BY GRAY WINSLER To wake up and find oneself covered in feathers is a rather unsettling experience. To then find that not scattered about as the result of some debaucherous pillow fight, but actually attached to one’s body like some bizarre avian acupuncturing, is even more disturbing. To then find that one has in fact transmorphed into a bird, well, that’s just odd. This is what happened to Nolan. He denied it at first. When he attempted to raise his arm and found that it had become a wing, he thought he was hallucinating. When he stumbled in circles on his newly pronged feet and eventually toppled over into the dirt, he thought he may have taken magic mushrooms. When he attempted to pluck out his own feathers and found he was greeted with an immense amount of pain, he was certain that he had taken magic mushrooms. But the hours passed and his condition remained unchanged. Nolan convinced himself for a time that he was dreaming. But when he dove head first into a rock and found that the only change to his condition was an excruciating headache, the reality of his newfound form began to sink in. Eager for help, he searched the landscape for life. The world around him was dusty and dim. He was on the edge of a woods. In front of him: a stretch of red rocks and short shrubbery. He parted his beak to speak and found that chirps came out. He was startled by his own voice, but even more startled by the fact that he could understand these chirps, that he had heard both Tweeeeet! and Helllllp! Finally, at the edge of the woods, he saw another bird who was bathing itself in dust. Nolan hopped toward the bird, which was the best he could muster, as he was still getting used to his taloned feet. “You! You there! I need help!” The bird looked up at him and cocked its head. Nolan hopped closer, and the bird, who upon closer “That’s usually how it goes. Did you get too close to one of those these feathers were dreadful cats?” “No, no, that’s just it — I’m not a bird.” “Hm,” the cardinal said, looking Nolan over. “You look like a bird to me.” “I mean, I wasn’t a bird.” “We were all birds once.” Nolan’s feathers bristled. “That doesn’t make any sense!” “Perhaps you should paint.” “What?” The bird nodded toward an easel. “No, I — I don’t need to paint,” Nolan said, frustrated. “Painting helps soothe the mind,” the cardinal assured him. “I don’t even have hands!” Nolan erupted. The cardinal was confused by this, then picked up a twig in its beak and began to motion the act of painting. “Please, I’m begging— ” Nolan began, but was interrupted by a great gust of wind which toppled him over and covered him in a generous blanket of sand and dirt. He blinked through the dust and saw an enormous raven towering over him, a dark shadow against a crimson sky. Terrified, he rolled and flopped until he managed to get himself back on his talons. The raven spoke with a deep voice that seemed to emanate from the Earth’s core: “Nolan Matthews. I have been sent by the Great Kingdom of the Finch. You have been welcomed into their ranks with open wings. You will cease to be known as Nolan Matthews from this moment forth, and now be referred to as Twitch.” At once, both terrified and befuddled, Nolan found himself stammering, incoherent, as he gazed up at the twilit raven. The raven, sensing Nolan’s confusion, offered: “You are within the inspection was a lady cardinal, demure in her coloring but magnificent in her plumage, continued to watch him with curiosity. Nolan thought he may have felt a slight attraction to the cardinal but quickly hushed this feeling. The cardinal chirped, and Nolan understood it to mean, “How can I help?” “I’m not supposed to be here,” Nolan pleaded. “Who is?” “No, I mean, there’s been a mistake.” samsara.” “The what?” “Did you not read the Bhagavad Gita?” “The-the yoga thing?” Nolan asked. “You have shed your garments and put on new ones.” “What?” “The cycle continues on.” “Are you — are you trying to tell me that I’m dead?” “Do you feel dead?” Nolan felt queasy, and suddenly vomited up a worm he did not 3
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