Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Writer, Fighter, and Logical One

Here's another version of Star Rider, the second chapter.

Down in a tavern built into the roots of a large tree, the robins were drinking their rum.  It was mid eve and the sun sunk lower into the white-capped sea.  The pretty little stars of night were just beginning to uncloak themselves.  The trees creaked and moaned as the first of the northern winds shook them.

            At a table near the corner of the tavern, a couple of robins talked.  They spoke in low whispers as if they were trying to conceal something.  ‘I hear she is returning this eve,’ one of the robins said.
            ‘Yeller sent her out already?  Ah, no!  Not possible.  She would have bid her farewells,’ said the second robin.
            ‘Of course he didn’t send her out to her freedom you nut brain!  She went to the sea to observe the stars, you see.   She was gone with Yeller for the past couple days, watching those shooting stars,’ said the first robin.
            ‘She calls them meteorites, not shooting stars.’
            ‘Who gives a damn!  Either way she was gone, and now she returns.’
            A silence folded over the two robins.  They both glanced around the tavern keeping watch of the other robins.  Over near the entrance of the tavern, a rather large bird appeared.  He was a grackle.  The first robin tensed as the grackle glanced in his direction.
            ‘Len,’ the first robin sneered.  ‘That fool.  That shiny, black, sick-minded fool.’
            ‘Rain, you beat him once.  Why does he return?’ said the second robin.
            ‘I cannot say,’ said Rain.  ‘All I know is that he wants revenge.  Aye, he will get his revenge—in his scared little dreams!’
            Len began to approach Rain, his feathers puffed in triumph.  Rain stood up and planted his claws in the ground.  Len then spoke.
            “Aye, my little robin friend.  I forgot your name since it is quite unmemorable,’ said he.  Rain only smirked.  The little orange fathers on his breast slowly puffed out as well.  He then spoke.
            ‘It goes to show how stupid you are since you can’t even remember the word rain,’ said he.  And with that, the grackle snarled and unsheathed his glimmering sword.
            ‘You will get it, little thing!  I’ve waited long enough for my turn to win.  By winning I mean—.’
            ‘Killing him?’ another voice said.
            The crowd of robins that were watching this whole scene turned their heads to see a mysterious blue bird wearing a black velvet hat.  Len swerved and caught sight of the bird that had spoken.  He growled.  Above his growl, the bird in the black velvet hat continued to speak.
            ‘I’ve heard these speeches many a time.  I must say, revenge does grow dull.  It is only but a one-time inspiration, lasting only as long as a mayfly on a winter’s day—not that long.  Perhaps it lasts longer.  I guess it depends on one’s personality.’
            The mysterious blue bird lifted her head and smiled slightly.  ‘Perhaps you wish to be counseled—Len, am I correct?’ said she.
            ‘I will not be counseled!’ Len screamed, and he charged at the blue bird with the fire of anger flashing around him.  With ease, the blue bird dodged his blow.  He crashed into a table piled with wooden mugs.  He became unconscious almost immediately.  The mysterious blue bird stared at the grackle for a moment before turning to Rain who stood there with eyes as wide as two full moons.
            ‘Excuse me if I ruined your chance to destroy this fellow,’ the blue bird said.  ‘I only did what I thought was logical.’  And she bowed.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Lucia and Her Writing (part 2)

Lucia, also known as “Star Rider,” had been writing all day.  She got upset quite often, for she could never find the write words to fit together for her story.  She got even more upset every time her “grandraven,” Yeller called her for a meal.
            ‘Leave me be!’ said she.  ‘I know being upset is irrational behavior, but still, I must finish this chapter!’  And Lucia would sit for another hour, trying to find the right words to place in her terrifyingly ugly story.
            For her writing, Lucia used a typewriter, because her handwriting was awful.  Even her old grandraven Yeller said Lucia’s handwriting stank as bad as an old rotted goose egg.  Lucia found it funny how Yeller perceived her writing.
            Lucia wrote and wrote furiously.  She had been called many times to come and eat her dinner, but she had refused every time she was asked.
            ‘Dinner, child!’ Yeller said.  ‘I mean so.  Come ye now, quickly, or else ye will find yer head rotting on a metal post for all to see!’
            ‘But if my head were to be rotting on a metal post, that would mean I was dead.  And if I were dead, I wouldn’t care in the least if people saw my head,’ Lucia said.
            ‘Ye and thine logic!’ old Yeller screeched.  And he came in from the roof on top of their tree house, flapping furiously with his old tattered wings.  ‘Come child,’ said he.  ‘Ye have had enough writing.  Ye will ne’r accomplish anything when thy stomach is empty.’
            And so Lucia finally came to eat.  Tired, she was, but quite happy.  Though she had not even written a paragraph, she was satisfied with what the words said and meant.  She sat down to eat with a smile across her beak.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

A Jay that Wished Adventure (part 1)

Have you not heard of a bird that writes stories?  Have you not heard of a bird that thinks logically?  A bird that loves to bang on drums?  A bird that craves adventure?  This was quite the case with Lucia.  She was a scrub jay.  She loved to write and bang on percussion instruments.  She could think logically and she always craved adventure.  The other birds asked this question: what’s the case with this strange scrub jay?  Well the answer is this: Lucia was the only scrub jay living on her island.  Sad for her, isn’t it?  But fortunately she wasn’t lonely.  At least she had no friend issues.  But still, how can one live as the only living scrub jay on an island of robins, ravens, and finches?  Perhaps you should try living as a giant in a city of ants.  Either way, you’d somehow make your way in life.