FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

I'm from here in Chicago--near north side, but you'd never know it by looking at me. We coyotes aren't seen in the city very often. Yeah, the faded feathers I wear make me look like I belong on the plains with my family. But I assure you I can hold my own; here in the Loop or in the projects of Cabrini Green.

Y'know, life has a way of changing directions suddenly--like the winter wind on Wacker. It cuts you apart. It's easy to lose faith in the power of the spirit and focus on wickedness.

Cruelty from strangers, that's not so bad. But cruelty from family or...or from someone you love cuts deeper. As long as love's blade isn't removed, the pain is almost pleasant. When it's pulled out, that's when the bleedin' starts. Every heartbeat shoots out a bit of life until all that's left is a hollow shell....

Oh, I'm sorry. You wanna a drink? Yeah, the bag's tacky but its insides warms my insides. No? Humph...I guess I don't blame ya.

It's hard to look at happiness from the outside, y'know? It's so easy to want to destroy it--to make others feel your pain. They say that misery loves company. When you're alone on the streets, you want to make yourself some company. I did it with every bit of brutality I could muster.

Yeah, these fangs of mine have spilled innocent blood. Maybe that's why I drink this rotgut. To kill the ghosts--the memories, both good and bad that haunt me. When you spend your nights alone in the shadow of the "L" you can't get much sleep...and your own mind is deadlier than a posse of gangbangers.

So, about two years ago I nearly killed myself....

Sure you don't wanna hit? Meh, suit yourself.

Y'know, I learned long ago that howlin' in the streets and alleys got me nothin' but trouble. Back then I'd go down to Buckingham Fountain and unload my lungs in isolation; drowning my cries in the water's roar. Usually, that would soothe the pain. But one night, it made things worse. It struck me that no matter how loud I cried, I couldn't even hear my own echo. I felt completely isolated. None of my own kind could hear and reassure me with a reply.

Now to make it worse, that October the cold came early and spray froze on my fur, rippin' my skin with every move.

I was ready to just let go, but a voice surprised me. A songbird sat on the fountain, with one foot frozen in place. Now normally I wouldn't have hesitated. Easy prey was within my grasp but didn't try to escape. He was as ready for death as I was.

He just stared at me and said "You got some powerful lungs there buddy; it's quite a gift."

Now, like I said I've tasted innocent blood before. I guess I didn't want another memory to haunt me. I just sighed and said something like: "Lotta good it does me. I got no family here. Ain't no one wants to hear it."

Well he said, "You're wrong. Everyone knows pain. Look at me. I spent my whole life singing pretty songs inside a cage, but do you think I was really happy? The first chance I get to escape, I take it and look where it lands me. Just more misery."

He tugged against the ice and fluttered a little. Then he changed my life. Y'see, he said: "Sometimes, it feels good to hear someone else's pain. It touches the soul. You don't feel quite so alone when you know someone else understands the secret feelings you hide inside."

Now, somehow that comforted me a bit. He felt it too. I cupped my paws around him and warmed him as best I could. I eventually freed his foot but he was too weak to fly. There was nowhere to go anyway, so we stayed together.

We found shelter near the ball fields--it's always a good place to scavenge scraps of food. I curled my tail and made him a sort of nest. Now, for a while we sang duets but it was purely one sided. Mostly he sang and I punctuated the tune with howling cries. With the change we collected, we were able to stop scavenging.

Well, one day he had a hard time singing'. His foot was black and he just trembled. "You will have to sing alone I'm afraid." he whispered.

That thought terrified me. Not only was my only friend about to leave me forever, but where would the money for food come from?

"I can't sing alone," I said to him. "You're the only reason we get tips."

He shook his head. "Nah, it's you they pay for." He said. "My songs are the kind that everyone sings. They aren't special. I please their ears. You... you touch their hearts."

Well, I didn't buy it. "A half drunk street predator touches their hearts?" I said.

He looked at me with them hollow eyes and said, "You express their agony in a way they can't. You give voice to painful parts of their soul."

Of course, he was right--he didn't make it through that day. When he went still, I howled like never before. To hell with the angry faces. I kept howling. Before long, a crowd gathered, but none of them could see the broken body I cradled in my paws. I howled about life and death. I cried out damnations. I sang of the loss and the sacred salvation of friendship.

That day I made enough in tips to sleep indoors, but it was too late for the songbird. His soul was beyond the pain we sang about. I released his body in the river, but not before plucking a couple of his tail feathers and braiding them into my hair.

So, that's why they call me Bluebird and how I came to sing the blues. The power in my voice comes from years of pain and mourning.

Maybe it's selfish of me. I don't sing to soothe your pain...to validate your feelings. I sing to see your reactions. I still make you share my pain. I just do it in a good way now.

So if you don't want a swig, I'll finish this. I got one more set to do. Why don't you hang around? I bet you have a story to tell. Maybe we can howl a duet--enjoy the company of each other's misery.

Yeah, that'd be nice.