Mouse and Owl.

“Well, why didn’t you do it then?” tentatively asked the weary barn owl.

 It had been a long night, talking with Gilbert the mouse always turned wistful over Whiskey and smokes. This owl was more of a walk it off and smash another line kind of owl. Talking problems through and crying about it didn’t make sense to him, like those dippy incestual pheasants down in Somerset. That’s how owls were raised in these parts of the woods. Regurgitate some vermin, shit some pellets, fuck some slutty barn owl down in Thetford. Life continues. Four in ten male owls not in education or employment commit suicide before the age of twelve. Short wingspans, short life plans. Growing up in the Woodland Projects was tough.

  “It just didn’t seem right. You know how it is, Will. You’re in the moment, everything you want just sitting there, gleaming like a frozen slug stuck to the middle of a great big fucking stop sign. It gleams, that slug gleams with the tantalising slime it knows you want. And at that moment, that everything or nothing moment, you hesitate. You hesitate and watch the slug come crashing down, shattering into the newly ordered constellations. You only realise what you want when it's gone. Like a Toblerone,” Gilbert said solemnly while shaking his head. 

 Gilbert perpetually had the dejected manner of a sea captain who had been cursed long ago. Sometimes fun, his sombre periods had lengthened, much to the exasperation of his fellow mice. He was still the only mouse that chilled with the owls, mainly because he pulled a ‘900’ at Beach Skatepark and unlocked Spiderman on the original PS2 version of Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater at Spiderz house.

  “Us predators, we see things more simply than you artistic mice up here in the trees. We go get what we want. Life is predatory, it’s killing us all the time, and if you don’t act, then you blink, and the years are gone. The actors all creep behind the big red curtain and that lighting bill isn’t going to last till sundown. So. Why didn’t you do it?” Will inquired with a ruffle of his wings. 

 “It wasn’t deliberate, I was scared, I think. I don’t know. I think I thought it would make them happy……if I didn’t. I think,” Gilbert reasoned. 

  “No. No, I don’t think so. If you wanted to do it, you would have done it. What’s going on is that you don’t know why you didn’t do it,” Will suggested. 

 “What do you mean I don’t know! I do know, it’s my head. I was born with it. It just has a lot of scaffolding is all,” Gilbert wined. 

 “Scaffolding?” Will jibed. 

 “Yer. I mean, what I’m signifying, the act. The act of actingon the action that I should have acted on. Are we clear?” Gilbert snapped.

 “Sure,” Will sighed. 

 “Cool, Well, that thing. It has a lot of scaffolding. A lot of reasons holding it up and a lot of uncertainties pulling it down. Of course, I didn’t know why, but I know the mix of reasons from which the why came from. That mix is fused, but distinct things rise from it. A hybrid of fears and emotions multiplying like rabbits at Woodstock. How are you ever able to act on things that you want when you don’t know who you’re going to hurt, or what you’re going to lose?” Gilbert asked. 

  “Well, this is the problem with you non-hunters. You think. Quite simply, stop thinking. Next time just go for the kill. But that’s the thing. You know that. So back to the original point. Why didn’t you? What specific, weird, hybrid thought homunculus squirmed out of your plasma coated, neuron-laced pit and stopped you from acting?” Will snapped. 

 “Wu-Wei,” Gilbert said with a smile. 

 “Fuck off,” Will wheezed. 

 “No, I think that’s it. Non-action is action. By not doing it, they’re happy,” Gilbert said wearily. 

 “But you’re not happy. Olivier is a cunt,” Will reasoned. 

 “Nar his alright,” Gilbert sighed. 

  “Then why did you set the Post Office alight?” Will pushed. 

 “It was nothin-,“ Gilbert started.

 “Christ he is a cunt. What are you talking about? He keeps telling everyone he cooks because his from fucking Italy. Literally, every culture in the world has cuisine. I fucking hate Italy. I fucking hate him. Fuck him. You’re making excuses for yourself, and because you made excuses and kept your cool you ended up setting a Post Office on fire. You deserve to be happy as well. And that must come from something or someone losing. In some cases, someone must lose a lot. Otherwise, that person is you. No way around it,” Will preached enthusiastically. 

 “I couldn’t have known it was right next to it…….” Will responded forlornly. 

  “No,” Gilbert agreed with a shake of his head.

 William and Gilbert stared across the snowy peaks of the woodland pines perched high on a wee mouse-sized treehouse. Smoke normally billowed out of a miniature orange brick fireplace, but the adjacent owl landing pad erected by William last summer was crystal. They watched the sunrise together, drank the last of their Whiskey, engaged in a warm embrace and went their separate ways. William’s maroon scarf ruffled his feathers and jaded his eyes, but he refused to turn his head. One tiny mouse hand gripped an even tinier burnt shoe, as eight fury toes clasped the edge of a wooden platform. The noose had been placed accordingly. William didn’t look back. Everyone knows that prey can’t hunt.