“Instead of writing down everything that happens in your day, give your day a twist by fictionalising it”
“Practise using the 6 elements of story: Action, Description, Dialogue, Introspection, Emotion, and Exposition”
The green pigeon coo roo c’too coo’d and then followed the dark figure which studdered back through the woods. I turned to her “How many have you picked?” “Not much, most are rotten from the inside”.
“Same here. Hey, we should follow him”. I said taking her by the arm. “Wait, don’t we have to be in bed by 10” my friend whispered untangling herself. “They’re probably busy eating pink flowers ” I scuffled. Why did I have to be the brave one now. We sat under the fig tree, ladybugs crawling up our legs. Inside, the pots clanged and a dirty arm wiped milk stains off the bench. “We shouldnt really be sitting here. Isn’t this categorized as Spying”. His window wasn’t far away from the fig tree, the one the old man would sit under and read to his grandchildren. the kitchen light travelled through the vintage window and bounced back at my eyes, from the soccer ball stuck in a mint pile. Old man must be somewhere here. “You know, if you having nothing to say its okay to keep the silence.” came from behind the corner. We both jumped in panic. “What are you doing here, Tickle!”
“Agh!, you don’t just startle us like that”. My friend had a tough side as well. “leave, or we’ll leave”. The old man hunched and hurried back to the bench. I follow him. “You know, my friend, the other day when you came into my room, you made me think”. “What of ,ey?” his back patted the wall. “Don’t do that please, it makes me twitch, that sound..” The wind bunched his beard to the side, to his enjoyment. My torch made Pigeon’s coat glitter, and peck Old Man on the knee. “ey!”. “So, what is this you think of?”. “Well, I wondered why you tried to get rid of the birds from my window, while you own a pigeon.”. My friend had to lean in on that conversation “How hypocritical of you!”. I poke her nose. “Keep this facing the kitchen window, okay?” maybe I shouldn’t have said that, maybe if I’d been more tactful. I miss my old friend. “Here, go pick us more tomatoes” I gave her my basket. That lot became a memory, in my slots of hickory and bewilderment. Her raging shadow stomped across my tired shadow. She disappeared into the trees, her stick pointing straight at my nose. My friend gave me the eye to eye gesture, which could mean many things.
“You two very close?” the old man cut in, startling me again. “as close as you and your pigeon are”. I kicked a dagger-shaped pebble that ran straight into Coo. “Sorry!”. I rushed to the bird’s side. “Leave him alone!” The old man scuffled and pinched my knee “Go away!” he hollowed into my ear. “I really didn’t mean for it to hit him”. Pigeon’s eyes were a pair peaches. “Look at his wing! poor thing, I been tryin to heal that for him in years”. “Years?” He’s had this thing for years?. Bubbles made their way to my blood. I rushed to get water. “Where you going?” he called after me. “He needs water!” I scurried off the porch, stomping on all the pink flowers which were gathered carefully on the step.
The warm white wavey-ness brought kind feelings to my wrist. Maybe when the pain goes i can recognise your sparkling bubbles , appreciate character, The cheese merged into the pasta,
bubblegum chewn on by a childish rat. The tip of my water bottle woo’d me – it was the window –
inside her kitchen i hear another sound. The sound of a family eating pink flowers. It wasn’treally my ideal day for a walk – we talked female fed the cat chicken and then something queer happened. A white haired man sat still in between the fig tree, the wind kept on burching his beard to the side, to his annoyment. No more puppy fat, no still but we picked tomatoes, helped him at least. He was quiet. We solemnly filled our baskets “You know” he pointed out “if you having
nothing to say its okay to keep the silence.” A bird-pigeon coo roo c’too coo’d after he left, and
we realised it was his. It followed him studdering along through the woods. Makings its sounds.
Cute. They have different voices than the rest of the bird families. Glory Be to the Creator. When
you see how their coats flitter it makes you think – how could anyone say nature. its too perfect
to be an accident. You have to be in bed by 10, go to sleep.