Chronicles of Whacker

The Chronicles of Whacker

Chronicle One: The Beginning
Lost in a dream, Moses Carpenter sat on the park bench and mumbled expletives to the pigeons that dared to come close to the half-eaten sandwich lying next to him on the bench. Moses' dreams occupied most of his waking hours and a different kind of dream occupied most of his hours asleep. One very brave pigeon fluttered next to Moses and pinched a chunk of bread with its beak and flapped across the sidewalk and devoured the morsel in quick time.
The homeless man began to speak nonsensically, "You're a god-warrior Master Moses. You're the man they're wantin' to get. Jesus aint got nothin' on you god-warrior. Just supposin' they didn't, whataya think they could do? I'm here to tell ya, nothin'. Oops, now here comes that man-in-blue god-warrior, Joe Blow the clubman." He spotted the police officer making his regular rounds at the park. "Oh my, aint he lookin' like murder on the high seas. Say man-in-blue god-warrior how about you and I go get a mug o' brew. Sail away...pirate in blue...sail away."
"Hey, Moses man. How's it going there?" The cop held his nightstick like a pistol.
"Moses... Moses, can you hear me?" The officer had seen Moses in this condition many times. When the old drunken Vietnam vet was like this, it was usually time to call for EMTs from the mental health center.
"I hear you good ‘n fine, Joe. Good ‘n fine."
The pigeons had taken most of the sandwich. There was just a bite left.
"Moses? Have you been taking your meds?" The cop looked at him curiously. He had seen Moses like this many times over the years. A thought entered his head, what had Moses seen over the years. What had the crazy man seen? Had he seen his "mistakes" on the beat, a misplaced club here and a strong-arm in the wrong place there? What had the crazy man seen? Joe made a motion with his baton as if chasing cobwebs. He was indeed chasing cobwebs. He pulled his walkie-talkie out of its place on his belt and called for the "boys in white," another name for special attendants from the mental health acute care unit. Moses Carpenter called them "netters."

"Mr. Carpenter?" One of the netters asked. "We parked across the street." "Ready?" The fine lookin' woman netter asked.
"I'm ready for the judgment day. Cause I'm a god-warrior. I'm the Captain and I said duck your sorry asses in the trench. Duck! Please duck. Oh man, we're screwed. We're all screwed. I'm not dead. Oh man, I'm not dead. I'm the god-warrior." The workers carried Moses to the van. He didn't fight.
The policeman spoke to a pretty young lady watching the whole matter, "The poor bastard does nothin' but drink and talk to himself all day. Spends his pension on booze. Just a lazy bastard... I don't know, I guess I feel sorry for the old guy." The young lady smoked a cigarette and laughed when she saw the cop scratching himself with the head of his club.
One pigeon landed on the plastic sandwich bag and flew away with the last piece of crust. Soon the flock flapped their wings in unison and searched another part of the park for food.
"I'm crawling down the sinkhole. Mother Mary keep on plantin' them geraniums in your backyard and you're gonna have more snakes than you can shake a stick at. Not my time to go to heaven yet, my lovely goddess warrior, not my time. Here come the netters. They're gonna shower my ass. They're gonna wet me down like I was some kinda burnin' building. Incoming, you bastards, incoming! Duck! Thomson's head is gone. It's gone all the way to Brooklyn. I got this bursitis in my shoulder from throwin' grenades at the gooks. I've got to kill them snakes in my ears." The attendants gathered Moses up in a blanket, a technique they had been taught to keep themselves from injury. They headed for the center without sirens, without fanfare.

"Hey doc where you want Moses, third floor?" Everyone in E.R. knew the third floor, acute care for schizos and other freaks of Nature. "Doc?"
"Where do you think? Get his ass up there and clean him up." Doctor Jay took a second look at the man and hesitated, "take him in room 14. His breathing is pretty damn shallow and color's not good. We need to get to get an EKG on him."

"Janice, take Raphael and go over to Four Lights Mental Health Center, man's dead." The editor threw a fax on her desk and moaned, "My stomach's killing me. I've got to see a doctor."
"What's up with this...Moses...Carpenter guy?"
"Veteran.... Vietnam."
"There's lots of them, what's so...?"
The editor answered before she could finish, "Captain Carpenter...saw a lot of shells over there. Awarded Bronze Star." "Okay, you're the boss." "Janice." "Yeah?" "I served under him for a couple of months ‘til I got shipped back to stateside."
"Was he any good?"
"The best until he lost his mind."
The policeman walked up to the young girl and boldly put his stick between her legs. She lit another cigarette and moved closer to him, smiling like he was a long lost friend. "Fifty bucks." she said.
The policeman smiled at her then smashed her nose with his club. The girl fell like a rag. The park was nearly empty, except for the birds. Death was staring at her, smiling in the darkness of her mind. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no loving voice saying "Welcome to the Pearly Gates, Josey girl." There was only the silence that echoes when a metal slab is shoved back into its holding place at the morgue. Her ghost will only march through the vacant mind of the cop who killed her.
*****
Whacker was a white pigeon. The others called him an albino. Whacker just thought of himself as another pigeon His shit looked pretty similar to Bagger's and Rednest's, but Bagger said, "That's not how the pecking order works around here, Albino bird."
"I'm just a white pigeon," said Whacker. "I'm no different."
"You aint livin' around here. We all took a vote."
"A vote? You mean you, Rednest, Tarkinton, and the rest? You voted on where I should live?"
"We decided you should be livin' with the morning doves."
"I can't"
"You will."
"But...but I don't have a partner. Everyone knows that morning doves have partners. Besides, it aint fair."
"Fair is fair.... it's the pecking order." Bagger laughed at the look in Whacker's eyes. "Listen, little buddy, you're different than us. We're city birds. That clan of yours, Bagger was referring to Whacker and his two brothers, belongs somewhere else...like a barn." His laughter became more unbearable. Whacker didn't want to hear it. Bagger was a prejudice bastard just like the rest of them. Bagger's flock of misfits could go to hell in a birdhouse as far as he was concerned.
Whacker flew away, shunned and shamed. The world of pigeons saw him as an albino, maybe a morning dove, which of course he wasn't. His shit was no different, so he was no different either. Whacker wanted to fly himself into the side of a skyscraper; but he was better than that. He was a Whacker. Instead, he flew to his home on warehouse roof. Rogue, his oldest brother was munching a scrap of bread and Jonah, the youngest was pecking on Rogue's lice, a dessert fit for a king. "We have been kicked out of the city's bird club," He complained to his brothers. Jonah stopped his pecking and stared at Whacker.
"What does that mean, Whacker?" He asked innocently.
"It means we're getting the hell out of here." His comment brought Rogue out of his feeding frenzy.
"Where will we go?" He asked with a slight amount of curiosity. Rogue was up to any challenge. He welcomed them.

"To the country," He said flatly, "We will find friends. We will find the acceptance we deserve.

The policeman went home to his wife. She had sauerkraut and wieners prepared for him. "How was your day?" She asked without interest. The question was as automatic as a car's transmission.
Times were only times, not topics of conversation. The tunnel he lived in stayed dark. "I think the Bears are playin' the Falcons tonight." He said to no one. She had already mentally divorced him for the night. She was lost in a Sidney Sheldon book, searching for a love scene to turn her on, to help her forget the sparrow she had married. He reached down and felt the comfort of the black leather carrying case. He rubbed it, caressing his instrument of death, thinking the law was a curious thing, but loved its rigidity. The inflexibility of life was his religion. He prayed every night to this instrument of destruction, to the worlds of inflexibility, on his knees and on his wife.
Seven people were at Carpenter's graveside service, the priest, two diggers, and four soldiers. The sharp crack of rifle fire startled a flock of pigeons. They fluttered overhead, leaving a splotch on his coffin. Captain Carpenter was a white feather, a Whacker among sparrows, but like most Whackers, the better part of him lay smashed against the giants of this world.

Morsel's Obloquy
Chronicle Two
As freighters go, the three o'clock west bound from Gary to Chicago was of average size, one engineer and a fireman. Harry Baludi had one foot on the dead man pedal and the other one tapping in time to Ricky Scaggs. The fireman, Jake Jessel, was out checking hose connections. It was two fifty nine. Jake gave him the sign and Harry got the big diesel rolling. A flock of gray pigeons gorging on a pile of spilled corn took flight just as the black diesel seemingly came within inches of their buffet area. One spotted bird lingered longer than the others as if playing some kind of dare. Jake noticed the bird didn't fly when the locomotive carriage was about to squash him. Instead, the strange bird simply stepped off the track and scrambled into a briar bush. Jake smiled to himself and scratched his unshaved face, strange bird...strange indeed.
The train was light tonight, pulling a string of empty cars. One empty boxcar wasn't empty. Clarence Whiteman, Chicago bound, was riding first-class in a rickety boxcar, but the price was right. The accommodations on this trip were above average. There was a bale of straw and an old newspaper. He would sit on the straw, and the newspaper.... well, he might need that for some hygiene tasks later on.
The trip to Chicago would take about two hours, maybe a little less. Clarence didn't care time held no consequences for him. He set the bale of straw next to the outer wall of the boxcar, sat down on it, and braced himself for the trip. Clarence was tired and his eyes kept closing like mini-blinds. Finally, the blinds stayed down and sleep curled its way into the old man's mind.
The young boy looked up at his father admiringly, "Daddy, why do ya have to cut the chicken‘s head off" His father looked down at Clarence and said, "So they don' t see how they're dyin'." His laughter echoed through the canyons of the old man ‘s sleeping world "Here, let me show you again." Clarence ‘s father went into the chicken house and grabbed another old gray rooster by its legs, brought it in and sat down next to the boy, "Here, you do it." The boy jumped back partly because of disgust, but mostly because of fear. "No, daddy, no ... I can't." The old man laughed again, "Here, grab its neck like this." He made the boy grabbed the flopping chicken "You take the knife, gotta be a sharp one mind ya, and sweep it across the neck just like this." He made the boy hold the knife while he put his big, rough callused hands over the boy ‘s and together they sliced the rooster's throat. The chicken took off runnin' through the chicken yard. Clarence threw up his breakfast; the old man laughed even harder.
Clarence woke up startled. He had had this dream before, many times. His father had taught him how to kill a chicken. The army had taught him how to kill Asian children and time had taught him how to kill his life. He felt the boxcar jerk. The train was slowing down, reaching the outskirts of the Chicago train yards. He'd been here and knew exactly when to jump. The train was moving just a little too fast. He smiled. It was all in the timing.
Clarence was stooped next to the open doors of the boxcar, peeking out to see the blur of clapboard houses adjacent to the tracks. As soon as the train slowed down, he would jump. The sun was beginning to lower itself into the horizon. The shadows being cast by the string of boxcars were lengthening. Soon the train slowed to a crawl. Clarence put his arms through the backpack and cautiously lowered himself off the train. He screeched when he landed on his bad ankle. No one was around. Usually Clarence would see other bums doin' the same as him, but not tonight. Chicago was cold. He needed to find a place to sleep for the night.
On his way out of the railroad yards he spotted an old abandoned car, 1962 Dart. He had driven one when he was a kid. The Dart had been wrecked, burned, and smashed. The sun had dropped from the sky. The car looked like a Motel 6 to the old man. Clarence got out his weak flashlight and shined it into the front window of the car. There was enough room for him to squeeze in and cover up with his blanket. He was dead tired. He lit the last half of his cigar and drew deeply. He needed sleep. Clarence butted out the cigar and stuck the last little bit in his tweed coat pocket. He laid down on the burned out front seat and balanced his head on his backpack. Sleep found him quickly.
In the back seat of the Dart, in the cold darkness, there lay a monster. As Clarence slept, the monster smiled its gruesome smile, fiendish thoughts rolling like marbles across its mind. It reached its hideous claws around the broken seat and tiptoed them across the bearded face of the bum, causing the old man to swipe at his face as if bothered by a fly. The monster chuckled to itself and whispered to the sleeping man. "Clarence, your time in hell is over. It's time to go." The rat-like creature was the keeper of the old abandoned salvage yard, a harbor for lost souls and faceless refugees.
He pulled his ghostly claw back to strike the old man, but suddenly a silver butcher knife came swiftly, sparkling in the moonlight, and with one swift motion Clarence sliced the monsters head off, "There, now you can't see how you're dyin'." He laughed a jackal's laugh, "My gruesome friend, these cold nights in Chicago can make an old man mighty hungry."
His laughter bounced off the metal walls of the old Dodge Dart and lost itself in the rumble of the freight trains going west non-stop. "Daddy would be so proud of me." From somewhere he smelled the faint odor of a chicken house.
More than anything in the world Morsel wanted to be accepted by his peers. His trick of scrambling out of harm's way of the dark monster had briefly entertained his mates, but their attention had faded quickly. The puncture wound in his side didn't help matters any. The smattering of blood slipping through his flank feathers was beginning to dry. Thankfully the briar had only entered him superficially.
Morsel moved cautiously to the crowd of birds gathered again around the railroad tracks. They had resumed their feeding frenzy on the corn overflow. One of the bigger birds looked up from his feeding and looked at Morsel, "What? You think your tricks have earned you a reward?" The others laughed. "You think your grandfather, Whacker, would find your escapades acceptable?" Morsel flinched at his grandfather's name. He would not look at Baiter, the large bird speaking to him. "So? What have you to say?" Morsel turned and fluttered away painfully without answering Baiter. He didn't need to, his answer was found in his silence. Where would he go? How could he find power in his being? His peers had all been brave, proving their worth to the Elders. They had been brave in fleeing their predators, escaping danger in so many ways. They had been brave in searching out food, protecting their friends and loved ones. But, Morsel had done nothing. His shame was a weight so powerful that it seemed to interfere with his every movement. Even his flying abilities seemed cumbersome and hindered by his shame. How can that be? The mind and wings are separate instruments, weren't they? He flew slowly across the train yard never looking back. He could see the black monster on wheels far ahead of him, heat waves ominously rising off its huge glistening body Morsel needed to find his proof of bravery, but how?
Morsel's wings were weakening and he needed to rest, his gullet telling him he was hungry. For some reason the monster attracted him, beckoned him. He found a large gnarled tree limb on which to land. "Don't follow it, lad." The deep, strange voice came from above him. Morsel, startled, fluttered his wings nervously. "The monster offers only misery to those who follow it." He looked up toward the voice. Hidden carefully in the crotch of two large branches was a large creature with eyes black like the berries Morsel would occasionally take pleasure in eating during the warm season. He spoke to the creature, "What business is it of yours?"
"Tis no business of mine...merely stating a belief." The creature's head was large, round, and imposing. His eyes seemed to become larger each time he spoke. "I'm sorry, I have been rude. I am Escariot. This is my home. Welcome."
"Morsel, and I have no home."
"What, no home? How can that be? Everyone has a home." The owl turned his head around and around causing Morsel to feel dizzy, but also making him laugh. Escariot looked perplexed. "You laugh. May I ask what is so funny?"
"The way you turn your head. You look like some kind of human toy spinning and spinning."
"Hmm, we owls do that you know. We can see many things."
"What kinds of things?"
"Well, Morsel, here's what I see." Escariot's eyes seemed to become saucer- sized. "I see." He hesitated and spun his head. "I see the rope of time skipping logical thoughts." Morsel was confused. What was this huge, strange creature trying to tell him? Escariot read his mind. "You are confused young one?" He stared at the young
pigeon waiting for a response.
"Yes, yes, I guess I am confused. What thoughts? What logical...?"
"What I am saying young one is that you are just that...young." The owl shat a large wet chunk of dung that fell silently to the ground below. "You see my friend." Morsel for some reason felt honored by the endearment. "You are young and you seek, me thinks, dangerous solutions to simple problems." The young bird stared with ignorance. "You are blinded by my words."
"Well...I guess..." Morsel's train of thinking faded and bounced back, but he was more confused than ever. "I guess maybe you're right." He looked at the large creature and suddenly felt extremely small. "You are right. I am confused by what you say. Timidly, he asked Escariot, "Can you clear my confusion?"
Escariot cleared his throat with insincere bravado, "Of course, of course." He spun his head around sharply causing Morsel to flutter his wings. "You my little friend are going about life in a backward motion. Your bravery does not lie in trickery and deception. Bravery lies in the flutter of your heart and the sincerity of your soul."
Morsel looked more confused. "I...I don't understand."
"Of course you do. You are trying very hard not to understand. Run my little friend. Run with the wind. Follow the breeze of your mind. Follow..." Escariot stopped and said no more. He seemed to Morsel to be going into some kind of trance. The small pigeon watched as Escariot closed his huge eyes. The old bird had fallen asleep, but his words continued to echo in Morsel's head, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a rubber ball.
Clarence looked up at the Sears Tower. Its enormity never ceased to amaze him. He had made the journey to Chicago many times. Clarence Whiteman was a businessman of sorts. His name was on a list, a very short list. He would get a letter in his box at the Gary downtown post office. The letter always had a hundred-dollar bill in it, and a name. With the name, came an address. He was heading for that address and the awaiting brown paper package. Clarence would give them a "special" word and the package would be handed to him with a disgusted grunt from the giver. He didn't give a shit. It was an easy century-note and when he took the package back to Gary, another century- note waited for him. Clarence enjoyed his job, if a job is what it could be termed.
This time the address and name belonged to a storekeeper just off Lake Drive. A short squatty fellow with a half-eaten cigar between his teeth greeted and discharged him with the usual grunt of disgust. Clarence smiled at the man, but received only silent revulsion in return. He didn't stop smiling as he back-stepped out of the pawnshop. He wanted to kill the idiot, but he thought about the C-note waiting for him in Gary. He clenched his teeth and walked south towards the busy train yards. "Fat bastard." He thought to himself. "Should've killed the sonofabitch."
The bum walked quickly along the side streets paralleling Lake Shore Drive, whistling with each step. Clarence felt good. The sun began its slow slide to the afternoon. He began to fill hungry. His rather luxurious meal the night before in the old abandoned car was losing its grip on his stomach. He chuckled loudly, so loudly a young black boy in a denim jacket looked at him strangely, but looked away quickly when the bum smiled at him. People often did that to Clarence. They looked away from him as though he carried the face of a leper. He didn't, though. He thought his face to be quite handsome, though slightly pocked. He chuckled again. This time no one was around to hear.
Morsel fluttered off the branch quite confident his conversation with Escariot had been finished. He followed the black monster freight train not understanding why, only knowing that he must. He was driven by the old owl's words, "follow the breeze of your mind." For some reason his mind wanted the train, needed the train. He felt a duality of emotions, excitement and fear. Morsel felt absolutely driven by the excitement, but a sense of dread filled him with a feeling of restlessness, an inexplicable apprehension. The closer he drew to the train the more nervous and edgy he became. When he finally came to rest on the last giant metal car he had been overwhelmed with a sense of doom. Morsel's heart raced, but he held as tightly to the metal ledge of the grain car as he had held to Escariot's words, "the monster offers only misery to those who follow it." So why did he feel compelled to follow it? Why? The only answer to the young bird's question came from the hot breeze blowing from the monster itself, hot like the heat of hell.
The train snaked its way toward Chicago, rattling and crunching in the brisk air. Morsel was curled within himself trying to rest. He was exhausted from flying and he was famished. The grain car was empty, but Morsel thought he eyed a few pieces of corn at the bottom of the cavernous metal monster. He had never been this close to such a cold and scary object, but his hunger made him necessarily bold. He cautiously fluttered to the bottom of the deep cavern. Indeed, there was food, plenty. Morsel was pleasantly surprised to find there was less of a breeze in the bowels of this featureless creature. He was able to maneuver much easier on this surface. He soon found himself dozing off into a black, dreamless sleep.
Sounds of screeching metal startled Morsel. He flew quickly to the ledge of the grain car. What he saw was even more startling. Rising high above the darkened and blistered sky were concrete mountains. Human built, he knew. These huge mountains were built similarly to buildings of the small town he had lived around his entire life, but these...these were mammoth, monolithic monsters. Morsel shuddered. Never before had his smallness been so apparent. He felt like a speck of dust in a windstorm.
The rumbling of the train became a muffle compared to the great roar of the flying beasts swooping into the air. Morsel had seen such beasts far above him in the clouds back when he would perch on a windowsill in the small town he had known as home. He had never seen these huge creatures close up. His heart felt as though it would pound its way out of his breast. Suddenly a thought struck Morsel, a thought that seemed to creep its way through his bowels and into his mind; he was terrified. He was inordinately afraid. Panic struck him like lightening on a tree. The dreaded truth seeped uneasily through his soul; he was alone.
The train rattled to a stop, jerking Morsel off his perch atop the grain car. He fluttered to an old abandoned car nearby. He perched on the lip of a gaping hole, wound-like, in the side of the tangled metal that once rolled easily down the narrow streets of Chicago. Morsel carried no practical perception of metal vehicles. He possessed no effective understanding of the human world. He had, of course, seen many metal vehicles on large wheels rolling down pathways made of black rock, pathways hot and steamy in the summer and slippery as ice in the winter.
He turned his head and looked into the charred vehicle. What he saw sent a shockwave through him. Morsel trembled and managed a strangled shriek. There lying on the remnants of a front seat was a corpse of something Morsel had never seen before. The ripped remains of a strange looking beast. It was not the remains of a human. Morsel had seen many humans and none of them looked like this...this strange creature. This beast, yes beast was the only word Morsel could think to describe it, was covered with hair...and blood. Its head was missing. A gaping gash filled with dangling entrails covered with bloated flies and dreadful hornets seeking the sweet smell of death.
Morsel stood still staring at the strange corpse. He couldn't move, mesmerized by the scene. His trance was disrupted by the sound of a human. "Get the hell away from there, you filthy piece of shit bird!" The voice was gruff and angry. Morsel took flight.
Clarence laughed at the stupid pigeon as he stopped by the side of the old burned-out wreck. Inside, he saw leftovers from his little midnight snack, looked like plenty of grub to last him until he got back to Gary. He climbed gingerly through the open window and sat hungrily beside the corpse. His freighter should be pulling in, in about two hours. That gave him enough time to grab a bite to eat and take a short nap. He smiled to himself. The thought made him giddy.
Morsel watched the strange brusque man from a nearby perch. He watched as the man began chewing on the gaping, fly-ridden wound on the body. Morsel made no judgment. Humans didn't interest him ordinarily. He was unaware of their eating habits, but this peculiar man for some reason captured his attention. Morsel felt uneasiness about the man. If he understood the idea of evilness, he would have known quite well what he felt. But, Morsel did not know evilness. It was an unfamiliar tract of thought for him. Nevertheless, he watched the man, but his hunger was getting the best of him. Morsel fluttered to a nearby pile of grain and joined a group of other pigeons feeding on a readily available meal
Having feasted again, Clarence shut his eyes and fell deep into a cavernous sleep, black and cold. The sad sound of funeral hymns pressed heavily on the young boy's heart. He sat on the cold metal folding chair, fidgeting each time he heard his mother cry. There in front of him was his father's corpse, pasty and stiff. The body was in a freshly cut wooden box. The organist began to play ambient undistinguishable sounds. Soon the music began to sound like soft moaning, soon soft cooing. The young Clarence looked at his father's homemade casket and saw a pigeon perched on the dead man's head and shitting, shitting on the rotted eye sockets of his father. The pigeon laughed, laughed his father's laugh. "Fuck you, Clarence. Your day is close at hand." Clarence was startled from his dream by a banging sound. His trained had arrived. He stiffly climbed out of the window and staggered to his feet. Not as fucking young as I used to be. He walked swiftly to the third track across from the old wreck, southbound track. He scanned the train and saw what he needed, an empty boxcar. Perfect! Clarence climbed with difficulty into the car. He didn't notice the grain car behind the boxcar. He didn't notice the gray bird perched precariously on the ledge of the grain car. He didn't notice the look of fear in the bird's eyes.

Time came to a halt for Morsel. This moment seemed to last for a long, long time, but of course it didn't. In fact, it was a matter of moments when the human saw the monster car and jumped into it. Morsel's breath caught and his heart jumped; he was afraid he had been spotted. He had come to think of the man as the "mean one." Morsel thought the man looked mean, dangerous, and unpredictable. And for a reason yet understood, he felt he must follow him, follow him and...destroy him. The thought made him sick. Where did the thought come from? How could he, a pigeon, destroy a human, a beast such as this one?
Morsel continued to watch the car in which the man sheltered himself. The monster ride, like the one to this strange place, was jerky and noisy. Morsel's huge grain car was swaying from side to side, keeping him off balance constantly. He finally made himself leave the perch. He fluttered atop the car in which the "mean one" hid. Because he was so anxious, Morsel shat in three places as he padded across the top of the boxcar. He jumped when he heard the voice. "What is it you want little bird?" Morsel dropped another runny pile of feces at the sound of the "mean one's" voice. "Hmm...I see you're a shit-bird, hey?" The man cackled like a crazed yard bird. Morsel walked quickly to the rear ledge of the boxcar. How had the man been able to see him? Had he been able to see him? Maybe he heard him? No, no...impossible. Morsel's tiny feet could not have made a noise. As though reading his mind, the man shouted. "I felt you...uh, Morsel isn't it? I felt you on my chicken house." The crazed cackling began again. Morsel fluttered across the gap between the rail cars and landed precariously back on the grain car. He was terrified. This man knew his name. This "mean one" knew his presence, knew his mission.
Morsel didn't remember when he fell asleep. He actually worried himself to sleep. He awoke with a jerk and a resounding rattle. The iron monster had stopped. Morsel looked around and recognized his surroundings. This was his territory. He was glad to be back, forgetting briefly the terror waiting in the old boxcar. He flew to a nearby pole and watched the boxcar door closely. The sun was edging closer to the horizon, elongating shadows as it sank slowly out of sight. Soon, the boxcar door moved slightly. Now in the shadows, the man lowered himself to the ground silently. Morsel watched as the "mean one" slipped into a small copse of trees near the railroad tracks.
"Hey Morsel!" Morsel whipped his neck around at the voice. "Hey! It's me, Mason. Where you been my friend?" Mason was one of, maybe the only one of, his friends. He was a speckled dove. At least, that's how Mason preferred to describe himself. He was a progeny of the Whacker line much like Morsel. Morsel, however, was not white. To the contrary, he was very gray, almost charcoal. "Hey, is your beak frozen shut?"
"Shhh...quiet! I'm watching."
"Watching? What, the stars?"
Indignantly, Morsel snapped, "Over there..." He moved his head toward the small wooded area the mean one had slipped into, "in those trees."
"I don't see anything." Mason was perplexed.
"Take my word for it. There's a mean one hiding in there and I, my friend, must destroy him."
"Sure, sure, and I'm Whacker the Great." Mason gave a cynical snicker. "What's your plan O Mighty One?" He chuckled and shat a large glob of dung on the pole.
"Mason, what are you doing? Stop shitting on our post. This isn't your toileting ground, you know. Our code of ethics..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know about the code of ethics. Never shit where you can slip." Mason again chuckled; he was proud of his humor. His humor was lost, however, on Morsel. Morsel was eyeing the wooded area below, too busy watching to care about Mason's cleverness.
"Come here little birdie. Come to Clarence. I'm so hungry, my little Morsel. It is Morsel isn't it? Yes, yes.... Why yes it is. Yes sir, yes sir, two bags full." Clarence stared up at the post. The dark pigeon could barely be seen in the blackness of night. There was another bird with him. "Yum, yum." He thought to himself. The little bird was following him. How strange. How very strange.
Morsel fell asleep. Mason had long since left to his favorite perch in an old abandoned refrigerator along the railroad tracks, but Morsel stayed at his post ever vigilant of the evilness occupying the darkened woods. But, even the staying power of fear can be shortened by exhaustion. Morsel slept deeply and dreamlessly. He never noticed the strange man standing at the foot of the lamppost looking up at him with a cynical smile on his face. Clarence's eyes were like dark holes, endless and empty.
Clarence, however, was too busy to bother with the little bird. He had bigger and better things to do. He was hungry and was sure the blackness of this night would get hold of a meal for him, perhaps a drunk, a bag lady, a crazy homeless one, or maybe a delicious surprise. His stomach ached for nourishment. Clarence bizarrely blew a kiss to the sleeping Morsel and trotted briskly off toward the small town snuggled innocently next to the silent Norfolk and Western line, a small town with no name. Morsel slept on and the night became a hunter's dream, the killer and his foe would soon meet without introduction, without fanfare and the tingling of brass.
Clarence stood outside the rundown old clapboard house. He stood patiently, but he shivered with anticipation when he saw the single light in the bedroom go dark. He moved swiftly and deadly toward the window, diving head first through the glass. The old woman had no time to scream. She died instantly when his teeth sunk deeply into her neck. No one heard a sound. The no-name town was asleep at three in the morning, and those creatures awake and stirring shrank into their hiding places choked with fear.
Clarence was a creature, a man in form only. He was an anomaly, a glitch in the chain of command, a genetic fuck-up. How did it happen, his crazy ass father, his crazy ass mother? He didn't give a shit. He was a killer and he liked it. Yep, he just loved the shit out of killing. Clarence pondered what he liked best about it as he passed silently beneath the light pole and the small, brave bird perched on top of it. Maybe it was the sheer pleasure of eating the brain, such a delightfully musky smell...no, maybe it was more mushroom-like. Regardless, it was pleasurable feasting.

Morsel woke up to the thunderous roar of a metal beast grinding its way south. His first thoughts were of the man-monster. Was he riding on the black beast? Morsel looked down. His question was answered. There, looking out of a door, looking up at him, was the monster smiling with an evilness that made Morsel gasp. His heart told him to follow the hideous man. His mind told him to kill him. He would. He knew that he would.
Morsel was hungry, but postponed the urge. He flew straight to another empty grain car. Fortunately, there were some pieces of corn wedged into spillway of the car. He ate voraciously until his eyes felt as heavy as all of the corn in his gullet. Morsel fell asleep satiated and mesmerized by the loud vibration in the metal of he was perched upon.
Suddenly, Morsel felt a suffocating grip. He couldn't move. He was being held and squeezed. Morsel had lost his breath. He was dying without notification. Somebody, Morsel had no time to think of who it could be, forgot to tell him that life ended like this. Abruptly, the grip loosened. Morsel breathed. He looked up and saw the man-monster.
It spoke, "Well, little one, you're going the wrong way on my train." The monster laughed hideously, showing pointed and stained teeth with bits of half-eaten flesh stuck between the yellowed bones and gum. "Yes, indeed, you are on the wrong train and going the wrong way." The creature cupped Morsel in his hand. The small pigeon instinctively did not struggle. Struggling at this moment would serve no good. It would surely bring only a swifter death for Morsel. "Hmm, you're not talking." The cackling laughter came again. "I think you are following me, my friend, but why?" The man loosened his grip. Morsel managed to flutter to the floor of the grain car.
He could not comprehend the language of humans. Morsel understood only tones, and this hideous creature did not speak good tones. He was angry, wicked, and cynical. Those tones screamed at the bird. They screamed of murder and insanity. Morsel felt imprisoned. He felt a choking sensation. He was in trouble. The man-creature came towards him swiftly; his hands moved quickly in the direction of Morsel's throat. The small bird fluttered quickly out of reach, but the man kept coming. This time Morsel was able to fly towards the top of the car. He felt a breeze of movement created by the man, but he had escaped.
He perched on the edge of the grain car. He looked down at the creature. The man was screaming more evil tones.
"You little imp. You bastard! What is it you want you fuckin' piece of shit?" Clarence reached into his coat pocket and felt the cold metal of his Rugar 357 Automatic. He felt the gun. It comforted him. He looked up at the pigeon. "I should shoot your feathered ass, but it would be a waste of my time." He reached down and picked up a hand full of grain and threw it at the bird causing it to fly. "I should've just shot your ass," Clarence repeated as he watched the bird fly away from the train. He repeated almost as an afterthought, "Would've been a waste of a good bullet." The roar of the train drowned out his words. Clarence's feelings were drowned by the comfort of the cold metal gun positioned securely in his tattered coat pocket.
Morsel landed on a thin branch of a tree near the railroad tracks; he was winded and tired, and terrified.
"Well, if it isn't my old friend...Morsel, right?" The familiar voice startled Morsel. He looked up from his precarious perch; it was Escariot the wise owl.
"Uh, uh, that's right. What are you doing here?"
"Mostly shitting and sleeping. I occasionally find a delectable rodent to munch on."
"But, this is quite far from where we first met."
"Hmm, you think owls don't travel?"
"Well..."
"Enough of the chit chat. The question to be asked is what are you doing here?"
"I...I was on the train and...and..."
"You have been following the monster?" The question shocked Morsel. How had he known? Did he know about the man-creature? "You're wanting to know how I know. I can read your look young Morsel. Let me tell you how I know...Clarence." "Clarence?" "Strange name, eh? Humans have strange names. Clarence is a strange
name and he is a strangely monstrous man. When I said I knew Clarence I didn't really mean ‘knew' in a personal sense. I should have said that I know of him. No, that's not right either. I have seen him on a number of occasions. I have seen him burying others."
"Burying? You mean other humans?"
"Yes, dead humans with...with heads missing."
Morsel thought for a moment, his eyes widened. "He eats them."
"Huh?"
"He eats his victims. He kills them and then eats them." Morsel was
stunned by his spoken words. He fluttered off his thin perch and winged his way to a branch above Escariot as though he was fleeing from his accusation. "Well, little one, humans do eat flesh you know. In fact," he smiled at Morsel tauntingly, "It's my understanding they love the tenderness of squab." Morsel didn't give attention to Escariot's cynicism, "But they don't eat each other. It's a taboo of sorts. It's a law among humans." Escariot closed his eyes and smiled, "So, dear Morsel, you have become a social thinker?"
Again, Morsel ignored the owl. He spoke resolutely, "I must destroy him.
He is evil and I have chosen this as my crusade, my purpose."
Escariot laughed uncontrollably. He nearly laughed himself off the sturdy branch on which he perched. "Well, well." The laughter continued. "You must tell me o brave one, o great crusader, what is your plan?" He opened his eyes and looked up at the pigeon. "Have you no other purpose?"
"No!" Morsel shouted. "I have no other purpose. I am following the Whacker purpose. The Whacker purpose is mine."
The old owl's eyes widened. "Whacker? You?"
"Yes, he was a grandfather. The great Whacker is at the head of my family's lineage. I am of the Whacker stock."
"Ah, that explains your obsession with ‘purpose'."
"I must have a plan to destroy this beast, this man-monster." Morsel paid little attention to Escariot's cynicism. He thought vocally, "But how?" He then looked down at the owl and asked, "How?"
Escariot gave the small pigeon a humorless look. "You're asking?"
Morsel hung his head, "Yes. I am asking."
"In that case. I have an idea, a very good idea." Escariot motioned for Morsel to perch beside him. He then began to lay a foundation for murder.
"You see Clarence my boy, the chicken is the poor man's lobster." The old man's laughter echoed through Clarence's blackened dream. "Yes sir, God put them chickens in our coop for the eatin'." More laughter. But the laughter became a cackle and then a crowing, a rooster's crowing. The clacking of the steel wheels rose to a screech. The freighter was slowing down. The lights of Gary's train yard glowed an eerie orange. Clarence rubbed his eyes. The dream was becoming more recurrent. Every time he closed his eyes it visited him.
Clarence dreaded sleep but sleep came no matter the dread. It was inevitable. Like so many things in Clarence's life, sleep and the subsequent strange dream were out of his control. For Clarence, control was the name of the game. He controlled anything and everything within his grasp. He lived by a personal standard. The night was his and all God's children belong to him. He had killed how many people? Twelve? Fifteen? A hundred? Clarence didn't know the answer. He didn't care. The bird, though, was a conundrum. The little bastard was dangerous. He sensed it, not knowing why. He sensed a strange bravery in the little one. He spoke to no audience:
"Why does he scare me? He's a pigeon. What's he going to do, suffocate me with his shit?" He laughed at his flair for cynicism. "Suffocate me in his shit." His haunting laughter echoed through boxcar. He continued to laugh as the train came to a slow, grinding stop. It was time to earn some money and make a deposit at the local First City Farmers Bank. By the sun's position, Clarence figured it was early afternoon. He climbed down and eventually made the short jump that landed him on the greasy gravel beneath the tracks.
The city of Gary was a dirty affair. Where steel mills once stood belching the black smoke of prosperity stands a community redefining itself, redefining its poverty, homelessness, and crime rate. Clarence defined himself as a child of the city's dysfunctional system. He whistled happily as he walked the long steps leading to the pickup point. The asshole waiting at the top of the stairs looked on in disgust at the madman whistling. He wanted to blow his guts all over the landing of the stairs, but the skinny fucker was dependable and that's all he gave a shit about. Dependability, by God, was the shibboleth of the drug world.
Out of the corner of his eyes Clarence saw dark movement and then he heard a voice, "Hold it, bastard!" Clarence tucked and literally fell down the stairs. The asshole at the top of the stairs fired his gun into the darkness. Clarence heard another blast from the shadows. The asshole fell off the landing and smashed near Clarence. He heard the voice again. "Freeze fucker! Don't even think about it!" But, Clarence did think about "it." He jumped up in a flash and pushed through the door, hearing the crack of the pistol behind him. The door had saved him, hindering the bullet's trajectory. He ran across the street and ducked into a pool hall simply called The Pool Hall. The place was crowded and Clarence slowly pushed his way to a door marked "Exit." He had no time to pick out a potential victim, which is what he usually did in these kinds of joints.
He found himself in an alley. Clarence began to walk slowly and unnoticed to another side of the city. He was in too big of a hurry to notice the determined gray-blue pigeon watching him from atop each building he passed. Morsel followed the man-beast easily and without detection. Morsel watched as the monster headed towards its home; if a wooden shed next to the railroad tracks could be called home.
*****
"Clarence Whiteman." The taller of the two officers spoke.
"Clarence, huh?" The shorter officer replied, seemingly surprised.
"Yep." The taller cop holstered his gun. "He must be the little gopher we're looking for...our little delivery boy."
"Looks homeless to me." The shorter cop replied almost nonchalantly.
"He is, but I know where to find the homeless bastard."
"Shall we pay him a visit?"
"Not without backup. I've heard way too many horror stories about Clarence Whiteman. Most all of our brothers think he's a killer, but we've never been able to tag him. I'm not going to be a hero with this guy."
Clarence stood outside of the broken down shed he called home. He badly needed rest but was wary of going inside. He had been stalked by the cops once before and just barely made an escape through a hole in the floor leading outside. He knew the tall cop. He had seen him before. Clarence assessed the situation. He was in trouble. He walked through the underbrush surrounding his shack to a small copse of trees near his shack. There, he found an old maple tree and sat on one of its huge above-ground roots. He needed time to think but his time was up. Roaring near his shack were several police cars, lights flashing and sirens screaming. Clarence swung himself off of the exposed root and hid behind the large tree.
He heard the cops knocking on his door. "Whiteman, come out. If you have a weapon, drop it and come out with your hands clasped above your head." Clarence heard a crashing sound, his door. He dare not look without fear of revealing his hiding place. He heard muffled angry voices.
It was the tall cop. "Bastard can't be too far. We had him dead-to-right about," looking at his watch, "an hour ago." The short cop questioned him; the tall cop was tired of the short cop's questions.
"Could we have fucked up? I mean, maybe he was heading somewhere else. We only guessed," not wanting to individualize the fuck-up, " he was heading here."
"Hmm, maybe." The tall cop was not willing yet to concede ineptness. He headed towards their cruiser. He looked up at the sky in exasperation, as if some super power could help the situation. It was then he noticed the birds, a half dozen of them. One of them looked like an owl. How could that be? Owls sleep during the day.
"Look!" He motioned toward the birds. The other cops looked. The tall cop pulled his gun out of its holster; the others followed his lead.
Clarence felt the impact of something hitting the top of his head, bird shit. He looked up and saw the pigeon. Just as he craned his neck to see the other birds he felt an impact of a different nature, a bullet. In fact, there were several bullets. Clarence fell to the earth with his precious Rugar 357 Automatic in his hand, unfired. Whether or not he felt the last drop of bird shit hitting his staring eyes will never be known.

Chronicle Three
The Story of Four

The traffic on Mill Road was exceptionally heavy Friday evening. Four looked down on the highway as car after car ran over Temple's body, flattening it more with each passing. Temple, his dearest temple, what had become of her? Four wept. Yes, he wept. Contrary to the belief of all earth-kind pigeons are capable of weeping. Four perched himself on a tree near Temple's flattened corpse and wept. He wept through the evening twilight and into the darkest night of his life.
Four's morning brought no relief to his misery. He looked down for his love's remains and saw only crows, black and mean-spirited. They were ripping and shredding the remains of his sweet, delightful Temple. He gasped and fluttered away from the scene, never looking back, never coming back. Four flew into a small copse of trees near an old abandoned barn. He landed on a limb, hungry and tired. He stared at the old barn. It was a dismal sight. The dilapidated old structure had been the place he and Temple had chosen to be their home and the home of their future offspring. The old barn now appeared like a monster to him, jaws open with black and blank eyes staring at the small pigeon with scorn. Four shuddered briefly. His life had suddenly changed. Only hours ago he had been so self-assured. Now, he was quickly crumbling into the pit of insanity. He needed to flee.
Four did something very strange. He shot off the branch and headed straight toward the abandoned barn. Had no one observed his actions Four would have killed himself easily by ramming his fragile body into the roof of the structure. However, he had been observed. PortaConnor, a cynical but affable crow, saw the strange event. A small pigeon was free falling from the sky and about to meet its demise but PortaConnor interfered, barely. He just happened to be flapping his way to the morsels of a dead mouse lying on the baking roof of the old barn, not his favorite food but it would do for this morning. He happened to look up and saw the insane pigeon heading straight for the roof. PortaConnor launched himself toward the bird and threw the small creature off its course. Four rammed, instead, into a loose pile of hay at the foot of the old barn door. He felt something snap but didn't realize what it was until he tried to launch himself out of the hay. He had broken his wing.
PortaConnor stood not far from the pile of hay, looking curiously at the injured pigeon. "So, little one, what were you trying to do? You looked like a wad of shit falling from the sky and there you are, splattered and broken?"
Four said nothing. His wing hurt and he was in no mood for a sermon.
"I see," PortaConnor continued, "the fall has made you speechless. No, probably not. It must have been the sudden impact." The crow chuckled mercilessly angering Four to the point of shitting. "Hmm, are we getting angry lad? I see you're...sort of beside yourself." The chuckle became uncontrolled laughter.
Four could take no more of the stupid bird's chattering. "Shut up!"
Silence followed Four's demand but not for long. Crows have always been known throughout the feathered world as cynics, unstoppable cynics. "So, he speaks. The suicidal little bastard speaks. I guess..." Before he could finish his sentence a crackling of twigs startled PortaConnor and he launched himself into the air and flew to the safety of the barn's dilapidated roof. Four watched as the menace stared down at him without moving. Suddenly his world became dark.
Four's eyes adjusted finally to the darkness and he could see his surroundings. He had been trapped in some kind of container, man-made. He was being carried in his darkened cage. Four found it both difficult and painful to keep his footing. He then heard strange sounds. It was the voice of the human. It was not a terrifying sound. Four found it strange but soothing, actually comforting. "We're almost there little buddy. We'll have you patched up in no time at all." At that frightening but strangely secure moment Four had been introduced to Eddie White, a recluse and deviant in his own world.
"So my little friend it looks like you broke a wing. Hmm. We'll get you up and going like brand new." Eddie White's long unkempt beard was wet with drool. If his thoughts fell into the norm of thoughts and if he saw a doctor regularly, Eddie would have learned that his lack of control of the left side of his mouth was due to a recent stroke. But, normalcy was not a word Eddie felt comfortable with, nor was it a word that described him whatsoever. Eddie was the guy kids shied away from and a guy from whom adults looked away. He was the man you smelled in front of you at the grocery store. He was the man needing Lithium or Thorazine but hid from the folks with the straight jackets. Eddie Eugene White was an enigma within an enigmatic world. "Yep, little guy, we'll have you all fixed up." Eddie carefully placed a flat tongue-depressant stick on the snapped bone and gingerly tied baling twine around it. This rendered the wing immobile and also eased some of Four's pain.
Eddie cupped his huge hands around the small pigeon's body and carried him to a cage built with remnants of orange crates and chicken wire. It was a reasonably large contained area with a small wooden box with a hole in it juxtaposed against the backside of the cage. If one looked at the whole affair from a distance it would have a resemblance to some barbaric prison camp created by a madman in World War II. Eddie placed Four lovingly into the large cage, quickly closing the top door (once a screen door to someone's cabin) behind him.
Four's eyes were slow to adjust to the dimly lit cage. He did not move from the spot where the huge man had placed him. He was startled by a strangely restricted voice, a voice void of intonation. "A fine situation, huh?" The voice came from the wooden box attached to the far side of the cage. In the center of the box was an entrance, a whole carved crudely by the man, Eddie. "Say, you look familiar to me. Are you by chance a member of the Whacker clan?"
Four was visibly shocked by the name. "Whacker?" He moved cautiously towards the dark opening. "How do you know that name?" The silence after his question added weightiness to the moment. Four pressed, "Who are you to know the name of Whacker?" Silence. "Well?" A black and cynical laughter finally broke through the thickness of intensity between the two creatures.
"Ah, my cousin Four. How soon we forget."
Four processed the statement. Cousin? He knew he had relatives spread across the countryside but his cousin... Finally, his eyes doubled in size. "Jam?" He waddled awkwardly to the box entrance and repeated, "Jam?"
"Yes. The one and only." Jam said mockingly. "I am the one and only Jam." Jam remained just a voice; seemingly hiding in the safety of his box. His voice took an ominous path, "Yes, I am Jam. I am Jam the Mulatto." Silence once again punctuated the intensity of the moment. It was Four's turn to be silent. "Nothing to say now, my cousin?" Jam's laughter cut through Four's feathers like barbed wire, like the bb's of a man's gun.
Four was quick to anger, "Nothing to say?" He moved even closer to the entrance. "I have plenty to say Jam the Mulatto...like where on earth have you been? Where were you when your brother, my father, Jacket found so much trouble? Where were you? I demand!" The air was tense and the cage seemed to get smaller with each outburst. Four waddled to the opening until his head had nearly crossed the threshold. Jam made no sound, no response. "Where?" The word hung as if suspended from the screening at the top of the cage. Four stared into the darkness, certain he had heard movement but still he saw nothing.
"Here. I have been here forever." The voice had lost its cynical touch. The desperation in Jam's speech fell on Four's ears like acidy rain, like city rain. "I've been here forever." The old bird exhaled. "Our human friend, Eddie, has protected me from the violence surrounding this haven of safety. You see..." Jam slowly moved toward the younger bird standing outside of his dark shell, his womb of protection. The dim light from the cage nearly blinded him. He rarely came out, usually at night when the world was quiet and he was out of harm's way. He showed himself to his little cousin. "This," pointing to himself, "is where I've been."
Four exhaled a gasp of shock. What he saw he had never seen before. What he saw he never wanted to see again. There, before him mangled and grotesque stood Jam. Once the most powerful bird in the family, Jam now stood as a broken hero. One wing had been completely severed. His beak had been distorted into something resembling a flattened duck's bill. Jam was missing an eye and several claws on his feet. Four looked away. He could not stand the sight. His heart beat rapidly and his breath spurted shallowly. Jam had become a freak, a torn creature. An overwhelming sadness overcame Four. He felt guilty for being accusatory and angry with his long lost cousin. "I...I..."
"You're sorry?" Jam's voice was strained. "You're sorry? Me too. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for your father or you. I'm sorry that I have missed all those milestones of life that a bird is supposed to achieve. You know, milestones like finding a mate, fathering children, and providing protection for one's elders. I've missed all of them my young friend. I have no hope, no hope. You, however, still have time. You must go forth and bring pride to the Whacker lineage." Four looked at his broken wing then glanced at Jam. The look was not lost. "Your wing will heal and Eddie Boy will set you free. He has set many before you free. He keeps me for obvious reasons. I could not survive."
"So this man, Eddie, will not harm me?"
"No. He is one of the very few in this world of humans that will not harm us. Come, I will show you the watering place and the grain storage." He waddled with Four close behind him to a large bowl of clear water. Next to the bowl was a small wooden box that held grain. Four became acutely aware that he was hungry and wasted no time eating his fill of corn, sunflower seeds, and breadcrumbs. "You see my friend kindness is plentiful here. I want for nothing...well, almost nothing. I miss friendship but big Eddie occasionally drops a wounded sparrow, crow, or whatnot in my little corner of the world. They're not always the greatest conversationalists but better than nothing as they say. God knows they are not as pleasurable as other pigeons." Jam hobbled into his small box and looked back at Four, "We'll talk tomorrow. I am tired and must rest for the night. Good night little cousin."
Four was left to himself. He padded to a corner of the cage where a patch of straw lay. His day had been a wash. He too was tired. He had lost so much in such a brief period of time, his mate, the use of his wing, and what was left of his self-esteem. He closed his eyes and allowed darkness to penetrate his mind, darkness without thoughts. The warm numbness of sleep slowly found him. He slept without dreams and without knowledge of the world around him. The world around him turned and tilted, and he never knew.

Hours in the cage turned to days and days turned into too many for Four to count. Jam seemed quite content to be imprisoned on this island of metal and wood. Four felt stronger each day and each day his wing became more useable.
"You will leave soon." Exclaimed Jam. "The man, Eddie, will come and let you fly."
"The day cannot come soon enough." Said Four impatiently. "I am healed and I have eaten too much. I wish not to become lazy." He said without thinking.
Jam heard the words but was not shaken. "When you leave little cousin, remember where you came from."
"You think I'll remember this shit-filled cage?"
"That's not what I'm saying." Jam explained, "Remember you are a Whacker. Live a Whacker and die a Whacker." He looked at Four and kept his thoughts to himself. Jam's thoughts were not brimming with confidence for the small pigeon's future. "You must get beyond your anger towards the world around you. Time will heal all."
"Why are you telling me..." Before he could get his words out a hand reached gently around him and lifted through the hinged roof of the cage. Big Eddie had him in a loving grip and cupped both of his hands around the small bird, leaving only Four's head exposed. He said something in human language and tossed him into the air. Four automatically began to fly. He didn't fly far. He landed on a nearby branch to rest. Four realized that being in a 6x4 cage for a month had weakened his ability to fly considerably, but he was free. "Free." It was a word Four had never given power, thus, his first lesson in maturity.
"Look up at you young stud," laughed Eddie. "You are free, free as a bird." He chuckled again and walked away from the tree and the cage. Jam slid back into his dark cage within a cage, but Four flew and flew until he was exhausted. His thoughts of Temple had receded slowly into his memory, taking a safe place in his heart. He was certain her memories would never die. He flew beyond the site of Temple's death, beyond the looming mouth of the old barn, and beyond his childhood. Four flew towards adulthood and a future fraught with unknown designs, dark and light.
Cannonville shrank with age. Like mankind, each year over fifty seemed to remove more vertebrae from its spine. Like man, too, after nearly 200 years it had become spineless. Cannonville was a swab of spit in an ocean of saliva. Four, however, found it comfortable and safe. His days on the roof of the old railroad repair shop were filled with monotony and laziness, but he liked it that way. He had found several friends, mostly pigeons. The culture of feathers was mostly segregated among species. However, morning doves and pigeons tended to mix socially; white doves were a rarity in Cannonville. Four's new friends included a pair of morning doves (always pairs of course) named Pixeena and Melter, and Lakenet - a devoted food finder.
"Hey, Four, look what I've found." Lakenet had a large piece of bread lying at his talons. "There's enough here to feed a flock." Four laughed. Lakenet made him laugh even when he wasn't trying to be humorous. He had found himself laughing more lately. He had found himself thinking less of his love for Temple, his companion lost forever. Four also found himself thinking less of his cousin Jam, poor Jam. Jam was a victim of mankind, a victim of man's technology. He had been destroyed. Jam was a hobbling bird, a bird without strength, without courage, and without self. Four swore beneath his breath he would never be another Jam living in a box within a box. Yet, at the moment he found himself laughing uncontrollably at Lakenet. The jokester bird had a huge hunk of bread in his mouth and was trying to speak. The sight made Four laugh even harder.
"My friend you look rather funny with that stuck in your beak."
Lakenet dropped the food and screamed. "Watch out!" Four thought for only a moment that Lakenet was joking but soon learned otherwise. The shadow surrounding him made his heart jump. He knew immediately, instinctively, a hawk was close. Lakenet squawked, "Four, hurry!" The normally jovial friend fluttered quickly and retreated to a small gap where the building's roof separated from its side. Four was close behind. Together he and Lakenet huddled in the dark cramped area. They pushed their way to the back of the hole, driving blindly into an abyss smelling sweetly of death.
"You weak little bastards! You pieces of cow shit! You can't stay in your little holes forever. Some foul day I will snatch you away and rip you into edible little morsels." Van stepped away from the small cubbyhole and with a shrill squawk, "You will be my meal...oh and what a feast for beasts." He laughed hideously and spied the chunk of bread. "By the way, pigs, thanks for the bread." He grabbed the partially eaten slice of wheat and flew off cumbersomely.
Lakenet and Four said nothing for a very long time. What could they say? That they were terrified? That Van was a mean bastard and ought to leave the peaceful ones in this world alone? No, they were much too shocked, much to shaken for such conversation. But, suddenly a voice belonging to neither of them spoke, "I see you have danced with the evil one." The voice came from a darkened corridor between the outer lining of bricks and the wooden façade. "Yes, he is one of many evil ones but the two of you should not be here much longer. You see I too am hungry and it is my will to eat those creatures with a beating heart. In case you haven't noticed you both fit the description." The voice strengthened. "Weasels just love pigeons and I think I'm falling for the two of you." His muffled laughter was an insidious reminder of just how precariously Four's and Lakenet's position in life's food chain was placed. Without notice they pushed themselves out of the hole, both making a mental note of its location on the rooftop. Once outside they flew to the safety of a small hedge surrounding another building nearby. They had no time to think about the whereabouts of Van the vulture or any other enemies for that matter.
"That, that, that was close," stuttered Lakenet. "So close."
"Bastards!" Four was angered but was so angered he couldn't clearly process Lakenet's fear. "The bastards are everywhere." He knew of course the bastards "were" everywhere. After all, he remembered Temple's crushed body and Jam's dysfunctional situation. It was a lesson in life he had already learned; most preyed-upon creatures had learned the same lesson. He noticed a startled look in Lakenet's eyes. "What?"
"I've never seen you like this, Four. You're so like a tornado." Lakenet was serious. Four was out of control and had he been a vulture... The thought was too violent to think about. Lakenet had had enough violence for one day. "I think..." The words trailed into the wind never to be completed. What happened next took Four away, far away from where he had once been...innocent, naïve, and loyal. Seemingly from out of nowhere came the vulture, talons rigid and deadly. The hungry villain swooped swiftly and gripped Lakenet in a death hold, carrying him away to wherever hawks and vultures carry their victims. Four heard no sound, strange, very strange indeed. How could killing be silent with only the whispering of an ominously cool breeze? Four was frozen in his place. He did not move. He could not move no matter the urgings of his instinct. He stared into the beautiful blue sky as the predator disappeared into a distant copse of trees. Poor Lakenet. His time had come and he left without eulogy, without a bird's prayer. Four spoke to no one's ears, "May your wings be strong forever my dear Lakenet." He fluttered off to a nearby alley and hid himself in a windowsill safe for the moment. Another chapter closed in Four's brief book of life.
"What in hell are you doing, bird?" Eddie couldn't believe what he was seeing. The pigeon had somehow climbed its way up the side of the cage. It was standing on top of the small wooden box straining a squawk from its flattened beak. "What the..." Eddie White never completed his sentence. He gently picked the disabled pigeon up and cupped it in his giant hands. He placed it back onto the floor of the cage and whispered quietly, "Little buddy, there's nowhere for you to go. Do you miss your friend?" The bird only looked at him and croaked a hideous response. "I'm sorry little pal but here is where you must stay. The foxes and weasels would love to have you for their evening repast so here you must remain." Eddie closed the roof of the cage gently, truly feeling sadness for unfortunate creature. He felt no more sadness than Jam. When Eddie was out of sight, Jam repeatedly rammed his head into his chicken wired cage until his mind went blank. Soon Jam would be joining his Whacker lineage in whatever world lay beyond the hell he endured for so long in his cage within a cage.
Van the insatiable vulture watched as another mouse ran across the barnyard. He chuckled quietly, not much longer now. Soon mommy mouse would come out, oh what a delight. Van waited patiently. He was right. Here comes his luncheon special. He swooped swiftly and had the larger mouse in his claws. He felt his own power as the rodent struggled to free itself. "Ah, it feels so good, so delightful my little furry friend." He squawked a vulture's laugh, "I can't wait to get inside your brain." The laughter continued until he landed with his prey. "Umm, yummy," he said as he rammed his razor-hooked beak into the mouse's head. There was no struggle. In an instant the baby mice in the barnyard had become motherless.
Van satisfied his hunger quickly. He knew his next victim quite well. He had nearly captured him but got his friend instead. This time he would not miss the arrogant little bastard called Four. He was a plump little pigeon and would make a great evening feast. Van had an idea just where he could find the little shit. What is it about the young pigeon? Why was Van so interested in him? Whacker! The little bastard was from the Whacker clan. He could tell the minute he saw him. He had killed a Whacker back in the days when he lived in the big city. He had killed a mate, such fun. He would have had another if the humans with their nets hadn't captured him and strapped a piece man-made material around his leg. Yes, that was it. This little shit of a bird was from the Whacker family and Van would feast upon him with gladness. First, the crafty predator needed an afternoon nap.
Four caught the scent of food in the air and realized he was quite hungry. The largest building in the man-community was the grain-drying bins south of the community. Usually Four and Lakenet had gone there in the evening hours to pick at spillages left behind by the huge wagons. Sometimes they would have to share with neighboring pigeons and doves but they didn't mind. The thought of his friend Lakenet brought sadness to Four but hunger was hunger. He flew in the direction of the scent.
He found the grain storage facility to be busy with feeders. He recognized some of the birds. Pixeena and Melter, his dove friends, were busy attacking an ear of corn. They didn't stop their pursuit to talk with Four. Suddenly, he felt so alone. He was beginning to understand how seemingly well-adjusted Jam had been to a caged life. Jam was not vulnerable to the pitfalls and dangers of this life. His food and water had always been provided. He was safe within his man-made womb.
Four found a small sprinkle of corn near a large wagon that had been left behind. He fed hastily, not liking to be out in the open. Every bird of prey had a built-in instinct for danger, understanding that Lakenet's violent demise could happen to any of them at any time. Four was feeling that danger now. In fact, if he had not looked up when he did the vulture would have had him with one single swoop. Four dodged instantly beneath the wagon and hid behind a wheel. It was the same vulture that had killed his friend, same markings, and same hooked beak razor-sharp. The predator landed next to the wheel Four was hiding behind. He squawked maddeningly, "You think your Whacker family tree is going to protect you now little buddy? I am coming my friend." With that, he pivoted on his feet and ran beneath the wagon but the pigeon had gone. Van squealed with anger, "You bastard! You little bastard!" He searched beneath the wagon hurriedly, no sign of the pigeon.
He left and Four sighed a silent sigh of relief. He stood quietly on the axle of the wagon peering down as the ugly vulture fluttered away from the scene. He would not leave the axle. He stayed and slept fitfully through the dark night. What had the bird said? How had he known Four? How had he known about his Whacker blood? Four was terrified. He was frozen with terror. The vulture was after him. He was sure now that Lakenet's death should have been his death. He thought about it the entire night; he even dreamed about it. He saw the beak reaching in and ripping out Lakenet's entrails. He saw the menacing look on the cruel predator's face; it was the look of insanity.
The sun finally made its way through the clouds of darkness; daylight had arrived. Four was in no hurry to leave his newly found perch. Soon he heard the friendly sounds of neighboring pigeons searching for food. Several birds had found the patch of corn Four had discovered the evening before. He felt reasonably safe now and padded to the site. The other birds paid no attention to him. Four began to feed. Suddenly someone squawked and the small flock that had developed around the food scattered. Four looked up and saw the reason everyone dispersed. The vulture was diving straight for the group. He knew the real target of the giant predator. He heard a booming sound. He heard the sound twice. The vulture did not stop. Four was frozen in position. The vulture was upon him but hit the earth next to Four. The monster hit the earth with an impact that fractured the air and caused Four to be pushed backwards. Van was dead. His head had been blown away and blood was oozing out of his neck. The body quivered for a moment then stilled. The booming sound had been a human's gun. Four knew the sound of a gun. He had learned about the destructive weapons made by mankind as he was growing up with his parents. Such a weapon had killed Troth, his brother.
Four stared at the remains of his enemy. The sun had risen and set many times since he had seen the corpse of his beautiful Temple and since he had seen his caged and distorted cousin Jam. The sun had risen and set just briefly since Lakenet's destruction; and now, before him lay the root of evilness in a small bird's world. Four had seen more in his young life than many much older. This moment, final as it seemed, was but the beginning of Four's trip through a Whacker's world.
Harvey Johnson cleaned his Remington over-and-under combination 222-caliber rifle and 12-gauge shotgun. His son, Bobby, stared at his father in amazement, nausea nearly overcoming his sense of pride. His father looked down and patted him on the head. "Whadya think of that shot Bobby?" The boy did not answer. He ran to a nearby bush and vomited the contents of his life.

Luke's Dime:
Chronicle Four
Dante's Furnace is located about ten miles southwest of Dante's Mining Company and held a total of three hundred and fifty-three miners, and their families. At its peak years of production in the mid to late eighteen hundreds Dante's Furnace bustled with over two thousand people. The Great Depression took away about half of that number and the waning of underground mining practices took most of those remaining. The small town boasted of Telly's Bar and Grill, Lease's Pump and Go, and Wainwright's Groceries (no credit allowed).
Lucas James walked by Wainwright's everyday on his way to the school bus stop and everyday he cussed the damn pigeons that shat on the sidewalk. He thought it was a criminal act and would deal with the little bastards when he got off the school bus later. He carried his homemade slingshot in his lunchbox. Tonight he would knock one of the buggers off. His heartbeat quickened and a broad smile covered what seemed like half his face. The big yellow box pulled up to the stop, red lights flashing and door gaping open swallowing Lucas and a couple of other kids. Later that day the giant would spew them back out at Wainwright's, a ritual performed daily at Dante's Furnace. Lucas hated the procedure. He hated school, his parents, and those buggers that shit on Wainwright's sidewalk.

"The chicks come soon, Timid."
"And we must protect them my dearest Sputter. You know how that young human behaves. I'm afraid for us." Timid shifted her weight on the three eggs. She looked at Sputter judiciously. Timid knew her mate well. She knew his weaknesses more than he did. Sputter was an analytical soul. He wondered about the world around him but didn't understand the basic facts of survival. The better word of course, impractical, was too harsh of a description for Timid to even think about her wonderful mate. In spite of his weakness Timid loved him and would do everything within her power to keep her mate from harm. They would have to abandon their small nest in the metal drain.
"What are we to do?"
She repeated the question incredulously, "What are we to do? Sputter, my love, we must move from here before the human comes back later today."
"But the chicks...we can't...I mean..." Sputter was dumbfounded. "Timid, we can't leave the chicks without warmth. They will surely die."
Timid held a lengthy silence. She had no answer that her mate would understand. Sputter did not understand the real world around him, the real violence, or the reality of horrible consequences. Finally, "The young human has thrown stones at us everyday barely missing our nest. Tonight we may not be so fortunate." She again shifted her weight on the delicate eggs. "We must build another nest." She pointed her wing toward a large vent pipe sticking out of Wainwright's roof. Around the pipe was a slightly elevated lip of metal sheathing. Beneath that lip was a well-protected alcove where the birds could hide their future family and themselves, there would be plenty of room. "There," she said, "that will be our new home."
Sputter looked with disbelief. "How?"
Timid was terse in her response. "My dear Sputter that is up to you."
He didn't hear her. Sputter was already thinking and his thinking was louder in his head than Timid's voice. He only noticed harshness in her voice, harshness he had never heard before. Sputter paced across the slightly angled tar roof. Thoughts rolled incoherently through his head. At last he turned to look at his mate. "I will fight the human."
Timid looked at Sputter incredulously. She would have laughed had she not seen the look on Sputter's face. Instead, she sighed a sigh of desperation. "Sputter...Oh my dearest Sputter." She bowed her head as if in some kind of prayer and croaked in futility, "Sputter, we are doomed."
"I will fight him!" He repeated his quixotic plan. Sputter fluttered off the roof shouting back to Timid, "I will!"

Lucas looked up at the slowest clock in the world. Mrs. Malcolm droned on and on in the background. He occasionally catches a word but was totally disinterested in the fall of some empire across the ocean hundreds of years ago. It was 10:45 a.m. and he was getting hungry. Early lunch was at eleven and Lucas was damn glad he had early lunch. He rubbed his front pocket and felt the coins. He had enough for a soda and some crackers. He would do the same thing at lunchtime that day as he did every school day. Lucas would get a pop out of the machine, buy crackers, and go out to the "fence" and smoke with his buddies. Barry and Frank would be out with their sack lunches and a pack of smokes. Lucas always saved a dime back from his lunch money to buy two cigarettes.
"Little Luke." Lucas hated the nickname. "Cracker boy." Lucas hated that nickname worse. Frank Beltoski enjoyed the game of making him feel like shit but he had the cigarettes. Needless to say, Lucas put up with the names and put up the dime for the smokes. "Little Luke." Frank was a fucker. Frank should have his balls cut off and stuffed mercilessly down his half-witted face.
Ignoring Frank's battering Lucas said, "Got some smokes?" It was a ritual, a game played at lunchtime between the bad asses of school. Lucas thought he was a bad ass, but Frank and Barry had him beat by a Texas mile, whatever that meant.
"Got any money?" asked Barry.
"Sure." Lucas handed him a dime. "The usual please."

Sputter perched himself on top of the old bank building across from Wainwright's store. He had a perfect view of their nest lying in the useless drain trough running horizontal across the edge of the store. How did the human know they were there? Why did the human want to keep slinging rocks at them, nearly hitting them a number of times? He wanted to kill Sputter and Timid, maybe destroy the eggs. Why? No logical answer came to him, nothing logical at all. From where he perched he could see Timid shifting on the eggs. What was he seeing? There was movement beneath Timid, the chicks. Sputter leaped off the old building and flew to their nest.
"Sputter they have come, but..." she hung her head, "only two have lived."
"What will we call them?"
"We shall name them Timely and Early." Timid looked at Sputter with watery eyes, "and the dead we will name Forever." It was a pigeon tradition that when a child is born still their name will be Forever.
"Forever." Sputter repeated sadly. It seemed to him that it was wrong for the world to continue its perpetual noise when someone died, especially a chick. Why? What had the little creature done? It had done nothing wrong? Why then did it die? Sputter had no time to mourn. He knew the young human would be getting out of the huge yellow carriage soon and he would again try to kill Sputter and his family. He flew across the road again to the old bank building and waited, but the bus never came, nor did he ever see the young human again.

The cigarettes Barry had given him were not the "usual." Lucas stumbled up the steps of the bus and was watched curiously by Floyd Manaro the driver. Floyd had known Lucas since he was a toddler. He knew all the kids living in Dante's Furnace. He was a part time man-of-the-cloth at the Fundamental Church of The Holy Shepherd. Floyd was also a scout leader. He didn't like what he saw. Luke had a pale blue cast to his skin. Something was wrong.
"Luke, you okay?" The question never found its ear. Luke had fallen to the floor of the bus, his future as hot as the ashes of his "usual" cigarettes. He had been murdered but no one in Dante's Furnace ever used the word. Barry and Frank came to the funeral and shed juvenile tears, tears filled with juvenile intentions, and juvenile misunderstandings. No one ever learned the truth.
The young boy's coffin was lowered slowly into the ground. His mother cried, his father was drunk, and his little sister stared curiously at the single pigeon-flying overhead. She thought silently that someday she would fly away from Dante's Furnace, away from the addiction of poverty and the prison of ignorance. The bird shat on her brother's coffin, an act that only she noticed. It was an exclamation point to the youngster's death and the dime he spent with poor judgment. Luke's sister held tightly
onto the homemade slingshot. I could hit it with one shot.
The End

Chronicle Five: Wig

It was never a terrible thing when the clouds began to cry and bolts of lightening streaked like frosted spider webs through the dark sky, but it was terrible enough for Wig. He shuddered with each clap of thunder that echoed through the empty streets of the small town. White Feather huddled around the chicks trying to protect them from the angry night storm. Living atop the old grain elevator had its good points like plenty of food and good neighbors, but there were bad points too. Pigeons had their fair share of enemies in the seldom-used building, rats and chicken hawks to name just a few. It was not the sensational life his grandfather, the famous Whacker, had led...so the story goes. The senior Whacker had saved his life-mate from certain death and with the help of an owl and some wild animals defeated a horde of rats. No, no, life was not that glamorous for Wig and White Feather.
The rats in the grain elevator were fat and lazy. They were not concerned about pigeons. The oldest of the rats was Neo The Wise. He slept most of the time and would on occasion bare his teeth at a bird brave enough to scratch at a grain pile near Neo's pack. That rarely happened. Word at the elevator was "to each his own." All feeders kept to that philosophy except for a few foolish youngsters trying to make "front-page headline news." Usually, foolish rats confronted foolish pigeons. The foolish pigeon always lost.
Wig was not foolish. He kept his family in a nest positioned in the crotch of two huge wooden beams holding the elevator in an upright position. Protected for the most part from the weather, Wig and his family enjoyed solitude similar to humans living in penthouses perched on big city skyscrapers. Wig knew nothing of skyscrapers. He knew only about outwitting the rats, vultures, and cats. It was humans he didn't understand, their constant need for violence and useless destruction. He had seen his friends fall to the shooting stick young humans used when they were in the killing mood. They did not eat his friends. Instead, humans would leave their prey on the ground to rot or to be ripped apart by vultures. Why? The question boggled his mind. He could not communicate with them in order to understand their ways. Wig was left empty for understanding.
"Wig!" White Feather was trying to shout above the claps of thunder. She drew him out of his reverie with a feather to his head. "We're going to have to huddle together." She pointed to the children. White Feather could not keep the rain off of them by herself.
"Coming." He said as he gently climbed into the nest. Together, they weathered the deluge of wind and rain. The children and White Feather quieted. The night brought no sleep to Wig. Ever vigilant, he knew such nights provided cover for predators. Weasels and rats were not afraid of storms. They would kill in every type of weather, like humans. White Feather had closed her eyes and the children were sleeping soundly. Wig carried the weight of responsibility with trepidation. He was not his father's father. Wig lived in fear.

The morning sky was no less bruised than the night sky preceding it. The rain had lightened and the canons of God had stopped roaring. The night had brought no enemies, but it had felled several trees surrounding the elevator. Felled trees often brought more animals to the elevator. The old structure acted as a homeless shelter for the wild kingdom. This morning, however, the felled trees brought only humans with big machines that stretched to the sky with humans onboard. The humans replaced strings stretching between round shafts sticking out of the ground. All of the noise was unnerving to Wig, such busyness for no discernable reason.
Wig watched in awe as the monsters lifted the humans up and down from the earth into the sky. He was so enthralled with the sight he didn't notice Dipper's arrival.
"What's going on down there, Wig?" Dipper asked curiously. "Those humans are strange ones, eh?"
Wig was startled by Dipper's sudden appearance. "Dipper, I didn't hear you."
"How could you with all the ruckus going on over there?" He pointed a wing to the humans working on the fallen strings.
"Humans. I just don't understand them." Wig said with a sigh.
"Who wants to?" Dipper said and swayed his wing as though he was shrugging the whole idea away. Changing the subject he said with excitement, "A snake got in the grain bin last night and cornered one of Neo's boys. Nearly killed him I guess."
"Who nearly killed whom?" Wig was confused.
"The snake was one of those water snakes with teeth."
"A moccasin?" Wig asked incredulously. "They live next to the river."
"You can see the river from here, Wig." Said Dipper. "The storm brought him here. I'm sure of it."
"And the rat?"
"Probably going to die."
"He will if the weasels get wind of it." Said Wig. "You want to go down and feed for awhile?" Usually he and Dipper would meet Jowls, Trivet, and the others down at the bin. They would get their fill of grain and return to their nests allowing their mates to go down and feed later.
"Sure. I think Jowls and Trivet are already feeding." They flew off the old beam and headed straight to the opening, which led to the bottom of the grain bin. Sure enough, Jowls and Trivet were pecking away at a small pile of corn. Wig saw no one else around so he began to feed with the others.
Jowls barely looked up to recognize the breakfast guests. Trivet however, smiled and inquired of Wig, "How's those new young ones doing?"
"Growing quickly," said Wig. "I must hurry and eat so I can relieve White Feathers for awhile." Wig hungrily pecked at the small pieces of corn left by the others. "I must make haste," he said as he flew off to the nest. Male pigeons generally watch their children during the day while their mates do the night shift. Wig was tired from listening and watching the wicked storm, but made his way back to White Feather. "Sorry White Feather, I had to fill my gullet. I'll take over now."
White Feather smiled at him, "It's okay my dear. Our babies are still sleeping. I don't know how with all that noise down there." She flew off to look for other food. She enjoyed grain, but didn't enjoy being around dinginess of the elevator. White Feather was an independent soul and chose to search for food without the company of strangers. She was a fast flyer and in no time would be in the large wooded area humans called a park. There she would find a plethora of uneaten human food, a cuisine she preferred.
She landed in front of an old round building that humans used to store their metal monster that rides on a rail. White Feather would watch from a distant tree perch as little humans would ride around in a circle making all sorts of squealing sounds and throw popcorn and sweet food on the ground. She was curious about this practice, never understood it. Today there were a few pieces of stale bread lying on the concrete. She quickly ate it before another bird discovered it. She usually saw some of her hen friends around the park. Rainbow and Cloudy usually were somewhere close to the tree-laden park, but not this morning. She hoped the storm had not harmed them.
"What are you looking for missy?" Came a voice behind her. It was a human, dirty and smelly. She could smell his odor from where she stood. She could not understand human language, but she could understand tone. This human had a friendly tone, but her instinct told her not to go near this creature. Instinct was the shibboleth of the wild kingdom. The kingdom antithetically perched far from odorous creatures like this one. She launched herself away from this one and perched herself into a nearby tree. The man smiled at the bird. He often came to this little park and fed the birds. This little one was a jewel, a diamond in the rough. Her markings were quite unique. She was pure white with the exception of a dark blue ring around her neck. The midnight blue ring resembled the blue around the necks of average city pigeons, but he could see this little gem was not an average bird. She was shy and wary of humans. He watched as she flew to the old abandoned elevator precariously sitting across from the park and perched on the sill of a broken window.
Johnson Brady had lost his wife six years earlier. He and Emma would often walk together through this little park. Their home was not far away. Johnson kept the home and kept making the same journey he and Emma had made. Somehow, it made him feel closer to the love of his life even in death. Once the old elevator had been a booming business. Johnson had never been in the old elevator not even when he was a kid, but he thought it might be interesting to explore it now. Maybe tomorrow he would see what wondrous sights were held up in the ancient building.
***
Darkness filled the elevator like black liquid. No light entered the old building except through smeared and broken windows an occasional human vehicle light would offer a swift ethereal glow revealing little to the building's inhabitants. Wig listened carefully to all the night sounds. He was on high alert. At night White Feather would sit with the chicks. It was a male pigeon's responsibility to protect and defend. Wig would die if necessary to protect his children and his beautiful mate. Nights in the elevator often bore the sounds of death, but this night had been quiet. The night of lightening apparently had worn out the predator's welcome. Wig's family rested easy.
***
The same could not be said for Johnson Brady. He slept fitfully. Emma visited him in his dreams. She stood above him dressed in her white wedding gown and spoke softly, almost inaudibly. "Johnson, do you like my gown? I can still wear it." She smiled as only Emma could. Without warning, Emma's gown changed from beautiful satin to pure white feathers. She wore a dark blue bruise around her neck. It was the bruise that had killed her in an automobile wreck. Her neck had been broken. The bruise gave her the appearance of the small pigeon Johnson had noticed in the park. Emma's smile turned down and her voice became portentous and warning, "Johnson you must save the little white feather. You must take your gun to her nest." After saying this, Emma did something that scared the hell out of the sleeping Johnson. She jumped off a cliff. Instead of falling she began to soar. He watched as she soared into the bright sun expecting at anytime the myth of Icarus to influence her demise, but her wings did not melt as she flew closer to the sun. He watched as Emma became a speck and soon disappeared from his dream.
***
Johnson carried his pistol beneath his trench coat. He carried a small canvas bag with breadcrumbs for the animals and a sandwich for himself. He carried a flashlight and an extra cartridge of bullets. He was prepared to spend the day in the old elevator, the night if he had to. Emma would not have brought him this warning had it not been serious business. He walked by the small park. No one was out and about this early in the morning. It was too early for even the heartiest of joggers and health addicts.
He circled the elevator looking for the best entry point. He found it. He shuffled up the old delivery ramp and easily walked through the now gaping delivery door. He was immediately hit with the smell of death, sweet and heavy. It was an odor Johnson was familiar with. His time in World War II had first introduced the smell to him. The main room was dark. He turned his flashlight on and made a sweep of the room. What he saw amazed him. There were bats hanging from huge wooden cross beams, an owl was perched on top of a support beam no longer supporting anything, and several red eyed rats scurried at the flare of light from his flashlight. He looked up and saw along the huge rafters a line of pigeons. There had to be at least a hundred of them.
Johnson stared at the line of pigeons, but did not see the beautiful white one. He saw every imaginable color, but no white ones until he looked up at the broken window. There sitting in a small nest built tenuously at the base of a support beam was the beautiful bird. She had chicks. Johnson smiled broadly. He stood in awe of the contrast before him, a beautiful white dove amidst a dark and dusty world. He thought of Emma. She too was a pure white dove lighting the world around her. Johnson found an old wooden barrel, turned it on end, and sit down. His legs were not as strong as they used to be. Johnson would simply sit and wait. Emma had visited him and he knew Emma, she would not lie. He scooted the barrel closer to the wall and there nearly out of sight he waited, for what he wasn't sure.
***
"Up there," said Jason in a whisper, "can you see it?" His partner Bo Carson was a big oaf and couldn't see his nose if he looked in a mirror. "Can't you see it?" Jason asked impatiently.
"I can't see anything. It's fucking dark in here."
"You dumb ass. Give me hand so I can climb up this post." Jason commanded him like he would a child. Bo wrapped both hands together and entwined his fingers so Jason could step into them. Jason began to climb the beam. The birds remained quiet. Uncertain of the fate awaiting them, they huddled closer to one another.
Wig had spotted the intruders and began to pace around White Feather and their children. He would protect them with whatever means necessary. These humans were bad, they smelled bad, and their tone of voice was bad. Of course, Wig had no idea how to protect himself against humans. They were a foe with whom he was quite unfamiliar.
***
Johnson heard whispering. He quietly moved off his barrel. He squinted his eyes and saw the beam of a flashlight up high in the rafters. A man was crawling for the beautiful dove's nest. Below him stood a giant. A big man with a baseball cap turned backwards on his head stood looking up at his partner. Johnson watched. He would wait until the crawling intruder got close to the nest. He wasn't sure what to do about the giant onlooker. "Hey, mister, what the hell you think you're doing here?" It was the big guy.
"I'm about ready to bullet through your head," Johnson spoke lowly and calmly.
"Who you talking to Bo?" The crawler had stopped his crawling.
"Just some old fucking wino threatening me, says he has a gun."
"Kill the fucker." The crawler shouted. "Nobody will miss the old geezer. Hell, you said you always wanted to know what it was like to kill someone. Here's your chance big boy."
The big guy pulled out a wooden club from his jacket and began smiling a toothless smile. "I wouldn't make a move if I were you," Johnson warned.
"Is that so?" The giant slowly moved towards him, both hands on the club. He was quick for big guy. Bo was within inches of Johnson, but when he saw the gun he froze. He yelled up at Jason, "the old shit has a gun."
"He won't use it," Jason returned, "Hell you're a foot taller than him. Get him!"
Johnson pulled the trigger. The blast sent every creature in the elevator scurrying and flying. The blast's echo was deafening. Bo slumped backwards, "He shot me!" He screamed in agony. "The son of a bitch shot me." The giant fell to the floor and Johnson wasted no time. He pulled out the flashlight and shined its light on the crawler, who was still frozen in place.
"You're next." He said angrily.
"You might of shot Bo close up, but I'm not close up. Go ahead and try to hit me you slimy bastard." He dared. Johnson lifted the pistol. The guy was probably right. His eyes hadn't been good for the past two years and he had been too damn stubborn to have the cataracts removed. "Do nothing Johnny," He heard Emma's voice entreating him, "Do nothing." Her voice implored him again. He obeyed. As soon as he put the gun down to his side, a cracking sound exploded in the dingy room. The old and worn crossbeam cracked with a loud popping sound and before the crawler could do anything, he fell with the beam and crashed to the floor twenty feet below. Jason Bordone died instantly when his head hit a large rusty nail protruding from the floor.
Johnson Brady too had been killed. He was standing too close when the huge beam fell. A ragged piece of hood had hit him like a bullet and pierced his heart like a jagged spear. He felt only its impact, but nothing afterwards. Johnson Brady's fearless act died with him. No one discovered the bodies for two weeks. Two unsuspecting young boys were out on an adventure and the old elevator would be the enemy's rampart, but when they attacked by the ramped entrance they discovered the enemy was something more than they had expected.
***
White Feathers would not soon forget the human. She received a revelation, a learning experience. Not all humans were bad. The smelly human with the friendly voice had saved her family from the smelly humans with unfriendly voices. She wondered if this event was typical of the humans. Were some good and some bad and did the good ones always win their battles with the bad ones? Logic told her no. Humans were no different than animals. Sometimes predators became prey and visa versa. Sometimes bad things crawled into holes, slithered through grass, and flew through the air. Their intentions single minded, kill good things.

The End

Chronicle Six: Whacker's Plan

Clipper left the nest when he was very young. He had just learned to fly when a hungry weasel had killed his mother and father. His brother and two sisters had been destroyed as well. He didn't think about it much anymore. It seemed more like a dream to him now. He stood now next to his sweet Nester watching Whacker and Rainer fluttering from tree limb to tree limb. They were learning well. The black devil cat had not come out of the house and Whacker and Rainer were safe to fly about. Of course, Clipper was always wary of noises and movement in the enclosed yard. The cat was getting older and becoming less interested in Clipper's activities. Clipper was glad.
He and Nester had always thought that humans lived in strange arrangements. They lived in big wooden boxes with holes, but the holes were covered with some kind of clear fence. Usually the old black cat would curl up silently and watch Clipper and his family never able to get out of the clear fence. Clipper didn't understand how the clear fence worked. He knew, though, it was impenetrable. He had seen a number of birds try to fly into the openings only to bounce off nearly breaking their necks. The humans were seldom a threat. Sometimes, they would scatter bread and other food for the birds. Clipper thought maybe he could even learn to find an affinity for humans but was much too shy and protective of his family for that.
Clipper looked at Nester as she watched the two children find their wings. She was proud. He knew her thoughts. The youngsters would soon be strong enough to leave. Clipper guessed two days at the most. These two would be their last hatchlings. Soon, much too soon, Nester and he would wing their way to the Hereafter. They had outlived many pigeons. Clipper was seven years old, Nester, eight. Not old by some standards but they were city pigeons and city pigeons die young. Dying is an expectation for all creatures.
Clipper's thoughts were disrupted by a loud commotion coming out of the humans home. He saw Nester swooping towards the ground. She was squawking her danger warning. It all happened so fast. The creature had Nester in its paws and her head in its mouth. Clipper jumped into action and swooped down angrily squawking at the black monster. Clipper sank his talons into the cat's head, scraping and cutting skin. The black cat's attention had been diverted from Nester, but not before her neck had been snapped. Clipper came again at the cat. This time his talons found their mark on the cat's eyes but the creature's response was lightening fast. He swatted Clipper and brought the bird down to the ground. The animal proceeded to smother the majestic bird with death, biting and ripping Clipper into bloody pieces.
All of this occurred in a matter of seconds. Little Rainer and Whacker watched the whole affair in terror. They were perched on a nearby tree and were too scared to move. In a matter of moments they were converted into parentless adults.

Whacker couldn't remember the last time he had seen his brother, Rainer. They had parted several months after the death of their parents. Rainer stayed in the city and Whacker had decided he preferred the quietness of the country. He spent his days foraging for food and keeping watch for predators. Birds were easy prey to vultures, wild cats, weasels, and many other marauders. All and all Whacker was happy and content with his life. He missed his brother but had met new friends and even some distant relatives. Gourd was one of them. He was Whacker's cousin and his best friend. Gourd was a protector, a worrier, and a gatherer. In Whacker's eyes Gourd was a hero, a god of sorts. He was on top of the pigeon pecking order; Whacker was not far behind.
They ruled their flock, if a flock it could be called. More often than not, Whacker thought of it as a mix of homeless vagabonds. Many in the group were former city pigeons, much like Whacker. They fled the city because of the caustic smoke, the acidy rain, and the cruelty of humans. Whacker thought about humans for a moment. Why such destruction? Why did humans feel it necessary to kill one another? He had seen animals kill one another, but they needed food. Humans? Humans didn't prey on one another because they needed the dead one for food. Whacker didn't understand, and no one had ever been able to explain the puzzle. He wasn't sure if humans even understood the phenomenon. The word was...uh, murder. That's the word he had always heard. The black cat had murdered his parents, not for food but for spite. Humans murdered humans for spite, an idea foreign to Whacker.
His primary concern at this moment was finding food. Gourd had found some grain near the human's barn and was feeding voraciously. Whacker had launched himself towards the barnyard when he heard the explosion and felt the heat of air whistle over his head. Another explosion, another wave of heat, this time Whacker saw his world getting black. He didn't feel the impact when he slammed against the mound of hay; he had already passed out.
He wasn't sure how long he had lain there. His head hurt and he felt dizzy when he tried to move. "What a fall!" The voice was that of Gourd. "I thought for sure you had been killed by that...that..." He searched for words but couldn't find any. "That thunder or whatever it was. It snapped through the air like lightening."
"What was it?"
"The human did it. He had this long stick and made fire come out of it."
"A gun."
"Huh?"
"That's what humans call it, the stick. It's called a gun." Whacker looked himself over, no injuries. His head still felt a little woozy but he didn't have time to think about his head. He and Gourd heard footsteps. The human was coming towards them. The long gun on his shoulder Whacker shouted to Gourd, "He's coming! Let's fly!" Together they flew for the small copse of trees across the road from the big barn. They had surprised the human. He didn't have time to put the gun to his shoulder. The two heard the human yelling something, the tone of which didn't sound friendly. They flew beyond the human's barn and his field. They distanced themselves farther with each flap of their wings, finally settling in the small grove of trees and eventually into the hollow of a rotting tree.
"That was too close." Whacker spoke with edginess in his voice. " He was scared. He wished he could become invisible and his body read his mind as he kept pushing himself into the deepest part of the old tree. "Gourd, what are we to do next?"
"Next? Next, Whacker, we will wait until the human decides to go into his cage and then we'll go look for some food." Just as he had finished his words Whacker saw Gourd's head fly off and then the deafening roar of the gun. He moved backwards into the old fallen tree, pushing himself even deeper into the darkness and dankness of the rotting wood. He wanted to become a part of the wood; he wanted to become invisible. He had no time. The man's footsteps vibrated against the leaf-covered ground, getting closer to the fallen tree with each step. Whacker could not move. He had reached the end of the wooden tunnel that held him captive. His heart jumped when he saw the huge hand stretched into the trunk's opening. The man grabbed Gourd's corpse and spoke words Whacker did not understand.
Stillness. The only thing that could possibly save Whacker's life at this moment was stillness. He had learned stillness early in his young life. He and his brother, Rainer, had learned the concept when their parents had been killed. He thought stillness could save many lives. Though humans were strangely brilliant building their huge buildings and their strange traveling machines, Whacker thought they were fools. The concept of stillness seemed to bypass their way of existence. Stillness. And, here he was practicing an art so foreign to the man so loudly laughing at the corpse of his friend Gourd. Stillness. The man's laughter echoed in Whacker's state of stillness. It lingered long after the monster had tramped away from the fallen log, carrying his kill in his denim coat pocket.

Rainer waddled across the ledge of the concrete building. His heart was
pounding. Food was usually easy to procure in this neighborhood but not in the past three days. He was hungry. His gullet rattled with emptiness and his energy was waning. The city was a hard place to live, a very hard place. Rainer missed his brother Whacker. He missed the gentleness of his parents and the gentleness of his species. Alone, he stood on the brink of starvation and on the brink of self-destruction. He wanted to just ram himself into the sidewalk far below. He stood on the ledge and contemplated the possibility but before he could leap, something grabbed him.
"Ha! What now little buddy?" The bedraggled old man laughed. "Yum, I just love squab in the summer." His large hand tightened around Rainer's body. "Yes sir, nothin' like squab." Lionel placed Rainer in his large coat pocket and buttoned the flap, turning the lights out and nearly suffocating the small bird. Rainer was terrified; his breath came in gulps panic. He had never been this close to man. The rank smell of this man gagged him. He heard the man grumbling words incoherent to Rainer. "What's for supper tonight, Lionel? Well, well, ol' buddy we're havin' us some pigeon, known you upper-snipity folks as squab." Lionel laughed his hyena laugh as he walked to the alley's dead end.
"Hey Lie! What you got in that there pocket?" Lionel didn't need to turn around to know the voice; it was Gainer. Gainer was one of the city's foot soldiers, a beat cop. He was an asshole in Lionel's mind, an asshole of great proportion. "You deaf or somethin'?" This time Lionel turned to face the pudgy little bastard. "Ah, you're not deaf after all."
"Fuck you Gainer." Lionel put his head down and began to walk away from the blue uniformed hound.
"Hold it there partner. You seem to have misunderstood the question. Perhaps your cognitive skills are waning with your increased wine consumption, eh? Let's see what ya got there." It was a disguised command. Lionel was about to protest when Gainer slapped the club under his chin and demanded, "Let's take a look!" He would not be denied. Gainer put his hand into Lionel's pocket and withdrew with a screech. "Ouch! What the...?" Gainer stared in disbelief at the pigeon's beak. "Damn, Lie, what are you gonna do with that?"
"I'm gonna eat the little bastard! Is there a law against eatin' a fuckin' pigeon?"
The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt the savage blow of Gainer's club. Just as Lionel was falling to the ground Rainer managed to escape. He fluttered to freedom. Gainer had made a futile leap at him but Rainer was too quick. He heard the crazy sounding man speaking loudly but incoherently to Rainer.
"You little bastard!" was all Gainer could think of to say. "You little bastard!" The bird had vanished into the nearby park never to be seen again by the cop or by any other city dweller for that matter. Rainer had decided to leave, to find his brother Whacker. "You little bastard!" The choking sounds of the crazy man soon faded as Rainer flew higher into the thinning air away from the toxic city, and away from the death that surrounded him each day he lived there.

Whacker studied the morning sounds of the woods. He heard no hints of the murdering man. He heard only the sounds of his fellow creatures, the morning doves, squirrels chattering, and the thumping of buck deer. They were the sounds of his life, familiar and restful. Though traumatized by the death of his friend Gourd, Whacker found solace in the peaceful sounds of the country.
He was hungry. His hunger drove him out of the hollowed log and toward a distant field, a field out of range of the murderer. Whacker managed to find some unpicked grain and a few small berries along the fence line. He enjoyed the overcast day. He felt safer when the sun hid behind a bruised and tarnished sky. He suddenly felt uneasy like someone was watching him. He didn't like the feeling. His instinct told him to fly but his hunger kept him pecking at the berry vine. "So, you are Whacker?" The voice startled him. Whacker fluttered to the top of a fence post. Searching rapidly for the source of the voice. He spotted a small frail bird sitting on a branch of a mulberry tree weeping itself across the barbed wire fence. The bird looked emaciated and tired, its feathers dirty and coated with a dark substance, dried blood? The small bird fell to the ground below, its fall broken only by some scrub oak trees surrounding the bigger tree. Whacker flew over to the site. The small bird seemed familiar to him, so familiar. Was it...Rainer?
He shuddered, "Rainer?" Could it be his brother? Whacker bent down and nudged the fallen bird. "Rainer?" He repeated. It was Rainer; he carried the same city bird markings as Whacker and the Whacker lineage. Rainer was too weak to respond. Whacker gripped one of Rainer's small legs and pulled him to a small hidden hollow near a root of the mulberry tree. The root intertwined above the ground with another branch causing a small tunnel to be formed beneath their intersection. He left Rainer, near death, to seek berries. Rainer needed the nourishment and hydration berries could provide. Whacker knew he was racing time. If he wanted to keep his brother alive he needed to act swiftly. He had lost Gourd and now...he wasn't ready, nor did he have time, to think about the possibilities confronting him.

Rainer lay in a near coma-like state for several days being nourished only with the regurgitated juices Whacker provided him. Rainer slowly gained strength to move about. He was able to walk with a slight limp and within a month he took his first flight. It had been a cat-and-mouse month for Whacker. He, on several occasions, had to move their hiding place to keep rats and other predators from having them both for a meal. It was the way of the world, survival, and at that period of his life Whacker was not ready to lose the battle. He would preserve his brother's life. They would survive at all cost, no matter the burden, no matter the handicap. Pigeons were a determined lot.
"Whacker, watch this.&