Bird of the Night

'Fuck me.' Aaron thought. He'd reckoned it would have been easy to find an owl in a barn, but after five trips in as many days pleading with five separate, confused, farmers, he was beginning to think it would be easier to find an owl in a fucking swimming pool.

The deadline for the photography contest was at the end of next week, and with the prompt 'birds of the night', Aaron believed his best, and only, hope was to search the countryside high and low in search of a beautiful barn owl. With time marching on, however, Aaron was willing to change tact slightly, and settle for a brown owl, or perhaps a tawny. Fuck it, even a pigeon would do at this rate.

Every year Aaron entered the Coast and Country wildlife photography contest and every year he assured his girlfriend that this was his year. She could be proud of him and have faith in him and his pursuit of a photography career. Every year he won nothing. No prize, no commendation, not even an email saying his submission had been received. After the 6th year of occasional gigging at children's birthday parties and low-budget weddings, Sophie, the love of Aaron's life and his sole source of rent, left.

Everything was riding on this year's contest, and with a prompt as easy as 'birds of the night' Aaron was imbued with confidence that finally things were about to look up for him. Not only would the cash prize be his, but his name would be thrown around in conversations that pompous art critics have at gallery shows. They would sip their champagne while looking at a black and white photo of a woman lying uncomfortably next to a vase and say 'you know, Walter, this is all rather derivative. You should take a look at Aaron Pickett's work instead'. Their posh drawl would stress how 'talented' he was and they would all probably agree that his pictures were worth 'millions'.

Two nights before the deadline, Aaron had 3 pictures on his camera. A selfie of him crying after Sophie left, a dead hedgehog, and one blur of his thumb trying to get the shot of the dead hedgehog. Drunk, scrolling through his depressing portfolio, Aaron made up his mind to make one last-ditch attempt to find one fucking barn with a fucking owl in it. Finishing his beer, he grabbed his camera and his coat and got in the car.

The next morning, Aaron woke up to the smell of red wine and cigarettes rasping loudly in his face, 'that'll be 150, hun'. Turning to a dark-haired lady with dark lipstick smeared across her scowl, Aaron asked 'eh?'.

'One. Hundred. And. Fifty.' The unimpressed woman repeated, extending her hand in an expectant manner. The cogs, slowly, started turning, and Aaron began to doubt he'd made it to a barn last night. Assuming that he had actually led himself to a bar, he was now very aware of the woman next to him and how much money he wasn't going to be able to pay her.

Seeing his camera and car keys on the table in front of him, he got up out of the bed and muttered something about going to find his wallet. Silently he put his clothes and shoes on, then reached for the camera, snapped a selfie of the lady tangled up in the sheets behind him and ran out the door.

A week later Aaron finally received a response from Coast and Country. It read:

Dear Mr Pickett,

We would like to thank you for your interest in our Wildlife Photography Contest, however, we are unable to accept your submission as it grossly misinterprets the theme 'Birds of the Night' and violates numerous Community Guidelines of the competition.

You are therefore disqualified from this year's submissions and are no longer welcome to participate in any further contests organised by Coast and Country.

Regards,

Lucy Hiddelton

Editor-in-chief, Coast and Country.

Aaron picked up a beer, walked over to the sofa and sat in front of the TV. When he turned it on, the scene in Harry Potter where Hedwig dies started playing. Aaron turned it off again and went to bed.