Shootng the Unkind Ravens Out of the Sky

Looking down from a high branch in a bare winter tree we see a lamb. An unkindness of ravens they call us and it’s an earned name. We are unkind.

We could be excused, I suppose, if this was hunter and hunted and the edge of hunger is blunted but none of us are particularly hungry, but the lamb is there, a challenge. It’s all about the sport. In a chattering chorus we begin to plot its downfall. This is not a lone-raven job but a collective endeavour. We are a team, organised and rehearsed, operating as one. A bird feeder full of seed is an insult and we will not play nicely.

A distraction is needed. A hay bale moults in a far corner, shaking pale strands as the wind plucks at it. One of us dives into its mess, flicking wings and beaks, jabbing at its innards until the hay is disturbed. Dust lifts and swirls. The lamb, foolhardy and unwary, skips towards it. Closer it comes, closer and the distance between the lamb and its mother expands.

We circle on weak, arm currents of air, wings tilting this way and that, like kings of the air. We slant and spin with an easy arrogance. Then we dive.

A loud crack splinters the air. A gun goes off. A familiar sound that comes before dying. Alarmed, swearing loudly, we scatter, feathers floating down. Our unkindness is broken and a single raven flails and falls. Gravity and death are unkinder than we are.

We spiral upwards as another shot is fired. No safety in a winter tree, we climb higher and higher, away, away until the lamb is just a dot far down.

We find a refuge and begin to plan a new offensive.

I wrote this earlier on in the month at a creative writing workshop. We were given the name of an object and ten minutes to write something. My word was ‘raven’. I have friends who manage a croft just outside Strathpeffer. They had raven issues. Not so much the lambs under threat but chickens and ducks.

Sometimes writing is just writing. A story is just a story. But sometimes in the act of writing something, the unconscious mind is revealed. Who are my ravens and who is my lamb?

The lamb is all about something new, perhaps. I am almost halfway through my creative writing degree course. Every new unit is a challenge. Lately I have felt very inadequate. Stuff before was stuff I had done before. It stretched me but not uncomfortably so. Stuff now is unknown stuff and I am well out of my comfort zone. This is my lamb.

And the ravens? I have to say that I have not met anyone who has told me that aiming for a degree at my age is just plain stupid. No one has relegated me to coffee meet-ups and knitting patterns. So people and their undermining words are not my ravens. I have been supported on my journey so far.

If there is no one on the outside pulling me down, I have to look inside. Writers at times can be the most insecure people I know. The ravens are the voices in my head (not real ones) that tell me have bitten off more than I can chew. They tell me to quit while I am ahead.

And the gun that shoots the ravens down? It’s my love of writing. To take the pen out of my hand, to snatch away my paper, to direct me to housework alone – that is to tear out my heart and soul and stamp upon them. If I am writing, I might as well learn how to do it properly.

What’s your lamb? Who are your ravens? And what are you using to shoot the ravens out of the sky?