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.
this is not a contest entry, just a regular post.
Maile has become a voracious reader, and her appetite for books keeps growing. We’ve picked through the library offerings so we're now buying books. I’ll not lie, feeding her literature habit has become costly, and because of it, I almost always find myself in a situation where I live paycheck to paycheck. But I don’t want to hinder such a healthy habit. Thankfully, there are still a few used book stores left on O'ahu, but unfortunately, she enjoys new books best.
“Maile!” I call, wondering why she isn’t at her desk. “Where are you?” The closet door stands ajar. I open it. Nothing.
Once more, “Maile!”
Outside in the distance, I hear a dog barking. I open the back door and scan my yard. Nothing.
“Maile. You out here, Love?”
Another round of barking comes from just beyond the Silva’s mock orange hedge. I shuffle on my slippers and head into the yard. Turning the corner of the long well-trimmed hedge, I see her, sitting there on the Jensen’s just as well-trimmed grass.
“Maile, so there you are. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you come back when I called you?”
She looks up, a bit guiltily. Good. I don't like it when she wanders off by herself. “Come on,” I say, “let’s go home.” She stands up and comes towards me slowly. And then I see it. She stands before me, head down. I put my hand out. “Give that to me,” I command. Immediately, she drops the dead bird in my hand.
“Good girl,” I say, patting her on the head. “But I told you, Maile, if you kill birds, no more reading, right?”