The Owl

Tomas sat at his deceased brother’s desk, meticulously pouring over letters, ledgers,
and belongings. It was deep in the night, and the mourning man has chosen to wake till
morning, where the family had yet retired. It was dark, and parchments and knick knacks
before him were lit only by a dimming candle light; Tomas had to wipe his eyes again and
again so that his tears would not cause the ink to stain. These were, after all, the last
remembrances he had of his brother. Outside the wind whispered questions and the windows
shuttered to answer, these sounds Tomas blocked out. He was despairing the loss of love, he
was begrudging the disparity of life. It was horrible ceremonial, but he could not bring himself
to sleep, his compulsion was solely the read the words of his brother again and again. ​Hoo
came from outside, then again, ​Hoo.​ A perched owl just outside the window was speaking
with the wind, but Tomas paid him no heed. Instead, he read aloud a poem written by his
brother:
O dear, Blessed Moon:
Reflect me,
Reflect mine face,
So that on my bed,
at my time of death,
My loved might
rejoice
in my lost glory.
Tomas, who had made his living as a critic of literature and specifically poetry, might
have pointed out the careless stream of consciousness style of the poem, he might have
called it unrefined, but he did not. In this moment he believed by one thing of this poem: That
it was beautiful. ​Hoo,​ went the owl again perched outside the window, ​Hoo.​ This time Tomas
took notice, he heard the owl and scoffed, it was of no concern for his mind had grown to
greater sadness. The owl could not pull him from his remorse. He read on.
O dear, Blessed Moon:
Take mine face,
I give it,
freely.
Give it to another.
Give it to an-
Hoo,​ again the owl interrupted Tomas, and the man stood, frustrated. He stomped to
the window and threw it open, “Shoo! Shoo!” He swatted at the beast out of his reach, it was
sitting on a branch to far too grab, seemingly looking up at the moon. Had Tomas been of
sound mind he might have commented on the irony of the owl under the full moon, how it
seemed so beautiful on the day of his brother’s ceremony, he might have, but he did not,
“Shoo!” he continued. The owl, however, did not waver, rather, it turned its head, it turned to
look Tomas in the eye and the eyes that Tomas looked into were horrifying. For, it was on that
night, as Tomas looked out the window at the chimera before him, that he saw an owl with the
face of a man.
Tomas was sent reeling, he stepped back, his mournful bones shaking, yet before he
could speak the horror dived into the window, it knocked Tomas to the ground, and it came to
perch itself upon the desk of the deceased brother, its talons tearing the dreadful papers,
poems, and parchment. The faced owl, who looked not unlike Tomas’ brother, spoke. ​Shoo,
the perched owl yelped, ​Shoo!​ Tomas, who had lived his life of reason and logic in a field of
passions, was in a state of complete and utter babbling stupor, he was lost to the waves of
madness and it seemed he might die of fright. ​Shoo, ​the owl went on, hopping down to the
floor, stepped, with little clacks of talons, across the wooden boards and close to Tomas,
Shoo!
Tomas was utterly mortified, he could not, in his twisted state of lavishing pain and
fear, comprehend of the thing before him, walked toward him, ​talking ​to him, “Who… Who-”
He could not finish his question. He could not muster the strength of heart, his resolve had
been buried in the grave of his brother, “Who? Who!” The word echoed through his brain and
rattled its way out of his mouth, like a disgusting sound that feel simply to the floor. His mind
was absolutely and undeniably lost as he cooed, ​Hoo? Hoo?
Then, the owl, who was now standing monstrously between Tomas’ legs hopped again
onto his chest, digging its talons into the poor broken man, and it spoke, finally, and abruptly
in a truly Human voice, a voice grim and stone-strong, “You.” He said this simply, and Tomas’
exasperation reached its peak. His vision blurred, went dark, and he slept, and he dreamed of
two owls gently flitting from tree to tree under the moonlight, joyously hunting rats and sweet
little insects. He dreamed that he himself was one such owl, that he had grown large
illustrious feathers of white, speckled with a sinful black.
Tomas was then, at the climax of his blissful outing as a rather good owl, awoken to
the face of his wife, shaking him awake. As his mind cleared and he sat up he found himself
on the ground, the wooden old desk chair next to him, and concluded that at some point in the
night he had fallen asleep, and then fallen aground. Tomas had no recollection of the events
that led to his abrupt nap, and those flashes that did remain were brushed away as bits of his
now fading dream. All that day his wife, whom he loved very much and was greatly thankful,
doted over him. She was a good wife, a truly loving wife, and she would be so until his dying
day. When Tomas later returned to his brother’s room once more he found again the poem
that he had written, and read it aloud:
O dear, Blessed Moon:
Reflect me,
Reflect mine face,
So that on my bed,
at my time of death,
My loved might
rejoice
in my lost glory.

O dear, Blessed Moon:

Take mine face,
I give it,
freely.
Give it to another.
Give it to an owl
to watch over my
beloveds.
Tomas, who was once again of sound mind, did not particularly ​like ​the poem. He
​ e
found it too free, showing no notion of restraint or dignity​. This poem lacks refinement, h
thought. Still, it was written by his brother, and has he looked upon the parchment it was
written on he noted the gashes in the paper, as though a beast had clawed at it. He thought it
odd, though found the gashes, and not the poem itself, quite nostalgic. For this reason he
folded the parchment and found a place for it in his coat pocket. There it stayed, in all his coat
pockets, until his dying day.
Finally, many years after the night of his mourning, Tomas did the see the owl-man
again. It came to him, at night, as he laid in bed, as he laid sickly and tired and ready. It was
hid dying day, and he greeted the owl as an old friend, his mind totally lost of all fear for the
thing he had once considered so monstrous. He reached out and thumbed the face upon the
predator, and Tomas fell again to sleep, and in his sleep he dreamed again of two owls, twin
owls, both with odd faces, living only in the night, under the full moon. He dreamed of the
whispering winds on his feathers, and he dreamed of the questions he might ask the winds,
he dreamed of a new life eternally sprung from an old life of criticizing poetry, and carrying a
poem he did not like in his pocket. And, finally, as an owl, Tomas dreamed during the day of
his beautiful wife whom he had left behind, though he would not dream for too long, as so too
was her dying day approaching.
Hoo, w​ hispered an owl, ​Hoo, c​ ooed another, and ​Hoo,​ sung the final, sweetly.
The END.