Ok, I know I just posted yesterday, but I woke up today at 6 am and ate breakfast for the first time in close to a year.
I just thought that should be noted.
While I was awake at 6am, I wrote a short story. 2 of them. One of them was crap and the other turned out okay. So, I am going to take a gamble and put that second story on this blog and hope no one hates me for it. It's a really stupid story. But I thought of the idea one day when coming out of the shower (which is when many great epiphanies are had) and...
Actually, I just thought it would be cute if in some story or other, there would be a character with a pet hawk and, for whatever reason, that hawk's name was Toad. So I started the story in a way that begs for a continuation and, depending on how the two or three people who read this blog react, I may or may not continue it and put the messy result here.
So.
Here's my crap story.
Also, it's about eight-year-olds (more accurately, about the main characters when they were eight.) I had also planned on giving their names but then I forgot about it because I'm a f***ing idiot. But I think it reads fairly well without the names anyway. If (IF) I ever continue it (which, frankly, I probably will, but I probably won't let it see the light of day) then the names will be given.
Also (again), the paragraphing will be a bit weird because most of this is dialogue, so I decided to group together a bunch of lines. Just assume that they always take turns speaking and the person who did the action just before the dialogue is probably speaking first.
Looking at it again, it really is mostly dialogue... O.o
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A Hawk Named Toad
I first met him when I was about eight. In fact, it was my eighth birthday. My family had been planning to throw me a birthday party in the garden but work had prevented either of them from coming. I'd escaped my grandmother's consolatory tea party-- a tradition from when I turned three-- to the hills outside my town.
My entire world was made up of a large town enclosed by huge walls. I never even considered the possibility that there could be anything beyond those walls for many years.
“Have you seen Toad?”
I looked over to the scruffy-looking boy who'd climbed up my hill, a bit angry that he was disturbing my solitude.
“No, there aren't any toads around here. There aren't any ponds, stupid.”
“Huh?” The boy scrambled to me and sat. “No, I don't mean a real toad. I'm talking about my pet hawk.”
“Then ask if I saw a hawk, stupid.”
“But his name is Toad.”
I mulled over this for a moment. It made little sense to me. “So, he's a hawk.”
“Yeah.”
“But his name is Toad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Even though it's a hawk and not a toad.”
“Yup. You catch on quick.”
“Why?” Even after saying it out loud, it made no sense to me.
“Uh... I dunno. I mean, I found him last week when I was looking for toads,” he amended quickly when he saw my glare.
I stared at the grass at my feet and picked at it.
“That's stupid.”
“You say stupid a lot,” the boy said.
I stared at him.
Just then, there was a high-pitched squawk in the air. A small brown bird of prey circles over us.
“It's a hawk! Run away or it'll take your eye out!”
“Now you're being stupid.” The boy stood up and the hawk landed on his arm. “You wouldn't take anyone's eye out, would you, Toad? Not unless it's a bad guy, right?”
I stayed seated but on my guard. “How can you tell that hawk from the others?”
The boy thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “I just know. Toad is Toad. Other hawks are other hawks.”
The boy took a bug from his pocket and held it to the bird's beak. I shuddered as it snatched it up, still wriggling and alive, in its beak.
“That's gross!”
“Quiet, he's eating. There's a good Toad. You're gonna have to find more food yourself, though. You can't rely on my forever.”
The boy petted the bird's beak and it squawked happily. I stared at them with some envy. I was supposed to be having fun a good time, not this scruffy kid from no where!
“Oh, I gotta go. Uncle's gonna get angry again.” The hawk flew from the boy's arm as he walked down the hill.
“Hey!” I called after him, “Today's my birthday!”
The boy paused and half turned toward me. “Happy birthday! How old are you?”
“I'm eight! When's you're birthday?”
The boy's eyes widened, and dropped to the grass. He scuffed it with a shoe. “I dunno.”
“Do you know how old you are?”
“Not really. Probably around your age.”
“I got it!” I ran down to him and took his hands. “Today's your birthday, too! Happy birthday!”
He smiled. “And how old am I?”
“You're eight years old, too! Congratulations!”
He smiled again and laughed.
“We gotta sing!”
“What?”
“When it's someone's birthday you gotta sing!”
“What're the words?”
“Something like... Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Sing along!”
“Is that it?”
I nodded furiously and dragged him back to the top of the hill.
“Happy birthday, happy birthday! Happy birthday to you!”
We fell to the ground laughing.
“You're an awful singer.”
I laughed again. “Well, we got plenty more birthdays, so I'll get better.”
“Haha, you bet.”
We lay sprawled in the grass like that for hours, a hawk named Toad circling above us in congratulation.
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I saved this for last because it's not important and I bet you've all left by now.
In elementary school, I wrote a book of poetry with a friend.
Actually, I wrote all the poems but two. O.o
I actually wrote a lot of poetry in fifth sixth grade, which is strange because I don't think too much of poetry now.
Anyway, I was looking over it recently and I just wincing at the awful emo-ness of my eleven-year-old self.
However.
There are fourteen pages of poetry. The first seven or so, I remembered the bitter self-entitlement behind every word I hit onto that word document so long ago.
But then.
Come page eight or so...
I didn't remember writing those poems.
At all.
Reading them over once or twice did nothing. I had no recollection of those poems. Not even small phrases. I vaguely wondered if maybe some little elf had hacked into my computer and wrote the things but from the style they were definitely mine.
I just hope that never happens to me again.
O.O so awesome!!! Want more, want more, want more!
ReplyDelete--
hmm, reminds me of the time I was writing just one sentence of fiction a day...flipped through those the other day and was surprised by some of them - either by how bad they were, or how some were actually decent. XD