I think my human might have ADD, or premature Alzheimer’s or early onset senility.
She’s a real pain in my vent, the avian equivalent of human reproductive and digestive systems combined. Nothing external, just a slit that opens and closes like the shutter of a camera or the lid of an eye.
She always does exactly what she likes and that’s why she’s always in trouble.
She’s been like that since she first came into my life, years ago, and I naively tried to find her an appropriate mate.
Back then I hadn’t yet realized some human females are, apparently, destined to remain eggless.
Venus
Now, without even consulting me, she’s signed me up for a memoir writing workshop.
She doesn’t understand what I’m supposed to do except it has to be done every day until I’ve finished at least three pages and I’m not supposed to stop or edit or make corrections.
I’m supposed to just let everything gush out like blood spurting from a punctured cartoroid artery and get in touch with my inner child, my unhealed wounds, my inhibitions and my inner censor. (As though I had one.)
She’s the one with all the angst and unresolved issues and familial dysfunction and relationship problems so I don’t know why she got me involved.
|
He gazed calmly, an inquisitive elf in a green velvet cape and silver waistcoat. Iridescent, moss-like feathers covered his head and back, ending just below his eyes, like a carnival mask. His throat and chest were luxurious as Siberian fox fur. His beak was light salmon with a thin white strip above the nostrils and slim bands of black and gray striped his feet. | Wyntre |
It was the shortest day of the year. The diluted daylight had already faded. The temperature had plummeted and the wind-chill had dropped below zero. Barely breathing, she shut the door, picked up the cage, hurried inside, set it on the kitchen counter and peered at the parrot as though expecting him to disappear any second. “I accept your protection,” he said. |
|
Basil, the sullen misanthropic plum-headed parakeet, was the last to rise. Grumpy and foul-tempered, she screeched a shrill piercing whistle, protesting the early hour. Her deformed right foot, with only two toes, no doubt contributed to her nasty temperament. | Basil |
That was compounded by the fact everyone could fly except her. The pet shop where she’d languished the first two years of her life, because no one would buy such a mean spiteful expensive little bird, had chopped her flight feathers down to the stub and they still hadn’t grown back. |