It's my line and I'm editing it.
Here you'll find sentences, paragraphs, character descriptions some of which have been edited out of previously worked on pieces. Some are just waiting for the 'write' story to come along.
In other words...ALL of these entries are Works in Progress.
|Pet parrots provide lifelong companionship, and lots of love. Knowing the life-changing effects owning parrots bring helps to underscore a happy transition from a non-bird home to a bird home.
Lots of people think of parrots on shoulders, or in cages. Taking care of them is easy, right? Well, parrot care isn’t difficult, but it is time-consuming.
Lifespan –Before deciding on the type of bird to bring home, consider its lifespan. Owning a parrot can be compared to parenting a child. Once brought home, the owner has committed for life. Parrots live, depending on the species, anywhere from 10 – 100 years. Smaller birds, like buggies live between 10-12 years, while conures can live up to approximately 30 years. Amazons live 50-80 years, and macaws up to 100. A bird living 50 plus years means owners will have to consider what happens to their parrots if they become unable to care for them.
Attention – unlike fish or cats, parrots require attention/contact on a daily basis. Birds enjoy feeling like ‘part of the flock’. Portable perches make great …birds love to be near their owners. Naturally, they’d spend most waking moments with their owners. If owners travel frequently, parrots often express themselves in moodiness or even pluck their feathers. Daily attention.
Messy. Neat freaks may want to reconsider or evaluate their desire to own a parrot. When birds eat they are messy. Their cages need to be cleaned weekly at least. Plus, they need to be showered once a week.
Space – birds like big cages. Small apartments largest possible cage for the bird size because they don’t get out. The more toys in the cage, the happier the bird. Birds rae wild creatures and have miles and miles of space to fly.
Noise, - all parrots make noise. Macaws are especially loud, so are conusres. Tight neighborhoods or apartments are not ideal for living spaces for parrots. Some species are very loud. Birds screech as a way of communicating. Even if they are happy, they are loud. Not all birds talk in human like voice.
Temperamental – the busier an owner is the more temperamental a pet parrot is. They bond with one person in the family. While they may enjoy the rest of the family, when “their person” is in the room, parrots are more likely to be nippy.
Bite – all parrots bite. Even the closest of bonds isn’t exempt from this rule. Owners should be prepared for at least one nasty nip.
On the plus side life long companion. If owners perch them on their shoulders, birds can adapt to their surroundings.
If owners exhibit patience, birds can be trained to do tricks. Many birds love to make their owners happy so learning tricks is a fun activity. Although, anything new takes time for the bird to adjust to. Multi-task with your bird, use portable perches to carry birds from room to room when house cleaning. Be careful never to expose birds to cleaning chemicals.
Birds are playful. They love ‘dancing’, singing’ and learning how to do tricks. They also love hanging with owners. Sitting on an owner’s shoulder while he watches TV, or folds laundry.
Nothing beats training acceleration like a bird’s favorite food. Experiment with different types of treats. Favorites can include warm rice, pasta;
Pets have positive mental and emotional health benefits.
|It’s much easier to crank out the words when music blares through my ears via my iPod shuffle. Tunes I’ve downloaded specifically to match the mood/genre I’m writing. During work, I click open my library first thing. Don’t even ask me to wash dishes if Dave Matthews isn’t loud and clear for me to hear. Music is an integral part of my productivity, be it house chores, creating poetry, or hanging with friends.
"You're going to get knocked down. It's whether you stay down or whether you get back up and fight that counts."
|there once was a girl from Macon
on the tennis court her racquet was shakin'
the first set was all hers
the second, lost to nerves
the third set left her leg muscles achin'
there once was a storm that hit Macon
storng winds left the dogwoods a shakin'
leaves trembled in fright
and fell off over night
in morning the farmer was rakin'
|Getting comfortable is key to starting. Once I’ve engaged my muse, then i can write anywhere. But before then, the Block stands firm, tall and thick protecting itself against the invasion of imagination. Guarding the brain against creativity like it’s a disease, a plague, a cancer to be feared.
And the muse, at least my muse, cowers under his authoritative tone. Who IS he? Screw him! She zips and darts in and around the guard, gathering up courage with each written word. She distracts him with music and booze. She knows she is the stronger of the two, but why does she forget?
Arms folded he stands firm.
She’s tiny, her voice whispers, “…but…”
He ignores her pleading eyes.
He shifts his stance,
and the ground shakes from underneath her.
She runs and hides
Behind a nearby boulder,
gathering her thoughts. her fingers are frantic
She picks up a book, her favorite one
and thumbs through it’s yellowed pages.
her voice tremles but she reads it's lines
first to herself, then in whispers.
by the third paragraph, she can be heard
a teacher in front of the class, lecturing.
She will get him.
"You're going to get knocked down. It's whether you stay down or whether you get back up and fight that counts."
|Dressed in dark clothing, the three moved quickly, weaving through the labyrinth of the unlit third floor office building.
"You DO have the flash drive...don't you?" the words hissed over Stephanie's shoulder. She could feel her heart thump hard and fast against her chest. Clandestine illegal break-ins weren't part of her normal everyday activity.
"Of course I do." Kerry's murmured response held that what the heck do you think I am, an idiot? tone. The trio had sixty minutes to check three, maybe four, computers located on two different floors --before they could sneak back downstairs, walk a block to where the car was parked, and head for home.
"Here we go," Steph said pulling off into a cubical. All three collapsed into chairs. Kerry's finger poked the power button to boot up Brad's computer. Nervous shallow breathing replaced speech. Every eye glued itself on Kerry, the computer hacker.
Steph heard the hum, before they saw...the overhead lights pop on, illuminating the entire floor. Her flesh crawled with fear. Everyone froze. Stephanie's mother cursed softly.
"Hide!" Kerry whispered. The women dove underneath nearby desks and pulled office chairs in front of them. Kerry remained seated, the pads of his fingers tapping on Brad's keyboard.
Scrunched beneath her hiding spot, Stephanie had a perfect view of Kerry's leg. She saw his hand fling an object in her direction.
The flash drive! She cupped her mouth to stifle a gasp and watched the drive skid across the floor. It ricocheted against the leg of the desk in front of her with a "clunk". Then, it changed directions. Now it headed toward her, spinning like a merry-go-round, before stopping its forward movement...inches out of her reach. Helpless, her eyes transfixed on the spinning drive, she heard a voice.
"What's going on here, Mister?" the security guard asked, voice filled with stern authority.
The sound of keyboard clicking never stopped. "I'm updating the system." Kerry's voice matched the security's authoritative tone.
|A 40-watt bulb covered in a soft amber shade provided a relaxing glow in the dark room. The atmosphere unwinding to the soul, or would have been. A twenty-inch Sony television stood perched on a mounted corner stand, intercepted relaxation and forcing her eyes to close in it's wake. The volume hurt the ears. Drew held his mic, and explained the next game to his contestants on the Price is Right.
|The dock creaked and swayed under the romping footsteps of Meghan, Curt, and Noah.
|"Do you like it?" he asked.
Her hands grasped the small delicate apple, made of black crystal. "Yes." she said even though she knew he wasn't paying attention to her. Not really. His eyes already back to the paper, his fingers reaching for his coffee mug.
|The main terminal of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport is crowded with travelers strapped down with Jansport backpacks, lugging black-leathered laptop cases and pulling upright expandable suitcases on wheels. Before 9/11, the terminal sported the family members of these travelers; mothers wishing their daughters well before sending them off to college, a newlywed wife clinging to her husband before he leaves on his first business trip to Chicago, lovers hugging goodbye before parting ways.
Now, the loudspeaker broadcasts how security levels are ORANGE, and reminding us not to hold luggage that doesn't belong to us. Furthermore, we are to report suspicious behavior to the nearest Transportation Security Agent.
Long lines snake down seemingly endless corridors and around the corner. Teenagers and businessmen chat on cell phones while pushing or pulling their carry-ons. A huge digital sign flashes a waiting period of forty-five minutes.
“Forty-five minutes?” Jessica says, a touch of disbelief sings in her voice. She glances at her watch, then looks over to her friend, “We’re never going to make it.” Her British accent, a head turner here in the South, is barely noticed in this International airport where everyone is self-absorbed in their own little world; ears covered with iPod headphones, fingers pecking out text messages. No one seems to care.
The AirTran airlines flight 777 is scheduled for take off at 2:23. The girls have exactly forty-five minutes to get through security, head up the escalator and hop on the train which will make three stops before it halts, brakes squeaking loudly in protest, to deliver the girls to D Gate.
|The wind blew strands of hair in front of her eyes causing her concentration to slip. Instead of stepping for the ball, she hesitated for a millisecond before sprinting left to run after the fast-paced, down-the-line backhand shot. The hesitancy cost her. It was match point of the semi finals in the biggest tennis tournament of her life.
“Drats.” her voice, loud and throaty, could be heard two rows into the stands. The ball sprayed off to the left, bouncing off the official’s chair when she shanked it. Trotting to the net, she shook her opponent’s hand, forced a smile and received the compliment from her opponent; “Great job.” The words did nothing to soothe her loss.
Drats was right. Did she have what it took to be a top pro tennis player? Who was she kidding? Her coach would be furious. She didn’t dare look in his direction as she slung her racquet and towel into her tennis bag. Snatching up the rest of her belongings from the player’s bench, she fought tears of disappointment. She wanted out of there, off this court, out of this stadium and out of this town.
Dread mixed with guilt crept into her being, then settled deep in the pit of her stomach where it swelled and grew like over-cooked pasta. A tongue-lashing from her coach wasn’t what she wanted after losing in the semis. She didn’t need to be reminded how many people had sacrificed their money, time and emotion for her. All so she could lose the tournament. She couldn’t face him right now. With downward cast eyes, she hurried off the court, ignoring his voice as she left.
She avoided him further still when she lingered in the locker room twenty minutes after she had showered and changed. Finding a bench in the corner of the back of the room she sat, curled her knees up, wrapped her arms around her legs, buried her face into her knee caps and cried.
Even at fourteen, playing in a world class women’s event, she knew she’d ride through this horrible moment, face her coach, and emerge a stronger player. She knew the drill. “Better get it over with,” she thought before she wiped the salty tears from her cheeks...After all, every day, fifty percent of the players who play tennis, lose their tennis matches. The next tournament, she meant to be in the other half. She would be the one to tell her opponent, “Great Job!”
|Not srue if i want to start our w/ my ice cream story...or...who knows, but while i tidy up the tennis center i will mentally review my options.
ugh. i still can't make up my mind. i guess i need to just write. see what comes up?
i made this up...well, parts are true, but not all.
“I cannot eat another bite.” I say and drop my fork on to my plate then push it a few inches in front of me. Leaning back, I settle myself deep into the heavy cushioned couch. All of ten us expressed varying degrees of fullness; some, however, shovel more sweet potato scuffle or salmon patties into their mouths. Not me. My eyes scan the large rectangular coffee table, surveying the damage. “We barely put a dent in the conch fritters.” I say, to no one in particular. No one is paying attention to me. Every eye is glued to the super bowl commercials. Richard Simmons is about to get hit by a car in a tire ad. Loud drunken laughter erupts in the large room.
I yank my shirt tail out of my pants hoping to breathe better. I’d unbutton my jeans if it weren’t for the company piled in every available seat in my den. There’s still bananas foster to eat for dessert. Refusing it isn’t a possibility. The cook, my husband is slaving away over the stove while the rest of us crack up laughing at the tube. The sweet mixture of hot rum and brown sugar waif through the air.
Rugby filled his grocery cart with items from a list; a torn sheet of yellow legal pad paper which he folded, shoved in his back pocket and retrieved again upon turning down a new isle. It was crumpled with not much life left in it. The list started as a crisp full sheet of paper smacked on the refrigerator with a magnet and an announcement. “We’re throwing a super bowl party.” He would over cook, she knew. He always did. She’d learn to let him. Cooking his passion, his hobby, his therapy.
Pushing the car down isle thirteen he discussed alcohol options. “We’ll still have to stop by the liquor store,” he said, delicately placing a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon next to the half gallon of Silk Soymilk. “I’m making bananas foster.” He said, before she could ask why. Even then, standing on isle thirteen of the Food Mart, she knew she’d be too full to enjoy the gourmet dessert.
“No way?” she smiled. Following up the smile with a furrowed brow she asked, “For eleven people?”
“Okay.” She stretched the word out as if to say, ‘Are you sure about that’s a good idea.”
“It will be delicious.” He pursed his lips together and headed off to isle fourteen where they’d no doubt discuss spices going into the salmon patties.
|Deep in the Canyon
Before heading down to the bottom, I gazed over the top.
The wind and weather sending shivers deep through my chest.
I trekked to the bottom, bounding down steep trails, struggling to keep balance, my fingers gripped limbs.
I became lost. Like you new I would. Wiggling through trails I made myself.
I hid from you deep in the ???? bushes once. My heart beating w/ fear while your flashlight scanned the perimeter. I was certain you saw me. your voice throwing insults and threats.
I crouched beneath the ???tree and waited.
I made all theses paths. The weather beaten signs directed those new to the area.
Low self Esteem trail
You will never make it trail
The trail of a thousand I hate yous.
At the bottom, the stream is thin, narrow, shallow. A silvery film swims through the soft flowing water. Remnants. Or is it residue.
|His mind wandered bac to the day the letter arrived in the mail. The white envelope sat on his dinner plate, void of food when he arrived home...late and full of energy.
Sitting down, he picked it up, eyeing the return address - ???? College.
Three generations of hope sweat and talent rested sqarely on the back of his shoulders, and ran tightly through the veins and muscles of his right arm. His throwing arm. His right arm, which now lay pinned down underneath the heavy weight of a Honda Civic. What the hell was he doing riding his bike at 10PM on a dark rode? His coach was gonna kill him. Coach Peterson would have to stand in line, behind his parents. his mother. sorry mom. saly tears ran down his dirty cheeks already caked with dirt and blood.
|I told her i was a novice player. She told me not to worry. She'd teach me. anything and everything i wanted to know. i get my first lesson tonight.
My eyes looked away from the ball for one split second, down to my shoes. i missed the toss, the point of contact, the ball leaving the racquet - giving me the edge to accurately respond.
the serve was solid. right in the middle of the box, a tad to the left, reqiring a side step to give the sharp cross court pick up i so typically hit for returns.
yes she wanted to be in the game. that much was certain. i had the ret of the spit second to see how far.
but i froze, my feet refusing to side step. instead. i scooped the ball up - with an ugly stroke. popping the ball up for a slam net shot - if she wanted to smack me.
she did not.
she stroked it right back at me, allowing me more time to play the point out.
so now, here i stand, playing mini tennis. at leasti i'm on court, not watching from the sidelines. tapping the ball in her direction with each shot. wishing i had the confidence to step back and hit some solid groundstrokes.