The Letter to Someone
The 17th of July, 1985, dawned bright and early, at least for a small, black-haired eleven-year-old who was out in his guardian's backyard, running through sword forms.
For the barn owl who had flown down from Scotland, however, it certainly seemed as if the 17th dawned way too goddamn bright and way to fuckin' late.
Or it would have, you know, if owls could swear.
As it is, however, owls cannot swear, so it'll have to suffice to say that the owl was not happy about the fact that the sun was blinding her and that humans were diurnal creatures.
Still, she was a well-bred and well-trained postal owl in the employ of one of the United Kingdom's oldest institutions, and as such, she refused to take out her bad temper on the recipient of the letter she was carrying.
Even if the recipient was an ungrateful little shit who neither thanked her nor gave her any water.
She resolved to make her return journey as slow as possible and do a pit-stop or three in some of the more plentiful forests along the way – her brother would be even more infuriating than usual if she returned in a temper, after all.
