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Works of fiction and poetry by friends of Bamboo Ridge Press.

Bamboo BuckarooBAMBOO BUCKAROO

I am born. . . . If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.



Year of the Pig writing contest rules and regs for April : )

Published by BAMBOO BUCKAROO | Monday, April 01, 2019 9:03 PM



Okay, on to round two. Your challenge this month is to add on to the story below. You can add

exactly 100 words

or

exactly 200 words

or

exactly 400 words.

You can also feel free to change the title of the story to suit your focus. Don't forget to paste the original entry as Chapter One of your piece, then add your Chapter Two below that.

Here we go:


Ornithological Rhapsody sans Dove or Rats with Wings

Rudy knows people, and,
because he knows people,
Rudy loves birds.

It is not enough to say that he likes, admires, envies, and adores all
birds — he LOVES them,
wants to marry them,
wants to BE them.

Most especially, he wants to join the lyrical thrush family,
the robins he admired back then,
the shamas he favors now.

But he loves them all —
woodpeckers, barnswallows, eagles, parakeets, budgies, Hartz Mountain
warblers — kid-time favorite comic book: “Blackhawks”.

These days he goes for the high-flying morning flocks of screeching
green parrots and the solitary, tree-skimming, side-gliding white owl
after dark.

Kentucky cardinals, koleas, cowbirds, chubby flocking majiros, silly
geese, and potty-mouthed Donald Duck. Rudy loves all birds.

But Rudy hates doves.

Rudy hates doves for the reasons we all hate those nasty, sneaky,
louse-ridden, sidewalk grifting, shoplifting shitdrippers.

Well, OK, maybe not the official Peace Dove with the olive branch. Of
course not. And not Dove soap, ha ha. But none of this pigeons in the
grass, alas, guano. Huh-uh. Pigeons in the grass can bite Rudy’s
okole.

So he’s standing there like Mr. Clean, arms crossed, proprietarily
admiring his ironwood tree, when he thinks he detects movement at the
bottom of his stairway.

Coo-coo kachoo, there IS movement: fucking doves. Two fucking doves.
Two doves fucking in that awkward, jerky, grabass way doves fuck,
right in his own front yard.

And now he really hates doves. He’s furious. Fucking doves. He’d like
to wring their twisty little necks. Sucking doves!

Rudy catches his breath. “Olive branch,” he thinks. “Peace out, bra.”
He grins, claps his hands hard, makes them sting like rifle shots,
like shotgun blasts. Feathers fluster, flutter, and fly. But not far.
Definitely not away. Like recalcitrants, like people. Like doves.



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