The owl hooted. He had grown accustomed to hooting, bellowing his thoughts in a most avian fashion. However, the owl did not enjoy his existence. He rebelled with angst against the so-called "dress-codes of nature", the standard tawny overcoat that most owls of his cadre were expected by Lady Evolution to don did not, in any sensible manner, suit him. Indeed, the kitsch frippery his peers called
ankle-fancies where vastly primitive, nothing more than a band of mouse fur worn across their exposed claws. Nay, the owl preferred more cosmopolitan directions, opting for a demur covering of his ankles in down with a contrasting bow fit snug around his neck.
"Olivar you pretentious coot, I don't see why you continue with this fancy of yours. That thing around your neck has you stumbling all over yourself in flight. Indeed, just last moon you almost assaulted supper in a most ungainly manner, as if you wished to box the fellow! Either that or your mother forgot to teach you not to play with your food." The owls lined up and squawked at each other. Sometimes he forgot how simply
provincial they could be.
Gareth drifted across to a recently dug grave. It was a solid piece of granite, well made, the final resting place of what was once a well off fellow most likely. Its headstone read:
Here lies Barty "Bummer" Bashman
He lived a good life
Then he became a sword-swallower
We all saw it coming
441-472
Poor Barty. He used to come and engage in trysts with the militiamen. They called themselves the "Longsword's of Pabst", and would then spar endlessly into the night. It was quite entertaining for Gareth, normally. They didn't mind him, so long as he didn't interfere. He rarely bothered. Indeed, life in the cemetery was, at its best, rather boring.
***
"You sir, look like you died and turned vaudeville. I dare say that hat is a monstrosity. Gads, have you ever heard of the colour code? It's as if you took one look at all deemed fashionable, said "No thanks", then raided a museum!" Olivar flapped heatedly whilst laying down thick steaming chops of criticism at Gareth, who had simply walked by. He wasn't a very vitriolic owl, for sure, nor did he have anything against poor Gareth, and so he steered clear of any mention of his weight or posture or his unfortunate pallor; simply, for Olivar, a fashion faux pas was a mistake to be corrected, and he saw no reason to sugar coat his suggestion.
"I say, your penchant for the vogue dress of an era bygone is quite beyond me. That anyone would choose to bedeck themselves in the fripperies of Sometime Antiquity or, heaven forbid The Neverhappened Ages, is nothing short of being a grand mystery of the woodland kind. There are turtles who have a stronger grasp of contemporary presentation than you."
Olivar hooted - existentially, of course - at Gareth, who sat quite still, his darkened sockets catching faint flickers of light from the rising sun beyond the canopy. After Olivar had ceased his owlish hooting and flapping, Gareth raised a single skeletal finger. It was aimed cadaverously at Olivar.
"Bafoon. Fop. Single-toned peacock. Affectations. Your monochromatic, greyscale bandy of tawdry words and misguided outfits are telling. You, Mr Owl, are nothing more than a cynic with a poor taste in petticoats. Please remove yourself from my sightlessness." Gareth swept up his robes. He made sure that they touched the dusty floor. With a practiced grace, he strode forward. After a few steps, he turned back. "I'll have you know, you pitiful pseudo-fashionista, that I popularised the "graveyard" look before you were even hatched. The white tophat is my image, all others are simply posers and imitators. Indeed, I helped shape the first Whalebone Revolution in corsets and assorted accessories! You pretentious pollywog, I have been making waves before you were even a concept in an even less than known Lord-less-than-Known's mind! Bah! Back in my day, the inept bowed to their betters, begging for scraps of fabric to craft their cravats, so they may brag that they bore the hallowed cloth of a great!"
It was all very sculptured. Gareth spent inordinate amounts of time perfecting his performance; any display of emotion was nothing short of a work of art.
"I'll be damned if some fucking hipster owl tries to tell me how to dress." He muttered, stalking off.
