17/365 - The Island of Forgotten Birds

The island of forgotten birds lies twenty-six miles south of the Galapagos. It’s a tiny island and it’s close to the archipelago so it’s always been assumed to have the same sorts of life on it. It’s been left alone.

This is the island of forgotten birds. An aviary where no natural predators have diluted the strange population of genetic mishaps and experiments that have flourished naturally. This island’s ecosystem has evolved many different types of fowl that can subsist on the fish and scrub-brush that dot the rocky outcrops of the land.

There is the donkstritch, a giant flightless horse-headed relative to the emu. There are tornado clouds of circle-darts, sparrow-like birds with stunted left wings enabling them to only fly in circles. There are the hooverbills and strainerbeaks with immense baleen filters on that enable them to fly face-down through the water scooping up the smaller shrimp and fish in their mouths.

There’s the gillybird, an amphibious reptile-bird closer to the dinosaurs that any of the others. The cowsnatcher, a bird whose monstrous talons are matched only by its acre-wide wingspan.

There’s the marktites, eight-legged birds with almost no wings left to speak of. And the flintsparks, who use the flammable shavings from their quills to start fires and cook their food. Ladderstorks, given that name because of the many long ankle spurs that travel up and down both of their long, long legs. Colourwings, so iridescent they look like they’re burning with rainbows.

Leatherwarts and poolicans are two of the least favourite birds.



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18/365 - Wizard's Child

A dragon-skull reminder of how angels taste. A glowing amulet from a forgotten time of sorcerers used as a night-light for the young one. The tornado of fire in the fireplace lights the kindling. A closet full of head-dresses from different kingdom’s kings given to the court magicians. Seventeen different baptism chalices. Most for water, some for oil and one for blood.

The tomes of lore have applesauce in between the pages. The tapestry of the fates, hard-won in a battle with a hydra that lasted seven months, has a yogurt stain on it. There is a book bound with human skin that has a drawing on the front in crayon. A clumsy heart to be precise. This simple act of child’s love has nullified the entire thing.

Wizards are great for teenagers but they suck at toddlers. Even by a magic-wielder’s standards, a child can cause an immense amount of damage.

Goretusk the Conqueror Mage, veteran of the Battle of the Never-Ending Eclipse, writer of chapter seven of the One Book, keeper of the remaining True Orb of Seeing, inventor of the most powerful storm spell put to page, stood looking down at his child.

His child had a mouthful of ink and was rubbing his hands all over the discarded parchment of the last remaining Aquanomicon Manual on Earth and cooing a song.

Goretusk held back a scream for the hundredth time since his wife had left him and forced a smile.




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