Sipping

Sipping my green tea

Leafing through a homework book

Relaxed and at peace

The Lucky One

The Lucky One

He really couldn’t understand

So why do I blame him?

Blaming him ‘cause he’s better

Blaming him ‘cause he’s rich

Blaming him for being

Who he was born to be

But I still blame

His crowd of friends

People who want to be high up

High up with the stars

High up on the rankings

So high and far up in

The ways of the world

But I hate ‘em

He walks by

Carrying his bag of books

He casts a single glance

A glance of contempt

A glance of superiority

A glance that

Says everything

But I’m not gonna look down

I stare him in the face

That little instant

That instant my defiant gaze

That instant says

I’m just as good

He looks away

But he knows

And someday he’ll have to face it

We’re all born equal

Update!

Hello everyone!

I'm sorry I haven't been posting lately. This month, an explosion in homework levels occurred. And I should have posted in August when I had more time. Oh well, you can't change the past.

However, you will have things to look forward to. More free form poetry, experiences, haikus, and a new serial story. The next post should be coming soon!

If I Never Was

  If I never was

The world would be 

Subtly incomplete

If a little bug

Was never hatched 

Something would be different.

If a leaf was never grown

Its tree would be

A little smaller

If an apple never fell

Gravity would be

An unknown force.

If war was life

Who could set 

The peaceful example

 If humans were gone

The world would be

A better place.

Yet we exist...

Scoga and the Isand in the Waters of Time: The final chapter

Scoga and the Island in the Waters of Time

Part 10 : Away

“I never thought I'd be doing this!” I panted, as we raced down the slope. Scoga responded with a breathless “No kidding!” When, after a lot of hard running, we reached the village, preparations were already set in motion. Gani was in the square holding a bow and a throwing axe. “Those are the weapons that are always hanging on our wall!” gasped Scoga, “I never knew they were meant to be used!” Gani strode over to us. “I know I can trust you, Scoga, and Fire-Hair has demonstrated courage and skill. You two will be scouts. He gave us a big hug. “Be safe, or I will never forgive myself for this,” he said, looking worried. We told him that we would be safe. “The scouting squadron is over there,” he said, pointing to a small group of teenagers, “Hurry.”

A small, sturdy man was barking orders at the teens. “Run over to Filbunk's and get some indigo! You! Yes, you! Run to the weavers for some brown cloth! Everyone get a bow and a knife!” Scoga and I raced to the house for our bows. In the evenings that we had waited, I had fashioned a bow under Gani's guidance. It was serviceberry, with a string that sang when you released. Scoga lent me some of his arrows and a knife, and I took one last look at the house before I left.

The scouting chief ordered us all to different positions around the island. “Report to me in either five hours or whenever you see something. I will be at guard station number three, on the ridge. Off you go!” Scoga and I raced to our position. We were grouped in pairs, which was handy. Our position was through the Mouth of the Frozen King on the coast. It took an hour and a half just to get there. And that was as fast as we could go. “Why did we have to get the farthest station?” Scoga complained. But going through the Mouth was enough to satisfy both of us. Inside was damp and cool. The torches flickered against the sandy rock. We couldn't even see the end. It didn't take us long to get through, though, because we ran. And when we did get to the other side, the ocean glittered and sparkled beautifully. But we awoke to crisis when we heard the cry “Ready the Tinjip!” Men were running around a huge, horizontal bow, carrying spears to fit against it. “Wow,” I breathed. “We go this way, unfortunately,” said Scoga, and I reluctantly ran off to our position.

Our position, however, we never found. I stopped dead in my tracks. “Listen,” I whispered. We heard a low murmuring of voices in the bushes on the ocean side of the trail. They were talking in a strange language, though, that we couldn't understand. We crept along back to the Tinjip, and then told one of the guards all about it. “We'll see what we can do,” the guard said, “Go back and ascertain how many there are.” But just then, a horde of Numeri warriors sprang from the bushes. “Quick– run!” yelled the guard. But I didn't run. I felt around in my pocket for some pith-covered balls of cloth I had prepared for my arrows for fun. I stuffed the cloth onto the arrow and Scoga lit it with his flint and steel. Then I drew back my bow and released. The fire-arrow fell into the midst of the Numeri, and they fell back, howling with rage. Scoga lit one for his own bow and mine, and we shot again. This time, the guards had regrouped and were pulling back the Tinjip. The Numeri, however, greatly outnumbered us. Until the reinforcements came, with Chakunga himself leading the attack. Scoga and I were sending out the last of fire-arrows, When hands seized us from behind. It was Gani. “I told you to be safe! Not fight the battle! Fall back!” we did as we were told.

We watched the battle from the Tinjip. We made arrows for the archers, and then took our turn shooting them. The battle was going bad for us. Already, the sickening sight of a score of dead men lay before us. The Numeri looked like they were going to win. But then a miracle happened. Well, not a real miracle, but a miracle of chance. I purring sound. It got louder and turned into a whirring. Scoga was frightened. “What is that? A new Numeri trick? Run!” “Wait!” I yelled. Then I turned and ran to the nearest tree. “What the heck?” Scoga exclaimed, but he followed me. I reached into my pocket, and there it was, my last fire-arrow. I shot up the tree like a monkey, so fast even Scoga couldn't keep up. The battle down below was turning into chaos, because the whirring had become so loud. It was deafening! “Quickly!” I hollered, at the top of the tree. Scoga was there beside me. He lit the arrow and I drew back and released. The arrow flew up, up, right into the windshield– of the helicopter.

The men scattered like mice as the helicopter landed. It ceased its whirring and two men climbed out. “It's alright, this is a helicopter!” I yelled. The warriors began to re-emerge. The helicopter pilots talked with a Southern accent. “You kid, you betta havva good reason for doin' dis. We's late as it is a'ready.” I introduced myself and told them how I got here and what was going on, which took a while. The pilots' eyes got bigger and bigger. When I finished, The pilot who hadn't spoke before asked, with a Russian accent, “An' ver ees dees Chakunga?” (Translation: And where is this Chakunga?) “Right here, actually,” boomed a majestically deep voice beside me, “and I owe a great deal to you. When you landed, you scared away the enemy, the Numeri. They were about to take over the island. As of the minute, they are sculling away across the sea. You saved our lives.” The Southern pilot blushed. “Aw, shucks, it ain't nothin'. An' you, kid, had better come with us.”

Chakunga shook my hand. “Thank you, Fire-Hair, for having the knowledge to bring this machine down to earth to scare away the enemy. You are always welcome here.” With that, he turned away and gathered together his army, to march off to the village in triumph. But Gani and Scoga stayed to say good be. We had a big group hug. “Say good bye to Dornsvik the cat for me,” I said, fighting back tears. “I will,” said Scoga, with a weak smile. Then I boarded the plane and we took off. I thought over everything that had happened. I had lost track of how long I had been on the island for. I wondered what my family would think when they learned I was still alive.

As we flew off into the sky, my thoughts seemed to group around the helicopter like wispy clouds.

I was going home.

The end

Author's note: As I finish writing this story, It makes me wonder that I have persevered at it for ten chapters. I have never written a story this long before. I have created a whole new world, and developed a plot. I will continue to write serial stories like this one. I'm thinking about a spy thriller for next time. Or maybe a Scoga sequel. Please comment below and tell me what you would like to see– Futuristic, Detective, Fables– anything. Thank you.

Life With 70 Chickens

 

 So, 70 chickens. 1 rooster, 10 hens, 59 chicks. And guess what that equals? Work! It also equals few blog posts. So, folks, if you ever consider keeping chickens, consider the time and work factors. We have four different groups of chickens: the hens, the rare-breed Icelandic chicks, the red rangers (meat chicks), and the motley assortment of different breeds for laying, including Delawares, Ameraucanas, Speckled Sussexes, Black Australorps, Buff Brahmas, and Silver-Laced Wyandottes.

Every day, they require lots of care. You need to check their waterers, fill their feeders, pick some greens for them, watch them while they run around outside, put them outside, bring them in, and, of course, snuggle them. All throughout the day, day after day, it gets a little tiresome. But the rewards are satisfying enough to keep us going. Little moments when they seem so peaceful and small that you can only sigh and wish you were them.

 

Don't get me wrong. I love my chickens. But they can be annoying sometimes. Like the time when the Icelandics got into the garden. The time a sussex and a brahma squeezed through the fence. The time every single Icelandic was in the Columbine bed. But then there were the moments when they were all snuggled tight underneath their mom, sleeping in a cute little pile under the heat lamp, and Peter the Icelandic curling up against your neck like a little dove that would never fly away.

Overall, now I can't imagine living without the chickens. The older hens with which we have so many memories will live in retirement until they die. The chicks we will make memories with. And Tuft, the aggressive, pesky, rooster– well, he'll be around for a while, until the time when shovels don't rest against every building to protect yourself from him. And maybe I'll look back and remember the time he punctured my soccer ball.

The Mist–– A Set of Haïkus

A Beautiful Picture of Mist

A misty blanket

Which mysteriously shrouds

The sun and the earth

The undefined clouds

Through which even the hawk dares not

Fly across the dim

Twinkling rays of sun

Are lost in the sponge of fog

Soaking up the warmth

Then the wings of mist

Dissolve into nothingness

And the world is freed