Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Dreamtime.

I started out this post with a blow-by-blow account of what's been going on in my life...Then, I kinda realised that that's exactly the kind of unimaginative post I'll hate to read. So, I'm going to pick a topic at random and write a short story! Check out this story spinner (ICT lessons are useful. Whaddya know...)

And the final verdict is...

Describe the secret wish of a devious flamingo who solves crimes.

Pink. Pink. More pink. To the left? Pink. To the right? A slightly less eye-smarting shade of salmon. But still pink. I had had enough. Why couldn't the Great Pink *again* One have created us in a more pleasing hue? Or at least given us individuality? Too many times I had mistaken my brother for my grandmother's cousin's son. Goodness knows how many divorces we've had, all claiming bigamy but really, most of them were mere cases of mistaken identity. The flock was contented though. Birds of a *pink* feather flock together and all that jazz...

Me? I wanted to stand up and stand out. A cut above the rest...although in reality, my resting leg was somewhat below average in length. I had to flamingo my neck a little to look for fellow flams in the flock. But my brain! AH! My one redeeming quality. I seemed to be less affected by the midday heat of steamy Jibajabajoo and I was always the first to figure out a way to get dinner for the flock, coaxing out the skittish squirming crustacean that withdrew at the speed of light into their mudholes at the bottom of our lake. I knew all about our mating and divorce rates because, well, yours truly was made the "lawyer" of the flock when I tempted a particularly obdurate and delectable shellfish to jump out of its hole for the brilliant, if I do say so myself, piece of bait that I crafted from feathers and an old boot.

Despite being pretty well-known in the flock circles, nobody has ever asked me what my favourite colour is. When you're a flamingo, it's taken for granted. But I'll tell you, my confidante, my favourite colour is the one of solitude. The colour of shadows, heavy metal and the deepest night. The classy colour of simplicity. BLACK. I know, I know. A flamingo has no business wanting to be black. I was the equivalent of a dyslexic Michael Jackson. It was like fish wanting to roller blade or Bush wanting to read a novel. It just wasn't going to happen. But I still dream. Of opposable thumbs and a can of spray paint.

This secret little wish of mine began when, one day, my brother (or was it sister? or my grandmother's cousin's son?) made a discovery that disrupted our peaceful, shellfish-eating ways.............



To be continued? Maybe. Do you wanna know what happens next?


I wonder if I could submit this in place of my ALS paper and plead for clemency.


|Basking @| 8:31 PM|

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