Wonder Made

Ten, Part Two

Crispen's crow, who'd been doing a great job acting as though its insides were stuffing—an arduous task to accomplish let alone to do so convincingly—rolled his eyes.

Chant gagged, coughed, or growled. At the very least, he did something as bile or admiration, the same as far as dealing with the eldest Auttsley was concerned, rose, and tickled the back of his throat.

"Not funny," came his reply, which inspired the adverse of its intention – it made Peneloper smile. Her mother had responded similarly to her father's poorly timed jests, too. Those had been such warm, happy times. It'd been amazing how quickly those memories had cooled and solidified into something bitter and hard-to-swallow after Peneloper realized her father wasn't coming back.

Chant wobbled the rest of the way into her room before crumpling onto her bed, the springs screeching their protests and snapping Peneloper from her memories.

The bed, in question, pondered rolling up and putting itself on the curb to await trash pickup come Monday, as it had never been saddled with so many bodies on a singular day since it's manufactured inception. Its springs ached from overuse, its hypoallergenic mattress fumbled through a sneezing fit brought on from animal dander and human shedding. No bed had ever before been so miserable.

Chant's face-plant, not only spurred the bed to rethink its career goals—eyeing fondly a romp in the hospitality business wherein it imagined working at a luxury hotel in Barbados or the Caribbean—it also thrust Peneloper's collection of stuffed animals into the air in a spectacular display of aerobatics.

Her turtle flew with the grace so rarely seen of its kind, flipping over itself once before landing atop her dresser in a nest of paisley-patterned socks. The teddy bear's button eyes widened with fear, its seams quivering with desperation as it rocketed skyward, gliding the full width of the room, before landing atop a pile of Peneloper's dirty laundry. The bear's ears sagged, the universal sign for giving up.

The literal bird spread its wings within seconds of being tossed into the air and boasting of a grace unseen by its stuffed counterparts, glided through the room, eyeing each potential perch before deciding upon Peneloper's floor-length mirror.

The mirror, which had seen little use, as Peneloper was not keen to stand in front of it preening herself to unattainable standards before dawn's first light, felt its purpose renewed. Its colleagues could talk about the young men and women they serviced, comparing levels of beauty and weighing the importance of inner versus outer beauty, or how, one without the other leaves one severely disadvantaged depending on the demographic they appeal to, but none of them ever spoke of birds using them as perches.

This was a most delicious tidbit of gossip for Peneloper's mirror to now possess and it would savor every jealous reflection, every angered gleam and glint of its counterparts come the next meeting (hereafter scheduled the third Tuesday of every month in Potter Oaks Community Commons, wherein coffee and donuts would be provided).

Chant yelped in surprise as the bird set out, once again, to right its wronged feathers. "Relax, beast," the bird said between tugs at a loosened tuft of down from its neck. "I'm a bird, not a Markin."

Peneloper supplied Chant with a pillow, so he could elevate his head and ease his breathing or stifle his surprise so as to not alarm Mother Auttsley as Saturdays were her days to recharge – settling into a routine of easy yoga, meditation, wheatgrass shakes and home shopping television, and which always ended the same by tossing good health, a calm mind and centered body to the curb after an hour trying to achieve nirvana and namaste and bulk purchasing flowy, three-quarter sleeved tops in favor of Lifetime movie marathons, six-packs of hard cider, and a pepperoni deep-dish from Domingo's on Main. In such times, it was in one's best interest, if they valued their life, to let Mother Auttsley go undisturbed, as even when at their most relaxed, a mother bear can still maul you to death.