Mad Bird, Fearless Bird

Melissa Gaggiano Photography

I never thought that I’d be entering a battlefield when I agreed to look after the school chickens. Imagining an idyllic scene full of chickens wandering about the yard, my family picnicking alongside them on an azure morning, and me, with a notepad in hand dreaming of poetic arrangements of words that I would pluck [yes, I said pluck] out of the sky and scribble down. Wind in the Willows has a lot to answer for, I think.

The nasty reality of looking after the chickens was not so much the chickens. The chickens were lovely, each with its’ own adorable personality I am sure. But there were machinations planted in the schoolyard the day that I got the call from the school saying it was finally our turn to look after the chickens. We would even have the chickens all to ourselves for the entire holidays. We, my family that is, excitedly waited all year for the chance to look after the school chickens. Why? Go back to the first paragraph and reread why. So what exactly went wrong?

 It was, in fact, the cock! The bloody cock!! Twice we have gone to check on the chickens and each time the newly acquired cock has been quite territorial. Now I know what it feels like to be stalked by a miniature dinosaur. Make no mistake, just because the beast is smaller than me doesn’t lessen the impact of intimidation. I am sensitive by nature and will howl at a paper cut and am not hardened to the pin like pricks when kittens play [though I can handle a break or dislocation with surreal calm]. So when a cock continually flies at me, and impaling my leg with its beak, I will freak. And freak I did. Realising the very real danger from this bird whose balls were clearly bigger than its brain I call out to my youngest and tell her to escape to the other side of the field. Moments later I’m running sideways across the oval with the cock on my tail.

The situation was beyond ridiculous. This one little bird was able to cause so much distress, not to mention physical pain. How on this green earth was I going to look after the chickens when this psycho with duck syndrom running about? My only option was retreat and to call for back up.

“I cannot believe I am being bullied by a small bird”, I tell my husband. He suggests I look at this situation as a life lesson. I’ve had plenty of those. I don’t need a tiny mad bird reminding me that I am a constant target for bullies.

Half an hour later I return to the chickens with my husband at my side. This time we are battle ready with large square orange bread cartons acting as shields. Well, the birds didn’t know what was coming and the cock wasn't going to mess with a giant square floating toward it. Within minutes the chickens and the cock were back in their house, door closed and firmly locked. After all that trouble caused by one mad bird, I was exhausted from the adrenalin rush and ravenous. My husband and I look at each other, we are each wondering if rooster tastes like chicken. Don’t worry though the cock is safe, for now. But we knew that using the cartons as shields was a temporary solution and something more permanent needed to be done if we were to continue taking care of the chickens. Stay tuned…

Sunday Post

“A gentle breeze passes overhead and around my neck. It is grey with patches of blue. We are all comfortable.”

    The weekend has been passing peacefully. The family is together, the weather is perfect for us. No chores, no shopping. We have gone for walks, eaten pizza, played a laughable Playstation 3 game. No phone calls, no messages — it has been a good weekend, and it ain't over yet.
    Over the past week I have been working on a creative writing piece for a local short story writing competition. I finished writing it and entered it into the competition just this afternoon. It'll be several weeks before I hear the outcome. So fingers are crossed, and now I shall focus on my next writing project. It'll be something bigger, I should think.
This is me quietly toodling off to go tinker with some old notes…


What am I reading?
Harry Potter & the Chamber of Secrets.


What am I listening to?
Still listening to Joan Jett and The Divinyls.


What do I need?
A beanie.


What do I want?
A red beanie.

The Grumpy Worm

(A very, very short tale of worm woe)

Certain things made the worm grumpy. Mostly it came down to the interference of his home.
He was constantly having to repair the damage caused to his underground sanctuary.
Such as when the over earth giants stamped pass over head. the movement sent tremors causing cave ins through the corridors of his home.
Another problem were the over industrious ants expanding their empire. Never once asking if it is alright to build a new tunnel right through his living room. Then of course after he's had words with the un-civil engineers of the local ant community, they surely would leave — without bothering to repair the damage to his home. The massive clean up was always left to this one very unhappy worm.

The Cat's Hour

The following story is an extract from my cat's journal (to be taken with a grain of salt).

Meow! My name is Piper and I am a housecat. So they tell me. I don’t want to be a housecat. I never did. I try to tell the tall creatures but they never pay attention. So I bide my time and I wait for opportunity to strike.
One day the see-through wall swings open, and it stays that way. This is new. The tall creatures have not noticed. No one to block me this is my chance.
I run. I run for all it’s worth. Down the stairs, round the smooth path. At last I am out. I am free, and I can go anywhere. Meow! This is too exciting. There is so much to choose from. Where to first?
I see an unnatural patch of grass. I wonder over there. Chewing on the grass. I don’t do this often. I notice big yellow smelly things amongst the grass. I do like. 

I move on further up the path and notice the largest scratching post I have ever seen in my life. There are birds at the top. I am going to make this post mine.
I leap into the air, claws out, ready to grab the bark. Meow! I’m on… Oh meow! I’m off. I hit the ground. The scratching post has torn away. I brought some of it with me. Dodgy scratching post! How am I supposed to play with the birds?
The birds are laughing. Laughing at me? I’ll show them. I’ll make them see. I look around. Meow! I see a wall. I can take it. One push off is all it takes. I’m up. The birds are closer to me, and they know it. They squawk and storm from above.
‘Yes, my lovelies, come into my mouth’, I sing to the birds. The noise continues, and I am being pelted with leaves.
I consider my next move. How to get closer to the birds?
I am surprised. Meow! Something warm and hard clamps down on me. I am falling. But I am not falling. It is more of a pull. I am off the wall. I am dangling. It is the tall she creature. She has a grip on me. She looks relieved, but she sounds upset.
She’s upset? What about me? I might not have this opportunity again.
I am carried up a familiar path, up the stairs and back into the indoor obstacle course.
One week later: The bloody tall creatures have put a collar on me. Meow!!!

My Creative Space...

This week I finished a painting which will go on the bedroom wall of a future nephew/niece. Although you can't tell from the photo there is actually glitter within the paint of the night sky.

This week I have been working a little bit on a short story for a local writing competition. On top of that I am reading Knit Knit, a book that I borrowed from the library (for the second time).

It is a time of contemplation for me at the moment — this happens a lot. There are always so many things I want to try, and not enough hours in the day to do it all. Do I focus on drawing? Or on writing? On sewing? Or knitting? Or can I combine all of the above?

Check out what other people are doing in their creative spaces over at Kootoyoo.

The Return Home - a very short story

Author's Note: This is a work of fiction. Enjoy...

Today I begin my story. It is an intriguing one to some, but there are those who would not believe it. I, however, would not demand that you believe these words but would suggest that you listen and only pass judgement at the end of this tale.

As a young girl my imagination was fertile with ideas from stories I had read, and tall tales that I created for myself. And for every adventure that took place in the jungles of my bedroom a story was written, a map was drawn, a doll was made and a costume was worn.

Then, as the years passed by my adventures lessened and another world took hold. My parents were gone and in their place an unknown relative was given charge over me. She didn’t approve of my world of dreams and told me that the real world had other uses for me. So with the burdening and worrisome thoughts of what I was going to be when I grew up, I forgot about the other world that I had created. The final nail was driven when I was sent away from home to a boarding school. From that point, every piece of my dream world was boxed up and left in the dark to be covered with dust and forgotten.

Many moons pass overhead and I return to the house of my childhood a grown girl, with a husband, Jimmy, and daughter, Eliza. The years had not been kind to the house. Or more to the point, the lady who was supposed to take care of me was never a particularly good housekeeper.

The relative has passed on, and I bring my family to see the house of my childhood. We consider selling the house, but something pulls at me and says ‘no’. It is my daughter. She tugs at my hand, “Mummy can we stay here?” The house is dreary and needs a lot of work, and yet tiny Eliza wants to stay.

It is the end of the school year for Eliza and we are all home together – the family unit. Jimmy and I begin cleaning the house starting from the bottom up. Eliza spends time becoming acquainted with the wild garden. At the end of each day she tells us about the faeries she has met. Jimmy and I pass a smile to each other.

Jimmy and I begin looking at the furniture to see what can be saved. Eliza begins to explore the house. She goes up a flight of stairs beyond the second floor, straight up to the attic and disappears into the room for a few hours.

It is dinnertime and Eliza has not come downstairs yet. Jimmy goes upstairs to look for our daughter. While setting the table I hear Jimmy call out to me. He is up in the attic too. I stop what I am doing and follow the sounds of my family. I travel up stairs that I have not set foot on for twenty-four years. The floorboards squeak with a long past familiarity.

I stand in the doorway of a dusty attic with light coming from a single dim light bulb and the setting sun outside. The room is filled with trunks and crates. Eliza sits in the middle of the floor with a trunk open in front of her. Jimmy squats down next to Eliza his hand touching her head. Eliza sees me. “Mummy, I found your things.”
I move to my family and look into the trunk. Eliza pulls out a bundle of old dress ups.
“How do you know these belong to me?” I ask Eliza.
With all seriousness and something of a smile, “They told me I would find your things up here.”
“Who are they?” Jimmy looks concerned.
“The faeries in the garden.” Eliza turns to me, “They said you might not remember.”
I shake my head, and lead Eliza with Jimmy back down the stairs. We don’t know what to make of what Eliza has just said. But it is time that we have dinner. Sometimes these things are more easily understood by the normal light of day.

Later that night, after Eliza is in bed, I go downstairs and step into the backyard. It is summer, though for such a hot day, there is now a light breeze that relieves some of the heat. The garden, once a well-managed lot has become overgrown with roses. It is actually the one nice trait of the property’s current condition. I look into the darkness and wonder about what Eliza saw.