George was at his window; it was Wednesday night.
He was indecisive.
He hadn't seen the bluejay since Sunday; it had been visiting pretty regularly before now.
I'm being stupid; it's literally a wild animal. He's not my pet or anything. I get too attached to stuff.
A few minutes later he was on his bike pedaling furiously.
Idiot. Who goes looking for a bird?
George glared at the trees lining the road as if they were the source of his problems.
He continued pedaling, thinking. I should have named it -him- he's definitely a him. But I didn't so I can't call out anything. Maybe if I whistle; no I can't whistle. I really should have learned to do that. Anyway. Maybe I should think of a name for when I find him. Blue? No, I might as well just call it bird. Dream? No, that's way too weird. Annoying Blue Thing? He smirked. It is that, but no. Maybe I shouldn't even name it. Blue. Bluejay. Jay. Jay, Dodgy Jay. He almost smiled, then it disappeared. No, I don't know. I'll figure it out later, or maybe I'll just call him bluejay.
I'm stupid for even being out here; now I'm going crazy and naming a wild animal.
He stopped pedaling and coasted down a hill, searching the treetops with his eyes and listening for any birdcalls.
Just faraway motors, dogs barking at each other, the sighing wind, a yowling cat, wailing sirens in the distance. George heard all these, but none of them where what he was listening for.
He had been biking for more than thirty minutes and had travelled quite a ways from his house when he finally heard something. He had moved away from the sounds of town now and was crossing a bridge; he wasn't even sure he heard anything at first, the rushing water drowned out the sound.
On the other side he paused, one foot resting on the ground, the other on a pedal, and he listened.
There it is again, a muffled noise, definitely a bird. He scanned the branches over his head for a flash of blue, everything else was muted browns and yellows. A third time the bird cawed, and he finally located it.
A lone crow.
It cawed hoarsely at George again from its lofty position and shuffled its hunched form on the measly stick that made its perch.
George rolled his eyes and restarted the search, ignoring the crow's caws echoing through the tree trunks.
He was going slower now. It was dark and a little creepy on the lonely road encompasseed by woods.
What am I even doing? He lugged his bike up a hill. I shouldn't be out here.
He crested the hill and was casually gliding down when something on the side of the road caught his eye. He turned his head to look and felt the wheels lock under him. He tried frantically to grasp the bike but was thrown off.
The earth and sky somersaulted in his vision as he tumbled through the bushes until he finally skidded to a stop at the bottom of the hill.
George gazed at the dark sky and sighed.
He was bruised, scratched, dizzy, aching, and tired
But hey, stars.
He heaved himself up and got his breath back. Then he made his way back his bike and pulled it to the road. Nothing was broken, neither in his body nor on the bike, but he was bruised and it was dented.
Definitely not a bad sign. Just rotten luck.
A stick had caught in the wheel; it could have killed him.
Melodramatic as always.
It's actually good luck if you look at it differently, since I didn't die. He thought grimly.
He walked his bike up the hill again and reached the thing that had snagged his attention.
It was a bundle of feathers.
He hurriedly dropped the bike and rushed to the little body.
It was a dead bird. Nightingale.
At least it's not my bluejay. Still, -he looked around the road- it doesn't mean he couldn't have been hit by a car either.
No, it's probably just migrating or something. I should definitely go home.
George's bike was heavier than he remembered when he picked it up again, but it still held him when he mounted it at the top of the stupid hill. He rode down slowly and it carried him all the way home.
Back in his room George checked himself for injuries in the mirror. Just scrapes and scratches that'll be hard to hide tomorrow.
He cleaned the wounds and bandaged the bigger ones. Luckily, most of them he could cover by just wearing long sleeves and trousers.
He was actually really lucky, considering he crashed his bike and rolled down a hill in the dark woods. No one knew about his little bike adventure. He imagined Clay berating him, "You should be more careful, what if you got hurt?" Like Clay wasn't the reckless one.
George sighed as he finished.
I'm a mess.
A beautiful mess, murmured a voice in his head, the optimistic one; it sounded almost like Dream.
A smile tugged at George's lips.
He decided to listen to it and keep himself going.
George usually preferred music like Mother Mother over Jason Mraz type chill, but it seemed fitting for tonight. He put a relaxing song on the record player then he spotted the white rimmed sunglasses Clay gave him on his dresser.
He put them on his head to help with the pick-me-up and plopped onto his bed. Then he promptly cuddled up in blankets and stared at the ceiling, letting the drifting beat wrap around him in soft luxury.
(1k words)
The idea of him biking just reminded me of stranger things ok
Also not very long and not very plot, the last one was for my Hermitcraft homies and this one's for the poets
Buckle up ;)