We honor those who follow their own path with this Magpie Tale
They knew they had no idea where the stone path led them. Only that it was an escape from the Land of the Precious. No more pink pinafores and laced bonnets. No more squeals of “Oh, how adorable!” “What a little angel!” “I just what to give it a little kiss-kiss-kiss on its innocent little face.”
Now they could share their blood lust for gutting mice, cutting short the songs of canaries, and other gruesome tasks. “First I must change my name from Annabella,” she said, a long list of darker names brewing in her ceramic cranium.
“Oh and I too,” he said, pressing his claws into her back. “Mister Whiskers! Indeed, we are lucky to be freed from such mentally challenged children.”
Ahead they saw a trio of sightless field mice, easy prey that was not so appealing as they were faced with the prospect of actually executing their claims to being predatory carnivores. “Where is that old shrew, the farmer’s wife when we need her?” she asked.
“You know that song was a metaphor for Queen Mary having three bishops executed, ” he said.
“That’s not completely accurate,” she said. “Queen Mary actually had them burned at the stake and the blindness of the Oxford martyrs was the crypto-Catholics ridicule of Protestantism.
They both sighed and looked into each others eyes for a moment. Chasing the tiny rodents was futile. Then a brilliant idea struck him as he jumped off her back.
“Come, Annabella, let us make our way to the Vicar’s house,” he said. “Our dinner is waiting to be caught and devoured.
“Brilliant! But from here on out you must address me as Queen Mary.”