At the beginning of a new episode during a Law & Order marathon, mom screeches out find the murderer. So I propel out the back door into unfilmed darkness defined by predator-on-prey guilt.
I’m a kid with a TV head — not a nominated actor playing a tough but scared victim who gets their throat slashed within forested confinement. Along a wooded edge, a parliament of owls debate if the death penalty should be given permanent residence.
I can’t remember — did mom command to find the murderer or find the parliament?
They’re hooting out a live session, I inform my mind. My mind pushes me to breach deeper
into lawful nature not on a soundstage with a camera rolling a wheel of entertainment.
Through vegetation that needs hacking, I scamper for thirty seconds or the length of some screaming commercial.
At last, I stumble upon a murder of crows cawing into a beating heart night.
Then I remember! — mom commanded me to find the murderer!
They’re interrogating an avian witness, I preach to my heart. My heart orders I venture deeper into unfilmed reality without a guild actor who imbues murderous rage.
Under branches ready to stab my film roll eyes, I sprint for a minute or the time it takes a TV cop to chase down and handcuff a suspect on their way to a jailbird cage.
In a clearing, I stop and spot a conspiracy of ravens croaking out a barrage of sound.
They’re elevating their next conspiracy of winged proportion, I lecture to my liver. My liver is still busy filtering the bourbon I pinched from mom’s locked cabinet last night.
At my feet, a deceased owl sprawls on a family of dead leaves. Oh, they got murdered in a parliamentary conspiracy. I salivate over this fresh plotline.
Back home, mom watches the guilty verdict read aloud. Who got murdered this time, mom? She glances up — her satisfied face heavy with TV light.