Author note: Today, it's something a little different. First, read the true story from my actual life about the woodpecker in the pic above. Then, read the magic-ified version of this true story. Or really, the animal-ified/anthropomorphized version of the true story, where I pretend I'm the woodpecker of course. Enjoy!

Garage of Surprise*

a (mostly) true story

by Betsy Flak

On a rainy afternoon, I turn to climb into the car with the rest of the fam.

Movement catches my eye.

Perching on the window of the garage is the most adorable little black and white bird.

Too bad it’s perching on the inside of the window.

More movement, this time to my right, near the far corner of the garage.

A second bird clasps the wooden wall a foot or two beneath a circular hole.

At some point, a pair of woodpeckers moved into our garage.

I don’t know what happened to the second woodpecker, for I only ever saw a single bird after that first night.

But the other bird?

Oh, it stayed.

It was always gone in the morning when I left to take my daughter to daycare.

And it wasn’t there when we got home at night either.

But on those late nights when I got home well after dark after a roller derby practice?

Oh, it was there.

And it would watch me.

I’d creep toward it all stealthy, trying to get a closer look.

And it would hop up the wall toward its hole, ready to escape.

The only way I managed to get the photo above was by standing probably twenty feet away and zooming in on my phone. So sorry the quality isn’t great! The bird wouldn’t let me get a glamour shot.

Anyway, we finally got around to plugging the hole a week or two before it got cold out, so hopefully the woodpecker found a new home!

*Is this a reference to the "child of surprise" in The Witcher? You know, maybe.

Now for the animal-ified/anthropomorphized story!

A Not-So-Safe Haven

a fantasy short

and the anthropomorphized version of the story above

i.e. me pretending to be the woodpecker 😝

by Betsy Flak

Rrrr-aaawrrrr-rrrr.

I jolt awake. My heart pummels my ribs. Fear sprints down my veins. My talons dig into the flaky wood beneath me, and my wings clench, ready to lift me to freedom at any moment.

Three glorious days ago, I found this magical tree. The nights grew cold, so I searched for a home. When I plunged my beak through the bark and soft timber of this tree, the largest hollow I’ve ever seen opened before me.

I’ve heard this phrase the big featherless, furless ones say, “it’s bigger on the inside.”

Well, that describes this miracle of a tree perfectly.

There’s just one problem.

The entire side of it disappears with an awful roar in the middle of the night. Not always, but regularly.

And then, this enormous, unnatural, what-I’ve-heard-is-called-metal thing rolls in. Once it stops and quiets, one of the big featherless, furless ones clambers out of its maw.

It’s terrifying.

But you know what’s more terrifying?

Being outside without shelter in the cold where one of the feathered sky monsters can dive-bomb you from above.

Or where one of the furred ground monsters can leap upon you from a trunk or a nearby branch.

Here, in this bigger-on-the-inside hollow tree, I’m safe.

Or at least I think I am.

As usual, the enormous metal thing rolls in, noisy and smelly and altogether unpleasant. What the featherless, furless ones call music slams into me. It hammers through my chest. It rattles my beak. It shakes my bones.

Into that soft wood, my claws drill. My shoulders rise almost all the way up to my ears. I try to block out that terrible screeching and throbbing “music.”

At last, it stops. My shoulders droop with relief.

The featherless, furless one climbs out. It circles the enormous metal thing.

But it doesn’t tug out the stuff from the metal thing’s open mouth on the other side like usual.

No, the strange creature lacking feather and fur stops and peers into the corner.

Into my corner.

I freeze. Does it see me?

My breath shoves and pushes against the walls of my chest, but I don’t dare inhale or exhale. My heart thunders, and I beg it to slow. I need to disappear into the wood of my forbidden, impossible, miraculous tree. If I move or make a sound, I’m dead.

The creature’s footsteps are quieter than usual, scuffles instead of stomps.

Those scuffles approach me.

They get closer.

And closer.

And closer.

I gulp. Maybe my new home isn’t so safe.

Without a sound, I ease my talons out of the wood and ready my wings. At any moment, I can launch myself into the air. My circular hole is only a few body lengths above me. With one jump and one flap, I can flee from this danger and into that of the night outside my not-so-safe haven. I won’t be protected out there like I am here, but I will be free of this certain death.

The footsteps stop.

The featherless, furless one tips forward.

It raises something in its eerie, smooth forepaws, a rectangle.

Bright, startling, fatal yellow light flashes.

It’s like staring into the sun on a clear summer’s day.

It blinds me.

I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.

I can’t escape.

Please, no. This can’t be the end of me. This was supposed to be safe!

I’d fling myself upward and soar out of here, but my hole has disappeared into the too bright, white-yellow void that is my sight.

Am I dead? Is this death?

No, my screaming, shrieking pulse batters my legs, my shoulders, my wings. My head pounds. My ragged breaths stutter.

This can’t be death. I wouldn’t feel all this.

Right?

I should have left. I should have known this was too good to be true. I should have taken all those earlier openings and closings and visits from the featherless, furless one as a warning.

But I didn’t. Because I’m stupid and arrogant and greedy for the warmth and supposed safety this glorious, impossible tree provides.

Now I’ll die for it.

Painfully, excruciatingly slow, details return to the night.

As do the footsteps.

Only now they’re stomps.

Stomps away from me.

Crrrrack-ack-anggg.

The featherless, furless one takes the stuff out of that open mouth of the enormous metal thing, then waddles away, weighed down by its stuff like other birds get weighed down by nesting material.

Rrrr-aaawrrrr-rrrr.

The side of my not-so-safe haven closes.

Once more, I’m safe.

Should I leave anyway? Should I take this as a final warning, a final way to escape death?

My shoulders drop, and my pulse slows. My eyelids grow heavy.

Fatigue engulfs me.

It’s dangerous out there, and the danger here has passed for the night.

Yes, whether to find a new home is a problem for tomorrow.

My talons embedded in the wood of my freakish, bigger-on-the-inside, sometimes dangerous hollow tree, I relax my wings, my muscles, my mind. My head sinks downward.

It’s a problem for tomorrow.