Since this is my first blog, and I don't have any completed stories at the moment, I'll give you the first story of mine that's ever been published. I wrote it in eighth grade, and it was published in this magazine called On Target: The Magazine of the Associations of Middle-Level Schools. I gave my story in to my teacher, whereupon she sent it to the magazine. They decided the story was good enough and my teacher sent me a copy of the magazine and I have read it through countless times and thoroughly marked it with changes since then.
And wait, I still have more to say. The story is pretty long, and the magazine people couldn't publish the entire thing, so they made a note, complimenting my lovely work! Okay, Okay, I'll stop gushing and start the story. (Artemis: Tell them the title!) Right, it's titled Polly Want a Home. Okay, Starting now.
And that's all I'm gonna post right now. And of course, thereIf you have a parrot, or like me, you love birds, you should know where Polly may have come from and not from the pet store. Each year, thousands of birds are taken from the wild to be sold as pets in the Americas, Asia and Europe. The really sad thing is that not many people realize it. Here (pardon the pun) is a bird's eye view of what happens day to day for thousands of finches, parakeets and parrots who do not belong here. Or at least that is the view of Mosshead, an Ara Couloni or more commonly known as a Blue-headed Pionus or Parrot and the narrator of this story.
I was born in a world of giant birds who stay to the ground with giant brown wings, with feathers bigger than me that mother calls trees. On one of the giant's wings is where I live, my nest where there are many new things to explore. I waddle around awkwardly with my growing wings and pick up feathers, dark green and blue downy cushions among the sticks, mud and nut shells.
My mother comes and brings food. As she streched, she revealed the ashy grey feathers under her wings. She never told me what happened to her just that it happened on her first day of flight. Everyone calls her Ashwing because of it. I don't get a real name until I can fly on my own; I just get a nickname from my mother. She feels that Mosshead is a fitting nickname. I don't think I will ever find out why. Luckily, Ashwing doesn't pick my real name, the rest of the flock will choose it for me. I plan to do something daring and brave that will get me a more fitting name, like Bravewing, or Tigerclaw or Ironbeak or....
"Mosshead! Go to sleep, and make room for Rubytail, his branch fel this morning." Ashwing squawked loudly. I opened my beak to ask what a branch was and what cut off with a hard peck on the head. I curled up with my head under my wing next to my mother and pretended to sleep. When Rubytail came, my mother greeted him and helped him preen. (Fyi, preening in the bird world is alot like shaking hands or hugging) When they were done, Rubytail cooed "Is the chick asleep?" In response to the question, I jumped up and tried to fly to the top of his head, which was more like a flop upwards. Rubytail laughed and Ashwing looked at me sternly. I knew she wanted me Asleep earlier so I waddled over to my cornera and really went to sleep. Right before I fell asleep I heard the adults speak in low voices. I never learned what they said but I knew it scared my mother very much. Never in my life with her have I seen her more afraid. It must have been bad, very bad.
is much more. We just scratched the surface of this baby.
Author's Note: My story behind Ashwing is that she and her
flock were caught in a forest fire on her first day of flight. The feathers on
her belly and under her wings where burned. Sometime between then and
when Mosshead was hatched, she molted.
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