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Short Stories By Us

Discussion in 'Social' started by cookie, Apr 27, 2007.

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  1. cookie

    cookie I'm a VIP

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    ok, this is not a poem, and i couldn't find another thread for stories. this is actually non-fiction, but a recollection of a happy day in my childhood.

    One Summer Day



    One summer day my younger brother, being the adventurous seven-year-old that he was, began racing around the yard, screaming nearly, “come here, come here you!” Half running, half crawling, he was gleefully chasing some obviously impaired birds, salt shaker in hand. I should explain, I suppose, that we were hillbilly, born and raised, and proud of it I might add.

    Turned out, one of the local farmers, we’ll call him Mr. Brown, had incorporated some various machinery into a contraption known by most folks as a still—a moonshine still. Seems that someone turned in his adventurous proprietorship of said whiskey making to the Federal Revenuers. They, in turn, obligingly came to see for themselves. Of course, being helpful as they often were, they rearranged Mr. Brown’s still with some axes and maybe a baseball bat or two. The mash was spilled out on the ground in the process, of course. Mash being the solid part of the fermented corn Mr. Brown had used to make his whiskey.

    Now, you know the birds were drawn to all that corn there, free for the taking. They must have helped themselves to a good bit, too. Our home being just over the hill from the woods where Mr. Brown had hidden his proprietorship, our yard was filled with inebriated birds. They were staggering, flapping, falling, squawking, but not flying, all over the place. It was indeed a hilarious, if not confusing, sight.

    Someone, I’m not sure who, had informed my brother that if he put salt on a bird’s tail, it couldn’t fly, and he could then catch it. Of course that was only partially true. If one could get close enough to put salt on its tail, it could probably be captured, but because of the proximity, not the salt. Well, this had to be the most opportune time to test that theory, he figured. Thus, the comical sight of a seven-year-old chasing a bunch of drunk birds around the lawn on his knees, armed with a salt shaker.

    The excitement was just unbearable to his seven-year-old heart when he actually did catch one. He began jumping up and down, shouting, “I got one, I got one!” over and over. After probably less than a minute of that celebration, it became obvious that the detainee was not happy with the situation in the least. It began twisting, scratching, pecking, and something that sounded akin to a scream—if birds, in fact, do scream.

    I will never forget the look on my brother’s face as he realized that yes he did have it, it was not happy, and now what was he going to do with it. It was such a priceless scene as it dawned on him that it would not be possible to just let the poor thing go without getting himself hurt in the process. I recollect that he finally surmised to throw the poor thing as hard as he could, while he went the other direction as fast as he could. I reckon he had wanted to catch that bird very badly, but had given no consideration to just exactly what one would do with a bird if you did catch it.
    cathy
     
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  3. Marilyn_S

    Marilyn_S Well-Known Member

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    Cathy,

    That is a priceless story! It made my day! Thanks for sharing it. It reminded me of my eight year old son. He catches moths gently in his hands then wants to name them and make pets of them. I lovingly caution him each time to let the poor fragile things go and he usually does. So, needless to say, all the straggling moths in our house have names and oh my! Don't dare attempt to swat them or shew them away. lol!
     
  4. Linda

    Linda Well-Known Member

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    Cathy, thank you so much for it! A wonderful story, realy? I also heard this about the salt and catching the bird, but never tried it :)
    Hopefully later I will come up with some story, too :crazy-eye
     
  5. cookie

    cookie I'm a VIP

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    short stories by us

    this is a short story, but not real short, so don't read if you are in a hurry.
    this one is a true story, written like the hillbilly i am, lol


    One Summer Day



    One summer day, my younger brother, being the adventurous seven-year-old that he was, began racing around the yard, screaming, “come here, come here you!” Half running, half crawling, he was gleefully chasing some obviously impaired birds, salt shaker in hand. I should explain, I suppose, that we were hillbilly, born and raised, and proud of it, I might add.

    Turned out, one of the local farmers--we’ll call him Mr. Brown, had incorporated some various machinery into a contraption known by most folks as a still—a moonshine still. Seems that someone turned in his adventurous proprietorship of whiskey making to the Federal Revenuers. They, in turn, obligingly came to see for themselves. Of course, being helpful as they often were, they rearranged Mr. Brown’s still with some axes and maybe a baseball bat or two. The mash was spilled out on the ground in the process, of course. Mash being the solid part of the fermented corn Mr. Brown used to make his whiskey.

    Now, you know the birds were drawn to all that corn there, free for the taking. They must have helped themselves to a good bit, too. Our home being just over the hill from the woods where Mr. Brown had hidden his proprietorship, our yard was filled with inebriated birds. They were staggering, flapping, falling, squawking, but not flying, all over the place. It was indeed a hilarious, if not confusing, sight.

    Someone, I’m not sure who, had informed my brother that if he put salt on a bird’s tail, it couldn’t fly--and he could then catch it. Of course that was only partially true. If one could get close enough to put salt on a bird’s tail, it could probably be captured--but because of the proximity, not the salt. This had to be the most opportune time to test that theory, he figured. Thus, the comical sight of a seven-year-old chasing a bunch of drunk birds around the lawn on his knees, armed with a salt shaker.

    The excitement was just unbearable to his seven-year-old heart when he actually did catch one. He began jumping up and down, shouting, “I got one, I got one!” over and over. After probably less than a minute of that celebration, it became obvious that the detainee was not happy with the situation in the least. That poor bird began twisting, scratching, pecking, and something that sounded akin to a scream—if birds, in fact, do scream.

    I will never forget the look on my brother’s face as he realized that yes he did have it, and it was not happy. Now what was he going to do with it? It was such a priceless scene as it dawned on him that it would not be possible to just let the poor thing go without getting himself hurt in the process. It seems that he finally decided to throw the poor thing as hard as he could, while he went in the other direction as fast as he could. I reckon he wanted to catch that bird very badly, but had given no consideration to just exactly what one would do with a bird if he caught it.
     
  6. permban0077

    permban0077 Policy Enforcement Banned

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    I bet that lesson could be carried over in many aspects of life. Thank you for the story.
     
  7. She Cat

    She Cat Policy Enforcement Banned Premium Member Sponsor $100+

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    When I was a kid, the church up the street was loaded with pigeons. The priest got sick of cleaning the outside of the church. Where there are pigeons, there is pigeon POOP!!!! So the answer was to catch them and give them to us......

    My mother was NOT happy, but my grandfather built cages, and we kept them for awhile. Pigeon POOP smells in the heat, let me tell you.....Got bite a few times, it hurts.

    Later in life I raised birds, Cocketeils...Their bit hurts too. So for a 7 yr old, it must have felt like a vice grip on his hand or finger.

    Personally I would have loved to see a bunch of drunk birds.. What a great memory...

    Wendy
     
  8. Portabella

    Portabella Well-Known Member

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    I am an animal lover, and there is part of me that truely was worried about the poor drunken birds, but the way you told the story I found it totally hysterical. That is funny as heck, thank you for the story, gotta love your little brother and you brightened my day, thanks again....
     
  9. cookie

    cookie I'm a VIP

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    ok, who else is gonna put a story here? hmmmm....?
     
  10. permban0077

    permban0077 Policy Enforcement Banned

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    Oh, I will have to wait for a very creative stray bone. I am dying to see others. Is this fictional or life? I imagine the best "fiction" comes from life though.
     
  11. cookie

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    Meaning in the Mountains

    driving in the mountains today, this came to my mind, and later i managed to remember most of it, lol

    Meaning in the Mountains


    Looking at the many-furrowed mountains of West Virginia, I can imagine that God purposed to squeeze them closer with His strong hands of creation. There’s no pretentious grandeur here—instead, the honest beauty of rich, green summers, golden-hued autumns, winters blanketed in white wonder, and springs that hold the promise of new life.

    These much-convoluted ridges bring to mind a resemblance to the many wrinkles on my Great Aunt Avis’ face. Hers was wonderfully rosy and soft, even though lined with a mixture of hard work and a merry heart. Underneath it all was a kind, loving presence that shone out, available to all that would have it. Coming into the mountains here, those same convolutions seem to open up to us with a warm hospitality, giving us a glimpse of a time long past, and perhaps of a time to come again.

    I notice again, as I did in my youth, how peculiar it is that the tightly knit trees grow so tall and straight. I would suppose that standing together so gives them the strength to withstand the storms and wind. I think, possibly, that humankind must have once held the love and character to do much the same.

    Now, it seems, we isolate ourselves in a crowd of disconnected people. Why have we plucked up our heritage, only to plant ourselves in endless rows of uniform houses—much resembling a crop, of sorts, to grow in the stench of a self-absorbed life of “too-busy-ness”?

    As for the trees, I would imagine that straight up is the only way these can claim just a fair amount of the mist-filtered mountain sunshine. Even the weeds grow straight, looking as if someone combed them to dress them in their Sunday best. It sometimes seems that the lacey mist lingers ‘til noon, affording the mountain a much-needed morning to sleep in. Later in the evening, mist returns to haunt the wooded mountain vales, only to be chased away again by the light of a new day.

    To find a small spot of land here flat enough to raise a house, a crop, and several happy children is the only desire of a monetarily poor, but infinitely wise mountain folk—here, under the protection of the mountain and the hand of an Almighty God.
     
  12. permban0077

    permban0077 Policy Enforcement Banned

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    see you have such a knack at this... Please keep it up.
     
  13. cookie

    cookie I'm a VIP

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    thanks, veiled. don't want to be a pest, but this is a habit i can't stop, lol
     
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