Dancing Under the Mistletoe

Chris says: This is a short story I wrote while procrastinating. It took me a couple of hours to write. Enjoy!

“Alex, that birdie is only sleeping isn’t he? Isn’t he Alex?” Despair trickled from Georgia’s eyes as she stared deeply into the face of his friend, trying to prize out the truth. Alex sat motionless, face void of any emotion. The little red and black bird remained just as still, stiller in fact, it’s eyes still tranquil and untroubled, just as they were on the day death relieved it from this world.

He wakes. It is morning again. Darkness still shrouds the world as he emerges from his sleeping place. Quietly, the wind whistles through the trees, but it is not cold. This part of the world is still pleasant at this time of year, for the warmth of the summer months gone still lingers in the air. He breathes a sigh of relief, or sorrow, no man or beast will ever know. He sets out on his journey. He does not have far to go. He does the same everyday. Today will be no different.

She stirs. Morning has arrived quicker than she thought, but she will not be late. The wind is gentle, even for this time of morning. A strange fog has set over the dry bushland; a sea of grey drowns the eucalypt trees that usually stretch as far as the eye can see. As the fog rolls and swirls around her, it brings with it a biting cold, strange for this time of year. Maybe winter has arrived early. The fog is unnerving, but still she sets out on her journey. She does not have far to go. She does the same everyday. Today is somehow different.

He arrives at his destination. It’s time to get to work. He stands tall, chest out, and registers his surroundings. It is suddenly cold. The chill pierces his lungs. It’s darker than he remembers it being when he woke this morning. A strange fog has set in around him, and it blocks out the sun. The usual bright glow of the giant star is reduced to a flickering whimper as it tries to break through the grey swirl. There is work to be done. His first feed hangs motionless; he can barely see it in the grey swell. He glances forward, and picks out his prize. He squeezes the sweet, sticky substance down his throat, and continues on to his next.

She watches on as he goes about his work. She will soon be doing the same, but for now, she watches. She sees him dance around gracefully, extracting his prizes and hopping to the next batch. Suddenly he stops. Only 30 minutes have passed since his first meal, a full days work remains. Why does he stop? She gazes on with interest. Then, almost as suddenly as he stopped, he springs back into life. He sways his body frantically from side to side. He gives back to nature what he first took, and as if nature silently nods back in appreciation, he moves along. She is finished watching. She slips unnoticed into the grey mist.

A phantom menace lies hidden. It watches as they dance under the mistletoe. It is not from around here, an alien brought from a distant land. It is an efficient hunter, a destroyer of natural beauty. The hunter usually hunts at night, but today is different. It watches, they dance. The time comes, the hunter’s thin black pupils violently dilate into deep black holes, and its sheathed claws are unsheathed once more. The predator engages its enemy. It is an efficient hunter. There can only be one winner.

She escapes. She cheats death. He is nowhere to be seen. The mist begins to clear. The cold retreats as the grey tide rolls out. The sun blazes. She regains her bearings. Still no sign of predator or prey. Then she sees him, a glimmer of red and black and white, lying, lifeless and twisted in the cold grey dirt, his eyes tranquil and untroubled. She hears a rustling in the distance. She has lingered too long; there is work to be done. As she takes flight, a lumbering beast that stands upon two limbs, another destroyer of nature, another alien from a distant world, reaches down and takes his body from the grey dirt.

“So, the mistletoe bird eats the seed of the parasitic mistletoe plant and it only takes 30 minutes for it to come out of the other end. 30 minutes, beak to bum” Doctor Groom grins following his witty remark “The bird then has to wiggle his bottom from side to side to make sure the sticky seed is removed from the birds ‘rear end’ and is attached to the host plant”

“Alex, that birdie is only sleeping isn’t he? Isn’t he Alex?” Alex plays along, and pretends to stare into the depths of despair, before he chuckles at Georgia’s imitation of a naïve child who can’t understand why the stuffed bird she’s staring at won’t move. The class giggles as the lecturer sways his body frantically from side to side, imitating the mistletoe bird giving back to nature what it first took.