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Photo: “Evolve” by Johnny Swanson

It was a dark and stormy night. Possibly the worse sentence written in the English language, but now it’s out there. I am not a good writer, but I hope to be one one day.

So, I have been sixteen for about twenty minutes now, and all I have to show for it is a silent parrot, a blank journal, and a business card of someone my father claims is my godmother.

I have decided to call my quiet parrot Princess Sophie.

I have decided to write in only emerald in the journal. I think the color will set off the peacock feathers prints featured on the bottom of each page.

Someone told me a peacock drops his feathers when reminded of his ugly feet. So, the key to staying pretty, at least when you are a peacock, is not to look down. I am not sure what kind of person goes around sharing this kind of nonsense with kids.

Well, I have been sixteen for nearly an hour and am still as judgmental and fashionable as when I was fifteen.

I am tempted to do a double edge hope/curse and wish for something to happen. A brief peek inside my shirt and in the mirror tells me it’s not something I need to happen, it’s me I need to happen.


“Are you there?”

“Only for a few hours.”

“I’ve missed you.”



“I know how you talk when you really feel something, and ‘I’ve missed you?’”

“She scratches me. And, still I hold her knowing her pain is more lovely than her absence.”

“That’s better.”

“How long has it been this time?”

“May I be brief or must I thrust your answer among the buds of May?”

“Brevity works.”

“Sixty years.”

Time goes merrily forward leaving behind wind pulled feathers and fountains of sand whispers.

Until then.

Pages must burn.