Ok I know, I know, why am I writing a random one-shot when I should be writing a chapter? Because I got a sudden burst of Inpiration from this book I was reading (which is totally where I stole the grandma quote from) Its my first attempt to do first person... so tell me how it sounds... hahaha I'm so used to telling third-person omnicent, its kinda sad... Anyway, for those of you who review, you can also chose one of my stories that you want me to update, the one with the most 'votes' I will update by eight pm tomorow! Ok now READ AND REVIEW!!
I saw very few Mocking Birds in my lifetime. It, like all other birds, was annoying and refused to shut up and stop its constant shrieking, so I liked to keep as far away as possible. One of the only times I ever truly saw one, was back in my early childhood, back to in time when wise, old Grandmother would come often and pass words of advice into my still young mind. On that particular occasion, Grandma sat outside in the scorching heat of dog days of summer, slowly sipping away at her over sweetened lemonade as she yelled out to my father. Her raspy, but strong voice rang out like a gunshot in the silence of the sluggish summer, "Kill as many blue-jays as you want, but remember, it's a sin to kill a Mocking Bird!"
Father, being of his cheerful, goofy nature, laughed off his mother's advice. A bird was a bird, in his eyes, it was a creature of prey, it felt no fear and it was put on earth for the pleasure of the hunter. He trotted off, completely uncaring of the old woman's deadly scowl.
Shaking her head she turned back to me, "Ichigo, my child, It's the truth." Her rough voice somehow sweetening, "It is a deadly sin to kill a Mocking Bird. They don't do anything but sing us their beautiful songs. Those voices, so full of natural love and passion; truly the voices of God."
The words were meaningless to me back then. I brushed it off as idle babble. The Mocking Bird was annoying and useless. The words died with my grandmother, lost and forgotten in the deepest crypts of the mind. Only to be resurfaced many years afterward.
He truly reminded me of a Mocking Bird, that Kisshu. He would openly spout words of love, like the sonnets of the birds. Even in his appearance he resembled the creature. His forest green hair matched the criteria of the color of its feathers. His lanky and agile body was perfectly scale to that of the bird. Even his voice became comparable to that of the Mocking Bird. It infuriated me, made me want to rip my own hair out in pure frustration. I felt if he were to fall off the face of the earth and out of existence, I would not care.
In the end, as strange as it seemed, I grew to miss the song of my Mocking Bird. His sonnet of unending vows of love, all abruptly stopped upon his death. And so, there was silence for there was no bird to break the silence with its foolish chatter. It was a silence of the soul, a silence that no one could break.
As I sit in the park and write this memoir, I hear, for the first time in over half a century, the chirping of a green Mocking Bird. He cheerily sang his song, almost like it was for me alone. It had to be him. Gingerly picking up my cane, I steadily walk toward the magnificent creature. My hand, withered and crinkled from age involuntarily reaches up to stroke him, but it was not to be, for just before my hand could touch his green feathers, he flew away, disappearing into the sunset. I chuckle, Grandma was right, killing my Mocking Bird was the gravest sin ever committed.
Review!!