren’t flowers, just branches thriving through their green genetics.

The park is as wide as all the other old blocks about, and since we live downtown, it is a miracle of urbanism. And a miracle is coincidence’s closest cousin. It depends on your mood. I was in a good mood, so a miracle happened.

I saw my name written on a white envelope just next to where I was seated.

What the hell?! I exclaimed, holding up the envelope and checking if the sunlight could give me a hand and read it out loud. To my utter surprise, Lucca was holding an identical one.

The hell... he murmured.

The sender: A.U.I.

The paper had a cream silky texture, a veil of brocade at the top, and a text probably written by God during his best days at work. The letter oozed disorienting magic; I had to read it more than twice while the sunlight blinded part of the metallic ink. Yes, it was in silver. Lucca’s letter was golden, as astonishing as mine. We spent long minutes frantically flinging questions to one another while some pigeons tilted their heads, so I’ll be brief and less emotional. I can’t waste so much ink on this matter.

A University. They wanted us. They knew we were the authors behind the altruistic urban writing. They were enamoured by our talents, and wanted us to join them in a special academic experience. Anonymously. With no costs. Secure and virus-free (this part was a little comical, I still laugh at it).

It’s really mainstream to stare blankly, get up, and say, You know what? I need some coffee, this must be bullshit., so after a few exhilarated reeling, Lucca and I spoke in unison:

Cool.

Naive people exist everywhere, including inside prudent men like us, so you can see why life has sometimes more downsides than perks. Five minutes later, we were running back to our apartment, caught in a fit of argument, coats flapping wild at our backs and people gaping at the youth racing in front of their eyes with all its conspicuous disgrace of urgency.

"What did they mean by special academic experience?" I kept repeating over and over, pacing back and forth in the kitchen while my coat tried to keep up with my shadow.

Probably a scholarship in some magical place? Lucca ventured, slouched against the wall. He had also forgotten to take his coat off and there was a beer in his hands and a cigarette in mine. Priorities.

What if you’re correct? That’s horrendous, I said, halting for a moment to drag the cigarette and cough harshly. My chest doesn’t hurt when my brain is racing, but since it was jammed, my stern nearly cracked.

If I’m correct, then that means we’re screwed, Lucca avowed before tilting the beer can and acting as if the matter was tragically solved.

Okay, this isn’t fiction, so let us presume that it’s all a big joke, I uttered, pulling off my coat and tossing it somewhere not so distant.

Or maybe they’ve found us. The police, I mean, Lucca said gravely, abandoning his brief serenity and looking at the floor with frozen eyes. Shit, they’re luring us into a trap.

He was totally right. It couldn’t be anything else.

Let’s pack, I said sharply, feeling the blood rising to flooding levels in my system. Let’s pack, I repeated, and we both rushed to gather all the meticulous disarray and stuff them inside three bags. A little chaos reigned.

We should carry a laptop, not notebooks, Lucca said, while the savage papers rustled their way into the bag by force.

Don’t be stupid, it isn’t much.

Our bags were deftly zipped and ready to depart when someone knocked on the door. It was Tina, the gothic chick. Her looks are terribly arresting, especially when you’re a little out of sorts, but that didn’t keep us from noticing the fat travel bag next to her legs. Guess what, she said with her hoarse whisper and that breath of salty chewing gum. Her heavy eyes were circled with purple darkness and the green iris looked twice their normal size. I’m going to school! she said with an odd cheerfulness.

Before we could share a glance and open our mouths, she conjured a neat envelope between her bitten fingers. My heart stopped. A.U.I.

"Just came here to say bye and that you guys are the cutest couple and I can’t take animals and stuff, at least I presume, so I’ll leave my sparrow to you, she said, matter-of-fact. Here’s the key, the buddy’s there— love you, take care, don’t hit on girls, they’re my business, okay," she said, turning on her heels like a socialite on her way to a cocktail party that required punk supplements.

She’s got a sparrow? Lucca said, astonished.

Seriously, man, I said exasperated, turning around and shutting the door behind me. Lucca and I sat on the couch for a while in silence. We concluded that we couldn’t leave a sparrow behind, so for the time being, we’d take care of it. Of course, that was awfully ridiculous, but you can’t argue with Lucca when it comes to animals.

No cops broke in and according to our excessively wide windows, there wasn’t a single man or woman dressed in detective trench coats and fishing out binoculars, so we could breathe normally for a while. Lucca was absorbed in the sparrow’s stout behaviour; it wouldn’t leave the room, for anything in this world; Lucca considered going outside with the bird and trying to talk it out of its hesitation; I prohibited him like a mother prohibits a son to lift a kite at the top of the skyscraper during a windstorm.

We don’t have cell phones before you ask. Quite an incoherent decision nowadays, but I’d hate to have my phone tracked. People in the past survived without these obnoxious devices. Considering our brutally odd situation, I don’t see why not experimenting it. We don’t have a telephone, though I’d love to twirl my fingers on the wire just to release the stress. It’s a shame, but the next day I had to endure the demoralising task of walking into Tina’s apartment to use the telephone. Laugh all you want. I’m just an old man in a young body. We ordered some digestible meals with no salad and prayed for the delivery boy to leave without getting struck by a suspicion that he might have just met two murderers.

On the course of four days, we checked the letters more than ten times as if the fancy paper would reveal more information, yet it seemed to be doing the very opposite: the beautiful handwriting was somehow sensible to artificial light, and that couldn’t sound more terrifying. You can’t just lose a piece of a mystery before solving it. The only line that seemed to be curiously intact said:

Leave an answer.

Imperative phrases make my neck itch. And Lucca was with me.

What if we don’t? he said, scrutinising the letter.

I’d like to write that and see what they reply, I said sarcastically, but Lucca took it as a perfect idea. He nodded slowly, eyes hard.

Cool, let’s do it, I can’t wait to see their—

I was kidding—

— let me grab a pen.

Lucca flipped the pen and reached for the paper as if casually about to sign some parental authorisation for extracurricular activities. I caught myself wondering how his son would be like when I remembered we’d have to adopt him or her. Reality snapped right at the middle of my face before I felt slightly self-conscious about my unknown potential to be a decent father devoid of insanities or extra criminal records. Lucca wrote down the mighty line with his athletic manner and folded it in three uneven parts. He held it to me and I refolded it carefully, trying to centre myself and pretend I wasn’t bothered by the fact that Lucca is sometimes so pragmatic that I feel like a Byzantine alien.

And that’s why I immediately volunteered to leave the letter at the park. It was a dumb but brave move, and sometimes men have to perform it once in a lifetime. So I crossed the park, coat billowing and all, and tried not to peer around like a panicked kid on his first day in the gang of robbers. After leaving the letter on the bench, I went back home with a graceful saunter, reciting improvised lyrics in my mind.

WE DIDN’T SLEEP THAT night and I assure you that both of us were longing for the same thing: the surreal phenomenon in which a stately paper alights by the window. I woke up yesterday morning to find Lucca taking his mask off and smearing his hands with alcohol gel, a look of flat triumph in his face while his feet shut the door behind.

Where’d you go? I asked, rubbing my eyes. Lucca didn’t answer, for he was weighing the risks of spraying alcohol on the envelope before reading the message.

Wanna open it? he asked dumbly after making up his mind, randomly spraying alcohol to — maybe — annihilate any curious virus hanging about. My paranoid months have severely influenced