A wise man once sat by a bridge. Not for the first time, and not for the last time. This in fact, was a bridge that he frequented. I suppose if you had an easily pleased eye for aesthetics, you might say the bridge was picturesque and cute. It stood over what would be generously called "a river." The differing lengths of reeds and grasses jutting up from the silty banks almost hid the shameful brown colour of water. This wise man did not really sit at this particular bridge bi-daily for the view though. He came down to visit his friend, Owl.
This is where the story could change completely. I could begin writing about how this wise man was an addict. I could consult different websites and come up with a clever scientific name for a pill that has newly come to the streets. In great detail, I would summarise both the effects of said pill, and set up a premise for the rest of the story. The reason I could do these things is because there is character named Owl. It's obscure enough to either be the nickname of someone who would be a drug addict offering to perform fellatio behind a Supervalu, or an terrible nickname for a member of an indy band. Lo and behold, for ye have been tricked. The web of deceit I have spun as a spider of lies has attached itself to puffy front of your red North Face jacket. In fact, I chose to take this tale in a rather more innocent direction. Owl is the name of an Owl. A particularly friendly owl who for the remainder of the story, I will be anthropomorphising.
This wise man went by the name of Stephen. He was wise beyond his years, indicated clearly by his constant brow furrowing. His genius did not lie in his knowledge of sports or maths, but in his almost encyclopaedic knowledge of things that nobody else cared about. Much like a rambling homeless person carrying around an array of trinkets. To us, the contents of his homeless wagon appear to be trash and scrap, but to this homeless person, it is both his treasure and his legacy. Stephen carried this information around like the homeless person in question carrying his trinkets, lest it be lost to the fires and ravages of time. You could be talking about anything from current affairs to mainstream television and he would still find a way to relate it back to a post modern short story he had read or an obscure Kung-Fu film that he had watched in his room at an unspeakable hour, shoving seeds and black coffees in his person via the mouth.
For the readers who like to become fully immersed in the experience of the characters, who can only do so by knowing every small detail, the Owl's full name was Owl The Desert of the Real, which for my own convenience I will be shortening to just Owl.
Stephen would sit and chat with Owl for hours on end. Owl would perch himself on the wall at shoulder height and stare without prejudice at this man who would pour out confessions and secrets. Quietly, the owl listened before spending time considering his reply. There was never any need for haste. Stephen would sit patiently and sip cans of Druids cider, eagerly awaiting a reply. Each time, Stephen got his hopes up that Owl would reply differently, but no. Same as always, Owl would merely hoot.
The owl definitely did not have a name. The owl could not understand anything that Stephen would tell it. I'm not quite sure why the Owl felt so comfortable being in such close proximity to a person, mayhaps Stephen smelled of a cosy woodland area. Stephen was a crazy person who conversed with owls and anthropomorphised them. If seen it public, Stephen should be avoided at all costs.
