By Alex (Snaykeemcgee)
The night was all starry. The city streets, cobble stoned. The Nightingalers sat silently in the cold, watching their cardboard friend as he limousined to the restaurant.
Inside they could see it enjoying a nice meal of Burgundy Moose atop a Chocolate Moose atop an Albatross. Well, perhaps not enjoy, more admire, as the bird only seemed to be gazing at the pile of food.
Or perhaps it was gazing at who had accompanied him. This new flame in the Nightingale's life had drawn a special interest in the crowd, as even the trashy magazine paparazzi were down for the kill.
The Nightingale had its food taken by the waiter. A gasp was let off from the 'galers, as they saw he was entertaining nothing but the burning candle atop the table. They had been had...
A strange move from the waiter and the candle was sideways, cloth burned at once, the table was on fire. While the Nightingale's transcidental nature meant it could never die, or indeed existed, its cardboard nature disagreed. The 'gale burnt (except for the bits of plastic on its border which melted). People cried out into the strees: The End of the Nightingale has come! Bells tolled. It was gone forever.
Or so claimed the tabloids, without any further proof. Unfortunately what they didn't put to press was quite more important moral - don't play with fire.