The Strange Bird From Down the Lane

Painting by AK.

The Strange Bird From Down the Lane

There are rumors of a strange bird inside the strange park at the pedestrian neighborhood. Well, they say it's a bird, a crow to be precise, with black ruffled feathers and a strange type of look in its eyes. But some people say it's a girl. 

The path to the park isn't normal either. I remember someone saying that you have to walk down a certain lane while closing your eyes, but I haven't tested it yet. The last time someone tried to enter the park through the entrance, however, they came back bloodied and bruised.

Yet nobody saw a thing.

Nobody is allowed to go there, not even the mayor. They say that visiting the quiet place makes one contemplate about the complexities of life, and in our neighborhood, such a foreign thing isn't allowed. We're only suppose to follow the rules and lead a perfect life.

It was one day that I decided to see if the rumors were true themselves. I walked down the lane closing my eyes, and to my surprise there really was a girl amongst the birds.

She told me that I was the one of the few who actually followed the rule of entering the park. She apologized for the boy that came back bloodied and bruised, since the crows didn't like people entering nonchalantly. We began conversing.

The life of a crow is strange, she said. People take their caws for omens and misfortunes or for luck and serendipities. But she didn't mind. She said it was grand to see the world in the sky. She tends to pity those who can't fly.

I asked her about her existence.

She told me she was simply was.

After a nice chat about birds and humans, I left the park with a promise of reunion. When I turned around, however, the park wasn't there anymore.

That Type of Look That Can Only Mean an Immaculate Determination

That Type of Look That Can Only Mean an Immaculate Determination

She stared at the man in front of her, a type of stare that only she could muster. There was something inside him that boiled with indignation with the look she gave, as though all parts of his existence had been overshadowed by it.

He hated it.

Lunging at her face in an attempt to remove her facial expression, she sidestepped with a carefree smile as the man face-planted onto the ground.

"Why?!" He glared at her as she gave an unworried laugh.

"Well, it's kind of inevitable, don't you think?" 

Standing up, he watched her once more, all forms of emotions focused on the gaze on her eyes. An immaculate determination, he mused. Something completely foreign to him. 

Infinity

Portrait by AK.

Infinity

She has this strange stare that most people cannot discern. 

Her portrait lies inside an art gallery, hidden away in a seemingly endless white hall. She looks past the few people that manage to find her, into something that they consider the painting at the end of the hallway; a well-dressed man who looks purloined. 

What do you think she's looking at? ask many patrons contemplating her pale facial features. They give many answers: a lost lover, a death scene, perhaps the painted man. But she ignores them, continuing to stare.

"I think she's seen infinity," says a little boy who looks in the exact same direction as her.

She smiled, though nobody saw. It was nice to know there were others like her.

Welcome to Bijou Whispers

"Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."

-Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist

Let's use our imaginations to tackle the dark world.

Bijou Whispers, kinda like Erin Morgenstern's Flax-Goldens, but a simulacrum.

I created this blog, inspired by Erin Morgernstern's Flax-Goldens and a half-finished painting from an awe-inspiring friend of mine. I've been wanting to do something like this for a while, but I didn't just want to grab a random picture from Google. I wanted the pictures to have a special meaning, so most of the stories will include drawings from people who I know, and the occasional novice/amateur picture from me.

Erin Morgernstern, if by some chance you're reading this, please don't sue me for lack of creativity among other things. I say lack of creativity because as you can see, I copied this first post based on your own first flax-golden introduction post. Also, the money I have is worth negative five dollars. 

So, I'm Maxwell. Well, I would like to be called Maxwell. I will be the writer of the pictures I see and upload, and I haven't a clue how long each picture's story will last. Depending on each picture, I'll guesstimate the proper amount of lines and paragraphs. Occasionally, I'll upload a picture like the one above that is not owned by me nor my friends. 

After all, all kinds of pictures have stories to tell. Even if one has to make them on the spot.

P.S: Most of the paintings don't have titles, so I'll just provide one that I think suits it best. I'll credit the artist that made it, but only if they want to be credited.