shine on!
A Shot of Misery #5
We’ve met before. We know you well. We know what scares you. We know what makes your skin crawl.
I am the writer. Let me tell you the tale of the man who went too far.
There is a magpie that visits my garden once a day. I see it through my bedroom window. I salute it as it flutters into the verdant grass to jut its beak into the sun-dried soil in search of worms.
Or, at least, I thought it spent it’s days searching for worms.
One day, when I was supposed to be packing my things to move, I gazed out the window to see it shuffling the torn edge of a shiny chocolate wrapper down its gullet. Of course, that was enough to catch my attention, but I could have sworn that the magpie grew. Just a little. I was convinced it had grown.
Putting it down to Wednesday boredom, I let the silly thought escape my mind as swiftly as the magpie flew away.
Thursday came, and true enough, the magpie returned. Only this time I felt compelled to leave my ever growing packing list at my desk, and head outside to greet the bird properly.
To my surprise, it did not fly away from me; instead, it almost acted relieved when it saw me come through the back door.
It’s deep black eyes locked onto my necklace, a locket. It was my father’s before he died. The tarnished locket, embellished with a carved cherub, contained a photograph of my mother, his wife.
I told the magpie it could not have it. Instead, remembering what I had seen the day before, I returned to the kitchen and retrieved a small chocolate bar. I tore the edge of the wrapper to reveal the shiny inside, smeared a little with chocolate.
The bird hopped just in front of me and arched its beak to the sky, opening its gullet. I dropped the shiny wrapper into its beak and true enough, the bird grew. Not in bloat, as if after a big meal, but it literally grew. Not by a lot. But I noticed.
In amazement at the confirmation of my suspicion, I ran back to the kitchen and brought entire rolls of tin foil. Then tea spoons. Then forks. And with each shiny thing it swallowed, the bird grew, and grew, and whilst its gullet tore and bled as it swallowed serrated knives and hair pins, it seemed thankful all the same.
The magpie, now as tall as me, demanded more. It beat its wings at me and jutted its beak towards me as if I were a worm it would/should have normally eaten.
I canvased my house once more, only to return to the expectant bird with bad news.
I could tell it understood, but I could also tell that it was angry.
In its bubbling frustration, it grabbed at my chest with its oversized talon. I dodged and, with a raised voice, told the beast that I had nothing left to give it.
Its pitch-black eyes dropped to the floor, as if in shame. And as I looked at it, this now monstrous thing that had only arrived in my garden through pure happenstance, I realised that my own curiosity had forever left it changed. I had, through boredom, let my home be consumed by a fleeting instinct.
By way of apology, I undid the clasp on my cherub-adorned locket and threw it in the air. The excitable bird held open its beak, and caught it. But as it swallowed, I could hear the tightening of the skin beneath its feathers, and the splintering cracks of its ribs as the poor monstrous magpie swelled and burst.
I clamped my eyes shut, so as to shield them from the entrails and tea spoons. But when I opened my eyes, I found that nothing was there. My garden was completely normal, and no sign of the magpie could be found at all.
With bewilderment, I headed back inside to see my home was still empty, ransacked, the copper wires pulled from the walls. And my father’s necklace was no longer around my neck.
Everything was gone.
So I trudged up the stairs to see my packing list still sitting on my desk. As yet, not a single thing had been done.
We’ve met before. We know you well. We know what scares you. We know what makes your skin crawl. Help me feed this beast. It lives off what makes your stomach turn.
Like a shot of misery that slithers down, its tendrils contain the unborn upset of not knowing til it’ll tear more than just my throat apart. That is, unless you keep it fed with your distress.
We’ll be seeing you soon.
That sat a little uneasy...in a good way. The way that it was meant to. Nice job, I'm in.
I just finished reading “Shine On” and it hit me in that quiet, necessary way good writing does. Your voice is steady, honest, and unafraid to sit with the complicated parts of being human. The piece feels both intimate and expansive — like someone turning a small, personal moment over in their hands until it reflects something universal. I walked away feeling a little more grounded, a little more seen, and genuinely grateful for the clarity tucked between the lines.