“Guards, close the door.”  The great macaw said.

Icarus turned to leave, assuming the bird king meant to be alone.

“No, you stay.”  The king said while looking directly at icarus.   The deep blue bird removed his crown, and placed it on the desk between him and the penguin.   He breathed deeply, and halfway through letting it out he whispered. “Please sit.”

Icarus awkwardly struggled at climbing atop the stool the king was referring to.  The stool was made for terrestrial animals, where as the perches around the room were made for the bird.  But those, for obvious reason, were of no use to the penguin.

Icarus tried to cover the fact he was out of breath.  As he sat nervously.

“How old are you?”

“14 yearss old. Your magessty.”  Icarus breathed deeply trying to hide his lisp, and calm his slightly pounding lungs.

The macaw nodded and threw a a voice just over a whisper he said.

“Icarus, I am 140 years old.”  He made no effort to emphasize that statement, but his shoulders and back relaxed once he said it. Icarus tried not to react to this fact, this bird he was talking to had seen more of history than most animals alive.

“The only part of our nation that has seen more life than me would be the trees and the hills.”  His blue feathers glistened as he let out a soft laugh.

“What is it that you want Icarus?”

“To fly majessty.  To defend this home.”

“And you need to fly to defend it?”

“Yes majesty.”

“Do these guards, silver-back gorillas… born to the ground, need to fly to defend me?”

Icarus feared answering.  The song his father sang to calm him while they used to fly echoed in his mind and he said “They are not birds majesty.”

The Macaw did not smile, but he did nod.

“You lost your parents young Icarus?”

“My mother majesty.  Father still fishes in the western sea.”

“I have no parents.”  The macaw said.  Icarus felt odd to hear then fact that he had read in the history books said allowed.  Both of the Bird King’s parents had died when he was just 5 due to a northern raid in the early fighting between the kingdoms.  “I have seen more life and more death than most wish to know, and I know how a bird changes when a spouse dies.”  The king’s dark eyes glistened only slightly. “You did lose both of your parents.” He blinked slowly. “Or you would be home.”

Anger turned Icarus’ beak red hot as water fought to fill his eyes.

“When were you last home?”

“Six y…” Icarus coughed.  The shaking in his voice cleared slightly. “Six years ago majesty.”

Icarus readjusted in his seat.  His feet dangled off the edge.  His formal jacket, though the smallest size available, hung loosely.

“This war is filled with animals that have stories worth repeating.  Animals that fight for their kid, their chick, their young at home.  Or they fight to win a mate at home.  So in the end, their story has a worthy end.  Then there is you Icarus.  You want to fly, but you can not fly.  You want to defend your home, but have spent most of your life away from it.  Your life fills the whispered gossip of our nation, but it is not a story worth repeating beyond that.”  The king leaned back on his perch. “Do you know the ‘song of the bear?’”

“The nursery rhyme?  Yes.”    Icarus remembered it from the book his mother had read from that smelled like dust and cookies. He prayed he wouldn’t have to recite it.

In a world of cold dirt and lumber

The bear of the woods looks to slumber

His paws, the small fear and fall under

The bear of the woods looks to slumber

The toil the plan and the work of summer

The bear of the woods looks to slumber

Winter has come 

Work is done

The bear of the woods lives in slumber.

The Bird King continued, “The bears of this word are the most fearsome warriors, the catalysts that change kingdoms, the animals on the front lines.  But yet, they are meant to rest and it is perfectly natural.  I believe our modern bear’s desire to ignore that instinct has been a downfall of civility.  A bear at rest is beautiful.  Something so powerful, so deadly embracing the still and the quiet.  In days of old, a bears home was their focus because they knew that for a good portion of their lives, they would rest in it.”

He gestured with his wings outstretched, “Heroes are made when their hearts are at rest so they can be thrown into chaos.  Go home, see your father.  If any voice is to repeat your story beyond vane intrigue, let it be your father’s.”

The king looked down to his crown and continued, “Fathers are taken daily.  Mothers are taken daily.”  He looked up again with a softened brow “Find rest, and then worry about flying.”

“They are still out there, want me to throw rocks at em?” Harid’s voice echoed of the large window he faced. He attempted to count the number of reporters swarming around the cliff-top house.  Hagar was on the floor with Icarus.  Able stood towards the back of the room holding a coffee and staring at the open bay window. The coffee had gone cold.

“No dad.  It will pass.  Just like it did when we Icarus first arrived.”  Hagar responded.

“Everything alright mum?”  Icarus’ small voice almost got lost in the size of the room combined with the commotion outside.   His use of mum always made Able tense his shoulders.  Icarus had been speaking for a while now.  Long enough for the Pelicans to talk about sending him to school.

“Well if he is staying he needs to get an education.” Hagar stated. 

“So he’s staying?” Able said.

“Where else is he going to go?  You know how I feel.” Hagar said. 

“I know, and I don’t want to kick him out, but he is not our son.  We have already done so much.  More than most would.”

“He is as much our son as we are willing to let him be.  He is staying.  He is going to grow up soon. I don’t want him to grow up to be a waste.  He is going to school.”

And that was it.  If anything, it would get the small bird out of the house.  With Icarus and Harid … the house was getting crowded.

Two weeks ago they had begun the search for a school.  The terrestrial school made some sense for the penguin, but even though the bird walked on the ground he wasn’t meant to go to school with bears, dogs, wolves, cats, and other animals that instinctually wanted to attack small birds.  So they approached the School for Winged Animals.  Harbortown is a small town, word of a polar animal in a local school spread.

Outside their home stood nosey neighbors now combining with the numerous voice recorders, animals with note pads, and professional spectators.

“You’d think we’d killed someone.”  Hagar said.

“I think I might.”  Harid said.

Able put his coffee down. He tussled his beak on the back of his wife’s head.

The door made a mechanical click as it shut behind him.  The silence in the front yard existed only a few feet in front of the pelican as he walked to the wall of reporters.   The beaver that had lived next door to him for years had long ago stopped pretending to garden and now stood with soiled gardening gloves and an out-of-place shovel in his right paw. A reporter, a cat of equal size, stood with her hair tensed as dirt fell from the shovel onto her notepad.

Abel made no effort to raise his voice. “Why are you on my lawn?”

A small chimp in the pine branch above abel leaned down to with a camera in one hand, “Is it your intention to enroll a polar animal in school with our city’s pups, chicks, and kids?”  Other animals nodded in interest and agreement.

“That is a choice for my family.”

“But it is our kids you would be putting in danger!” The beaver spoke louder than he intend. His arms shook with excitement.  The cat shook the soil from her papers.

Abel shifted.

“I won’t make light of our war.  I won’t make light of the animals dying daily due to polar attacks.  But I won’t be lead to think this bird has anything to do with them.  Last time I checked Icarus weighs less than my right wing and barely reaches my knee.  Only way your kids would be in danger is if they developed an allergy to small birds.”

No laugher came.  So he kept on.

“All we we want is for this animal to be raised right.  Same as you and yours. If you are kean on protesting that, then you can raise him.  But since you all seem to think he is a walking explosive, that responsibility falls to us.  We love this town, and we love this bird.  Both things equal.  Accept it or not.  Keep reporting or not.  But last time I checked, learning the alphabet and sacked lunches aren’t news.  Good day.”

The door again made a mechanical click as it shut with the Pelican inside his home with his family.

I would succeed at it sometimes.

But after a few years of training, writing and performing,  I found something.

When I was around my untrained… non-comedian… “civilian” friends, I would find them funnier and more engaging than SO MANY people who chose comedy as a profession.

Why?

This is my opinion, but I feel that comedians have 5 minutes to get a group of people understand their view of the world.  Once the audience learns that view, then the jokes flow easily because the audience is there with you… they know you.  That is the best and most organic feeling in comedy, and why an audience member finds themselves laughing at jokes 30 min into a comedian’s set that are not funny when read independently but hilarious in the moment.

So when you have a group of friends around you, these people have had a lifetime to learn who you are… your perspective … and are more ‘with you’ than any group of strangers. And so when your friend makes that same outburst in the same way they ALWAYS do then you errupt with laughter.  Comedy is based upon patterns and surprise.  Few things are more satisfying and sincere than laugher caused by people’s repeated habits/opinions surprising us in new and unexpected ways.

Support live comedy, but I think it is more important to support hilarious friends.

“Commander Rolland, the doctors tell me that you should be dead.”  This voice had bass to it. It growled its words off of the dark stone walls of the small room.

“Yes sir.” Rolland responded. He leaned into the glow of the single lantern at the center of the table.

“According to your statement, you sustained your injuries during a raid of the War Lord Nasslek’s supply train.  Your torn wing and broken leg happened as a result of an” Papers shuffle as the exact quote is searched for “an ‘estimated 150 meter fall after ejecting from your damaged aircraft.’  Then an attack from northern kingdom ground troops.’”

“Yes sir.”

“Were they light infantry?”

“No sir.  Snow leopard advance units.”

“Bird killers.”

“Yes sir.  3 attackers, males, 60 kilos each.” Rolland kept his head up, but his bandages and splints were heavy. His frame to shook every time he took a breath.

“So your plane blew up, you fell 150 meters , and were then mauled by 3 cats that were 10 times your size.”

“Yes. sir.” Rolland let out a breath.

“Stay awake Commander.”  A giant brown paw reached forward from the dark side of the table. It held a recording device.  The machine clicked and began to whirl with activity.

“State your name, rank, and species.”

“Rolland ReynardsSon, Commander Middle Kingdom Air Force recon squadron six. Western Hawk.”

“Commander you are aware that these proceedings and this recording are considered classified documents, and mention of either outside of this room without permission of myself or his majesty will result in immediate denial and your execution?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many missions prior to mission CSR 3 had your squadren flown?”

“22 active missions and 12 war scenarios.”

“In those 34 missions how many pilots did you lose?”

“None sir.”

“How many pilots have ever been lost by the Middle Kingdom Airforce?”

“None sir.”

“48 hours ago your squadron flew operation CSR3 corrent?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many pilots were lost during operation CSR3?”

“All.”

“All?”  Dry sarcasm dripped from his voice.

“Well, Officially no pilot came back.”

“Elaborate Commander.”

“The surviving pilot has been injured beyond flight capability.”

“For audio clarification, that one survivor is you, am I correct?”

Rolland’s unbandaged but blooadshot right eye stared forward.  Attempting to make eye contact with a set of eyes that were too far in the darkness to find.

“Yes sir.”

“What was different this time commander?  Did your commanding officer waver in his duties?”

“No sir.”

“Did you rely on bad intel?”

“Not entirely sir.”

“Do you have any estimation then Commander as to the cause of the first ever losses in the history of the Middle Kingdom’s airforce?”

“…”

“Silence is not an answer comander .”

“Push an animal hard enough, hurt them bad enough, and there is no predicting how they will react.  The tribes of the north have been pushed from our boarders long enough and been without food long enough that they bit our paw.  They bit hard.”

The only sound was that of the recorder and the faint muffled growl from the darkend side of the table.

The pregnant pause was so weighted, it took all of rolland’s effort to not fill it with more information.

The large paw slapped forward and clicked off the recorder in one jolted motion.

“The weight of war is on my shoulders not yours commander, past decisions about boarders were made by animals far above your intelligence and this recording will reach their ears.  You would be wise to hold your tongue and accept your squadron’s failure.”

The face of a large brown bear leaned into the light and sniffed the air. His countless tattooed commendations reflected light like poorly healed scars on the animal’s massive arms and shoulders.

“Wether it was your fault or not commander will still be decided.”  He pressed stop on the recorder.

“Regardless, fear is what kept our borders safe.  Kept our families safe.  Kept our pups kids and chicks safe.  It was fear.  Fear of you birds.  You hallow-boned air-gliding rodents with guns.” The bear glared directly into roland’s one good eye.

Roland shifted in his seat as he tried to pick which one of the bears eyes he should stare at with his one.  He let out a breath. The bear’s breath smelled of peat, and burned tabacco.

“In 48 hours though the world has changed.  Thanks to OUR WOUNDED PAW, we do not own the skies anymore. ”  A match struck against the rough edge of the table and erupted light in the darkness in front of the bear’s large frame. The embers of a cigar glowed red as the bear inhaled”

“our enemy knows this.”  Smoke slowly rolled from the bears chapped nostrils.  A cloud hovered between them both.  Roland’s eye blurred and watered.

The bear wispered, but the depth of his voice carried his message clearly. ”Your loss just cracked our armor.”

I don’t have an incredibly unique or inspiring story, but I do have the ability to make stories sound unique and inspiring.

I would talk about how I was told as a kid that I was different, and that according to my teachers that I should have been put on Ritalin.  I then would talk about my focusing the energy and hyperness I had as a kid into my current performing.

It was as inspiring as a talk could get from a kid with an amazing family and no major medical hurdles.

So one speaking engagement turned into two that turned into four… and so it went for a couple years.  I was then asked by a teacher in Norwalk to come speak to their Jr. High kids.

I fear Jr. High students.  I think all people fear Jr. High students, including Jr. High students.  They are at an age that makes them feel so uncertain, I blame puberty and the Disney Chanel, and so they act out this uncertainty by either being very sweet and surprisingly mature kids, or they act out through yelling insults they learn from their older siblings.

I wanted to push myself beyond my current comfort level so I agreed to the speaking engagemnet and began to tailor my talk to the needs of the school.

The day of the awkward talk I arrive at the school in Norwalk (which is a city that I consider just a milestone on my way to Los Angeles) and approach the vice principal who was coordinating the day. She greeted me and then introduced me to my interpreter for the talk.

My what?

Interpreter.

Into what language?

Not english.

The fact that the kids didn’t speak English isn’t surprising now that I look back at this, but it was at the time.

So the talk now consisted of my speaking to hundreds of tweens from a low income LA City that don’t speak english about my success and struggle in life as a well-off kid from Orange County.

It didn’t go well.

I wasn’t even paid.  Which made sense.  I felt more like donating money to some of these sweet kids that were just trying to make it.

Realistically I ended up going into a situation far beyond my comfort zone, but as good as it was to do that… IT WASN’T MY CHOICE.  I wanted to push myself, but not this far.

No one told me about the language barrier.  And so as brave as I could ever try to spin this, I was just in the speaking equvilent to a natural disaster.

But the good news is, I learned to research the talk more and discuss with administration about thier needs and truly ask them “am I the best fit for their students?”

SO I guess I learned something, and I also learned that Norwalk was better as a thing I passed on my way to LA.

“Open mic nights are hilarious, unless they have comedians performing in them.” – my brother Trevor.

The term “open mic night” sends a wave of discomfort through my body.  Not just mine, but I am sure it does the same to anyone who has been invited to one by a co-worker, loved one, or some poor aspiring performer.

It is a night where the stage that is usually dedicated to the professional comic is opened to the public.  So that anyone that signs up, pays a fee, or brings a certain number of people is able to get on stage and literally do anything they want for 5 minutes.

No one likes these nights that are dedicated to the non-professional.  Rather than watching a smooth well-timed joke machine, an open mic night is the live version of a bad you-tube video or something akin to an awkward family dinner.

No other profession gives their tools out to the newcomer like this.  At no point have I been to an “amateur chef night” at an Olive Garden.  Or a “bring your mit to the game night” at Angel’s stadium.  Or a “just wash your hands and dive in night” at the Saddleback Emergency Room.

But this is exactly what comedians do.  It is what I did.  I wasn’t good either.  I was as bad as the rest of them.  Even when I was seasoned from years of being on stage, open mic nights were still the place I would simply squirm on stage.

It was as if you absorbed the shear awkwardness that floated in the air of the room and then embodied it while being amplified by a PA system.  I may have been too empathetic, but it felt like I walked up there feeling the weight of all of the things I had seen throughout the night.  Like the missed punchlines, poorly explained premises, unorigonal set-ups, and jokes about sex by people who should not be allowed to have it .

My last open mic night was spent a place called the HaHa Cafe.  I sat through the night and watched as the guy running the night proceeded to not tell a joke.  Instead he spent the whole night gently rubbing his shaved head and talking about how much he enjoys the company of women.  He would pause constantly while breathing heavily and then he would go into awkward detail about many different “adult” situations.   He got really bad when he decided to start to calling the female comedians to the stage for their turn at the mic and then ask them if they would like to go home with him.  People laughed, but only because they needed to do something.

He called my name for my turn.  Rather than shaking my hand, he hugged me for an awkwardly long time.  At that closeness I saw where his self-tanner smeared on his neck.

I looked at the jokes in my hand that I wanted to test for a show I had, and I decided to not tell them.  Instead I just called out how inappropriate this guy was.  How he made everyone feel uncomfortable, and how he didn’t tell a single joke at all but instead attempted to proposition all the women in the room.  I did this, and he responded by yelling out a comment about how bad I must be in bed.  I paused so that it could really sink in and then said.

“Even that wasn’t funny, and you had awkward tension on your side.”

I got a laugh, and felt like a open-mic-night Rob Roy.

I told my one joke I needed to test.  It didn’t go well.  I got off stage before he came near me, and never did an open mic again.  I left the room feeling bad because that guy knew no better.

But maybe I did something that would raise the standards in the room a bit.  Not by being great, but by trying to bring some decency into a place that smells like self-tanner and awkward dreams.

I will be just writing on it from time to time with no concern about the # of views.  No worry about promoting it.

I want to use it so that I know I have a place to write.  And a place that I know will be public.  Because as much as this is sounding like a romantic “back to the basics” type of move… I still worry about what people think.

I will write opinions and remembered stories from when I was in comedy, and I will use it to write fiction.

I am looking forward to it.

Off the shore, a small blue rowboat sat on the wet ground that was exposed from low tide. Every time the two of them visited this spot, the unused boat was there as their third companion. The bottom of the boat had worn to a dull brown.  Though the boat was still intact, the missing left ore and horribly faded paint led one to believe that the owner of this craft had forgotten it.

In better days, Able and Hagar had walked out to the boat and sat in it while the sun set and the moon showed its face.  They had spent hours talking about Able’s adventures on the sea.  About Hagar’s mother and father, and how Harid had been crusty and hilariously cold to all the men in Hagar’s life, not just Able.

Able remembered joking: “Here, I thought I was especially disliked.”

They had laughed about that and about the youthful awkwardness of their courtship.  They had spent nights talking about how much Hagar missed her mother since she died and how she worried about her father being alone. Eventually most times spent in the old boat ended with talk about children.

“We need to name them something meaningful,”  Able had argued.

“My parents’ names are meaningful, Able.” Hagar explained.

“No, I do not want to name a son Harid, then I will assume he will be genetically prone to call me ‘the guy that smells like fish’ just like your dad.” Able said.

“What is wrong with that nickname?” Hagar asked through a smile.

“Nothing if it were a nickname, but I think he uses it because he doesn’t know my actual name! He never took the time to learn it! To your dad, I’m just ‘Fish guy.’  If he had handled our wedding invitations, they would have read ‘the marriage of Hagar and some guy that smells like salmon.’ Therefore, I think we should name our kid when we see him or her.  We need to give them a name that fits.”   Able said, resting his case.

After a thoughtful pause, Hagar said, “You’re right.”

“Wait…what …you agree with me on the name thing?”  Able asked surprised.

“No.  You are right.  You do smell horribly like fish.”  Hagar joked. They had spent most nights like that, happy and hopeful.

Today was the first day back at the boat since they had heard the news that they weren’t having kids.  How would this affect how Hagar looked at the boat?  If she was willing to go out there with him, maybe there would be a way to get back to that comfort they had before.   He sat there and tried to build confidence, like he had when he had first asked for her to dance.  Every time he would build up confidence, he would look over at her and feel that the time just wasn’t right.

Then all of a sudden he heard, “Able, lets walk out to the boat.” Hagar said this, and Able could barely contain his excitement.

Order online, or if you know me and live near by… contact me and I can bring you some .

jeffcinard@gmail.com

$2 bucks a card

Click on the image to go to the online store.

It was a great show, and we raised a ton of money and gathered a ton of books!

Photos Coming Soon!!!