We lived with our grandparents in California on an acre-and-a-half of land. It had a front yard with grass and various bushes, a ranch-style house, two backyards with grass and cane as a windbreak, a chicken coop, and a chunk of desert. We had elm trees and fruit trees scattered around too.
The chicken coop housed ducks with the chickens. We had to keep the geese we had separate because geese, they make GREAT junkyard dogs: vigilant, sneaky, loud, and VICIOUS. They'd kill the chickens and ducks if otherwise.
My sister had to go to the Emergency Room when she was about 10 after the geese were done with her. She was feeding the foul alone and the geese surrounded her on her way back from the chicken coop. One decided to bite her on her stomach. It shook its head and beat with its majestic wings. She had a terrifying bloody bruise on her belly and purple bruising all down her ribs.
Years later the geese surrounded me. I punched the leader in the head. It bobbled right back up like one of those sand-weighted clown punching bags you have as a kid. It bit me anyway, but I think it was too phased by the punch to beat me.
My mom got attacked once also. She was crawling around under a car she had stowed out there. Worrying about black widows, she overlooked the geese. She ended up with three nasty purple welts on her inner thighs all said and done!
The Beating...
The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
THE PLAN for Labels
CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
Blog Archive
Friday, February 22, 2008
Raptors
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