Brook Thomas

Meg — Offline

Brook Thomas

Need to Know

- He/Him
- 25 (May 14)
- 6'3"
- Brown Hair
- Hazel Eyes
- Bird business in Outskirts
- Lives in Southwest Portland


  • It's been eight years since he's appeared as he was born, but there's still a boy somewhere beneath those feathers
  • Tall and athletic, his body carries the build of someone older than what his round-cheeked, plush-lipped face implies
  • His style is of the ordinary, blendable sort: no bold colors, no statement pieces
  • Overly aware of (and sensitive to) his positioning in space; wholly believes he takes up too much room

About Me




  • He was born and raised as the only child to two museum employees in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Mom was a curator, and Dad, a conservator. Childhood memories were etched in alongside the strokes of Picasso, Georgia O’Keeffe, Andy Warhol, and Mary Cassatt, and the playground of his youth came in the form of a Sputnik fragment (a replica, in all honesty) that’d fallen just outside the museum so many years ago.
  • Despite the anticipated growing pains of listlessness in a small town, Brook was a generally well-behaved child. He knew to be polite (even to the ornery, one-eyed clerk at the local grocery) and patient (especially in regards to the little girl who lived three houses down, always rollerblading and singing relentlessly burrowing earworms like (but not limited to) Frère Jacques, London Bridge, and Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.”
  • When Brook was seventeen, he struck up a relationship with a quiet girl who often came by the museum, always with a little red sketchbook in tow. Erin. She was fourteen, but she seemed older. Maybe it was her quiet nature, or perhaps the cool indifference with which she approached the constant town gossip: a gentle shrug, or a mute, doe-eyed blink. Unlike most other people in Brook’s life, she didn’t care that the local physical education teacher was caught kissing the English department head - or that rats had been found in the favored, hideously exclusive day care - or that the series of disseverances in the town, which had started only a few months prior, seemed to be picking up rather than slowing down.
  • A ticket collector at the town’s movie theater (known for being sharp), and the morning paper boy (who never failed to crush no less than seven flowerbeds on his runs).
  • Not unlike his own parents, Erin’s mother and father were collectors. Their home was a testament to birds of all sorts - from live little creatures that seemed to exist only in the fluttering of feathers and the clacking of beaks, to stuffed beasts, mounted on nearly every wall, whose glass eyes stopped just short of twinkling. Brook was astounded the first time he passed through the house, but he could only stand to visit for so long. The house smelled terrible; bird shit was everywhere.
  • A young man who lived on the town’s border, who had a tendency to get behind the wheel of his Ford after a few too many.
  • They were young. They were curious. Thought they were in love, thought they ought to try their hands at making it too—but caught by Erin’s mother and aunt, Brook was chased out in a storm of furious squawks, shouts, and screaming. They accused him of taking advantage of their prized girl, and looking at Erin, who looked more a child than ever with her odd, empty eyes and limp-lipped frown, he couldn’t help but feel partially responsible in some way, some twist of events.
  • A neighbor’s dog, yippie as hell.
  • Brook didn’t remember going to bed after that night, but he did. Didn’t remember bolting upright, sweating profusely, at 3:33AM on the dot, or getting dressed, or leaving the house, but he did. Didn’t remember walking down the street (failing, for the first time, to give a silent glance to the house with that little rollerblading girl, missing for months now), or shuffling without hesitation into Erin’s home, or anything afterwards: the low, gravelly hush of thirteen voices at once…the glint of a knife and the metallic glisten of freshly spilt blood…the rustling of feathers...the clacking of beaks...the scratch of hooked talons across the carpet, across his face…
  • He awoke as a bird - a pigeon, a rat of the sky - as retribution for laying hands on a witching coven's youngest daughter. And for the next few years, Brook lived inside a cage, shellshocked into a numbed existence composed almost entirely of pecking at dry, flavorless seed and defecating onto old newspapers. The papers, his only mark of time, often boasted stories relating to himself: the good kid, from the good family, who’d vanished into thin air…But as time passed, so did interest in those stories. And Brook Thomas disappeared along with all the others.
  • His entire world existed inside that cage, and he was forced to watch Erin grow into a woman on the other side of those wrought-iron bars. He watched her coast through AP courses, watched her doodle in that little red sketchbook, watched her apply to colleges, and watched her fucking other boys before moving out, never to be seen again…
  • Because one day, he had a chance.
  • It was a careless mistake. A simple trip on a cord-cluttered carpet and Erin’s mother toppled to her knees, reaching desperately for the only thing within her grasp (the table upon which he’d been set for the past six years). It fell, the door clattered open, and he was free — but her cold, arthritic hands clamped down around his fist-sized body before he even had so much as a chance to stretch his stiffened wings. A brief, bloodied struggle resulted; one of his toothpick-thin legs caught in her many rings, and there was a jerk, a snap, a cry, but he was gone. Flying out the open window, away from the mounting swell of other captured beasts: the one-eyed starling, the quiet raven, the mockingbird who sang Frère Jacques with startling accuracy…
  • Going, going, gone—
  • He just flew after that, going off some instinct he’d not been born with, but stumbled upon. With no hope of changing back into his original form, he kept his mind dull and his hopes nonexistent. Found one flock, and then another. Contented himself with cold French fries that’d been plucked from trash bins or found scattered about bus stops, and learned to avoid clumsy kicks from passerby’s. Then, she arrived.
  • Aurelia.
  • He was as drawn to her as she to him, and he joined her motley little flock without hesitation: a witch, a hummingbird, a pair of crows, and a common pigeon with a gnarled foot.


Face Claim: Ansel Elgort