The Herder

Tu-er looks at the fading sunlight and increases his pace. The sun is clinging on the silhouette of the mountains and slipping down unwillingly. The town behind him is swallowed up by the evening haze. As far as he could see there’s no smoke to indicate a village is near.

Curse that old man at the noodle stand, he thinks. The old man told him a village was within five miles and could be reached by dark. He was eager to get home after a month away from his family, so he took advantage of the sunlight and his strong legs.

Maybe he missed the turnoff. A fork taunted him a couple of miles ago. He followed the direction given to him to “keep going west” and now he’s not so sure. A sudden scream startles him and he jolts at the noise. A big bird dashes out of an elm tree, its dark wings flap a few times and disappears into the grey horizon. He exhales nervously.

A blister threatens him inside the hemp sole. Perhaps a night under a tree away from the element is the only way to sleep tonight. He surveys the landscape when he notices a vague shape in the dark. He focuses on it and a rush of joy washes all the anxiety away. It’s a small temple. He runs toward it with brave big steps.

He pushes the wooden door slowly. To his further delight it’s closed but not bolted. He calls out timidly, asking if he could spend the night, while crossing the foot-high thresh-hold carefully. A statue sitting behind an altar table greets him with wordless stern warning. The offering room appears endless in the dark air.

The cold incense burner and the empty tabletop tell him its abandoned state. He decides it’s a place safe enough to spend the night. He spreads out the cotton quilt he carries on his back and closes the door.

Few moments after he closes his eyes, it seems, a squeaky noise and a cold breeze on his face chase the slumber away. He sits up under the quilt with his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes searching wildly in the dark. The temple door is ajar. The pre-dawn moonlight casts a blurry streak on the floor. He must have slept through the night without bolting the door first. What a coward, he scolds himself, and stands up to close the door.

His hand freezes on the edge of the door. A group of people, their shapes can’t be made out with the moon hiding in the flowing clouds, are running toward him--toward the temple. The bobbing shadow alerts him he doesn’t have much time.

He had the misfortune of running into the bandits once, and he knows what will happen if they see him. With the fastest speed he wraps up his belongings and rolls under the altar table. The tables are covered with red table cover, a long table in the back and a short one in the front. To be safe he presses himself all the way to the back. The statue and the long altar table are set in an alcove and is the only safe place he could hide.

He stops breathing when they come inside.

Thud, thud, thud. Sounds like they jump in one by one. A man yells tiao, tiao...!

He doesn’t understand. As if the rest of them don’t know there is a thresh-hold and need instruction to jump over it. He listens on. The man chants for a while in words he couldn’t make sense of, with more of the thud, thud in the mix.

To his surprise, the noise quiets down shortly and the door is closed again. He could hear the man standing in front of the table praying to the god for a safe trip home, and the sound of the man putting his bedding down. Soon his snoring rattles the worship room. The rest of the group doesn’t make so much noise as breathing.

He slowly lifts a sliver of the table cover against his own warning. The man on the floor is sound asleep. He looks up slowly and could see a row of man-shaped objects lined up against the wall. They are wrapped in linen from head to toe, their eyes two black holes looking into the lifeless space in front of them.

It feels like a bomb exploded in his head and forced all the blood out. As he slowly slips to the floor and faints, he remembers the tale he once heard from the village elder.

The families of the traveling men died away from home sometimes didn’t have money to have their bodies shipped back home. They would pool their money together and hire a herder--a mysterious man with special and dark power to command the corps. They travel by night and sleep by day, and always by routes seldom traversed. The corps jump, not walk, while they travel. It was imperative, the elder said, not to disturb them if you bumped into them, or bad fortune would be upon you soon.

By the time Tu-er comes to, the herder and the corps are deep in their “sleep,” and the pearly grey outside is promising a good day ahead.

He doesn’t remember how he got out of the temple. Perhaps he crawled out, although his children and acquaintances will never hear that from him. He never risks traveling at night just to get more mileage in anymore.

(Corps Herder was a real profession and a lost art—according to the elders)

Cicada Song

The sea of red petals of the phoenix trees paint every treetop to bright red, and set the heated July sky on fire. They seem to be particularly brazen in color this year. 

Millions of cicadas join the summer march by singing their mating songs with all the force they can squeeze from their tiny bodies. They scream “Look at me--I’m here!” with their bug eyes and bulky dark bodies as if the world is ending tomorrow.

Everywhere she goes she can’t escape the loud reminder: graduation in two weeks. 

Pearl puts her books and pens in the book bag one by one deliberately slow. She hopes she can catch a glance from Toni. In fact, she hopes for more than a glance, but she will be blissfully happy if it’s only a look or a smile from Toni.

Her face dims when she sees Toni’s back leaving the classroom. She does a quick scan just to make sure Leanne is not one of the girls leaving with her. 

She’s not. Pearl feels relieved.

Leanne’s face is pretty and delicate. She attracts attention from everyone--especially Toni’s. Pearl doesn’t want to, but her heart feels as if it's filled with acid each time she sees them walking together, often laughing in a world where Pearl does not exist.

Look at me. I’m not pretty like Leanne, but I don’t ask for much either--Pearl quietly pleads. The day shines much brighter if Toni looks her way once or twice. She can’t tell anybody this secret. She doesn’t know how to explain.

How can she like a girl in that way? They don’t understand Toni. Toni is not just a girl. Her hair is cut to extra short. Her pleated skirt looks like it doesn’t belong, and is such a bother to her. She cuts her nails short and walks in large and square strides. She is something else disguised in a girl’s body. Something so different and dangerous that lures Pearl with an unfamiliar excitement. 

The walk home is quiet and alone, as it is every day for Pearl. She says “baba” to the man sitting in the living room. He is watching TV and grunts an “um” to her, his eyes fixed on the TV. The three of them--her father, her step-mother, and her half brother--look like a happy family that needs no intruder. The woman and the young boy don’t pay any attention to her. They never do. She retreats to her room to finish her homework, her yearning for Toni continues in the small and muggy room.

The school held a sleepover in the gym once. She was assigned a spot next to Toni. She was so nervous and excited she could hardly talk or sleep. Her head was next to Toni’s, but she couldn’t look into Toni’s smiling eyes. To cover her shyness, she turned her back and pretended to be sleeping. What she would do to revise that day! She would talk all night with the one person she adores the most. She would find out all about her, and find a way to let her know how she thinks about her every day.

Her shyness must have looked like cold indifference to Toni. Pearl realizes it now with a permanent stab in her heart. She missed the only chance she had. She watches helplessly when Toni and Leanne get closer each day.

The final days and exams come and gone in the speed of a tropical storm. Everyone is exchanging address and phone number. The yearbooks are signed over and over. Toni writes “wishing you a bright and successful future” on Pearl’s. It’s painfully routine and polite.

The graduation ceremony flashes through before Pearl, or anyone else, is ready. Auld Lang Sine is still ringing in their ears when they find themselves out of the hall. The girls wave good-bye to their classmates with tearful eyes, promising against life’s onslaught to keep in touch, and junior high is over.

The cicadas still sing on every treetop. The moment they stop singing is the moment they die. The phoenix trees still burn up the sky every summer, proclaiming their passion to few who notice. Pearl knows she is the only person in the world who knows the cicadas are calling out to Toni, but she will never see Toni again.

(Phoenix tree is called flame tree here)

Follow

I shortened the leash and said “heel” before crossing the intersection. Coco tightened the leash right on cue as if I just gave her the command to run.


I’ve been walking and training her to heel for about a year and half now. I don’t know what her problem is. She knows to “wait” when I say so, just not “heel.” I can’t say she’s not smart, since she never misunderstands “breakfast” or “dinner.” Or the Chinese version of “come brush your teeth.”

I’m convinced a bilingual dog can’t be a dumb dog.

Yet she acted in complete surprise every time I yanked her back after the command “heel” and her subsequent running. I would tell her she was a little stinker for trying to flee from me. Maybe that’s where I did wrong. Maybe "little stinker" sounds like "good job" in Yorkie lingo.

I saw the couple on the other side before crossing the street. At first glance they looked like strangers who happened to be walking on the same side of the street. He walked a good forty feet ahead of her and seemed not at all concerned that she was about to cross the street by herself. He didn’t stop or look back, just kept on walking.

Coco and I kept our distance behind them. She had dark hair fashioned into a simple bun. It was the only part of her that didn’t say “old.” She was short and walked with a little lopsided stride in her chubby physique. He, on the other hand, was tall and agile. The distance between them made me somehow want to yell at him.

They were from the same mysterious country from the far away land of which I knew very little. Must be arranged marriage--I mused to myself. Suddenly he made a blunt one-eighty and I yelled silently--yay, he did care!

He passed her without a word or even a glance, and turned back a few feet afterward. In the meanwhile she didn’t miss a beat--just kept on walking behind him.

I was getting annoyed, despite the fact that I knew I shouldn’t. I was from the same kind of society where men walked around as if they were sent down here in golden sedan carried by God himself. I had enough of that that I didn’t want to see it here. I sometimes would get stuck in the doorway with another man from my hometown, who clearly was not familiar with the concept of “ladies first,” and I would go out of my way to ignore him and resist the urge to apologize.

They had to learn and I was accelerating their assimilation process by giving them their first lesson.

It was also annoying that “love” did not exist to us. If we were awkward adults with no clue how to show affection, it’s because we were raised where love was a hushed word, a taboo. It’s a shameful emotion that should be ignored at all costs.

Parents showed their love by scolding and putting their children down in front of others. Criticism equates adoration in their minds. They get away with it because parents command complete filial piety, one of the first words I looked up in the dictionary soon after I came here, upon their children; and because there’s no such thing as “therapy.” We had nobody to blame for our problems.

Love is to be assumed, and not expressed, between husband and wife, or lovers. My friend once told me she loved her husband, and her mother said she talked like an idiot. Did she have no shame, she wondered about her daughter.

Having a full stomach, on the other hand, is of utmost concern of ours. We greet each other not with “how are you” but “have you eaten yet,” or the latter follows the prior immediately after. Regardless your answer, we will proceed to force-feed you until your mid section is about to explode. It took me years to forgo the habit of taking food with me when going on car rides with my friend. She shared the peculiar behavior with her other friends, and they had a good laugh. I didn’t understand why it was funny just as they didn’t understand my need to feed her.

Had she known where I was coming from, she would’ve asked “Where are the chicken wings?” instead.

The couple made a turn and parted way with us. He stopped and looked back until she almost caught up before making the turn. They didn’t share a word throughout the walk, and yet there was an air they silently exuded that was so comforting. They stuck together through so many decades, and in all likelihood will be fulfilling “’til death do us part” part of the union. I watched their backs, lanky and nimble versus short and wobbly, trotting away from me for a few seconds. I wasn’t so annoyed anymore.

Coco looked at them and realized that wasn't the path we were taking. Not anytime soon anyway. We continued on our usual route home. It must've started drizzling, as my cheeks were getting misty.

Promise

Collin’s touch jolts me back from the murky abyss. I look into his blue eyes and I could tell he’s a little worried.

“Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes. It’s nice to be relaxed at last.” I put on a smile behind the sun glasses. I have loved this man for so long, and deceived him for so long, that I must keep the act going.

Until I find a way, if the possibility is not as bleak as it seems right now, to show him the truth without hurting him or the family.

“I know what you mean. I should thank you for planning this family vacation. The cruise is perfect so far.” He sits down next to me and looks out the horizon with a satisfied sigh, holding my hand in his. It’s not hard to make him happy, but he said “so far” as if he had some foretelling inkling.

Is he also gentle and loving like Collin? It’s been thirty years and my memory is a bit fuzzy of his face.

I remember kissing Collin good-bye and watching him drive away as if it were yesterday. I ran upstairs and cried behind closed door all night. He was going to college and it was our last day together for a long while.

We will see each other soon, he promised. Christmas will be here before you realize it. You know I love you, Alina. I am doing this for us, for our future. We will get married as soon as I’m done with the school. Wait for me, Alina.

I held Collin close to me that day while silently fighting a war inside me. He was gifted and disciplined. The future for him was bright and the college was the right thing to do. He said he wouldn’t look at other girls, and I trusted him. He never did the entire senior year we were together. I would wait for him for as long as it took. Other boys didn’t exist in my eyes.

He was also leaving early to start working at the college. It would be selfish if I told him I was pregnant. I knew he would’ve stopped his life to be with me. The thought of whether or not to tell him had tormented me for months. I lost weight instead of gaining it. Now it was too late to either tell him or to terminate it. There was only one option left. I had to beg my parents to keep it a secret. They finally caved in to my tears.

They tore my heart apart when they took my baby away. I was not allowed to hold him. They said it was for my own good. I glared at his face through tears for five seconds and tried hard to sear his image in my mind. They said it was better to give him up for adoption than otherwise. They said this as if they had no hearts and could feel no pain. The physical pain was minute comparing to the heartaches, which took years to heal. I learned to harden my heart each time I saw a baby, or heard a lullaby. I even drew up a sketch of a lovely woman holding my baby with a smile on her face in my mind, then pushed the sketch deep into the back and told myself he would be fine.

Collin held my face and said I had changed, but wasn’t sure how, the first time he came back for the holiday break. I hid my face in his collar and just said I missed him so much. He believed the tears were over his absence, and he loved me more. I learned to live with that lie, too.

The only thing I could remember now is he had Collin’s dark hair. Time has buried the little wrinkled face and the nine-month dark period in a place I seldom visited. Just when I started to think my life was perfect, that the darkness had finally left me, I got a letter from the agency.

Your son wanted to contact you, it said; he's waiting for your decision.

His first letter was enclosed. It was short and polite. He’s in the States half a globe away from me and somehow he found me. He talked about his life and work there, but very little about his childhood. The omission spoke louder than words. My heart sank. The promise that he would be with a good family was not kept. The sketch I made up for him was another lie burned up in smoke.

I’d love to meet you, he said. Is he punishing me by not saying he grew up in a loving family, or that he didn’t blame me? How could I tell him I did marry his father and have a great family, only he’s not included? Will he understand I didn't try to find him because I didn't think I had the right to disturb him? How could I tell Collin he had another son he never knew, because I gave him to strangers?

Me, the person he thanked many times for making his life complete, had carried this cancerous secret with me for thirty years. Our lives are built not on rocks, it seems, but in the sands, and now the tides are coming in. How, in trying to do the unselfish thing, did I manage to fail my family and my first born?

The shimmering ocean stays silent, but stares me back with an enticing promise. The promise of peace, at last.

Point Siege

The river shines a million diamonds under the September sun. Donald doesn’t stop like he used to, but walks with his eyes looking straight ahead.

He used to think the river as a big, beautiful woman loving and nurturing her children with her ample bosom and comforting arms. With her soft throaty voice she sings them to sleep at night.

The hurricane changed it into a savage sea monster. It unleashed its claws and swept away houses with people in them. His roof was blown away and his possessions were stewed in muddy water. In one day he lost everything. He can't bear the sight of the river now.

He heard the police had set up an evacuation center at “The Point”--a small town spared by the hurricane and flood. He hopes they have food there. He's getting hungry after walking several hours on foot.

This town makes him uncomfortable. He saw a few glances behind the curtain along the way. Plantation style houses with summer blossoms and wrought iron fences can make a postcard ashamed, yet he feels he is being watched with unwelcoming eyes.

Some trees are lying on the street blocking his way. They are arranged not by wind, but by human hands. He looks around. Going back to bypass it will take too long. He's losing energy under the inferno heat. He bends down to remove the trees.

* * *

Robbie sees him passing his house and gets his shotgun out. He calls the boys and tells them where the guy is heading. The boys say they will be there soon. They are going to get him this time.

We set up the barricades to give you warnings, he says to himself, not my fault if you’re too dumb to get it. This town is special. We take good care of our properties, and we are not going to let some looters ruin it. Hurricane or not, you people are not welcome here. The sheriff told me they didn’t have enough people to maintain order. Do what you have to and leave them by the side walk, he said.

Robbie pats his shotgun proudly. He's grateful he had the smarts to get it at the first sight of the drones of those people flooding in to the center. No low lives like them are going to destroy our town by stealing or looting. We'll show them who’s in charge here.

* * *

The sound of the blast bounces off the water and ripples away slowly. Donald feels the pain in his neck, arms and back before falling to the ground. Two or three guys with guns pointing at him looking from above, their silhouettes big against the blue sky blocking the sunshine. He doesn't feel the heat anymore.

“We got you, nigger. We got you!” Robbie says. Donald sees anger in his eyes, but more than that, he sees fear glittering behind it. I know that fear, he wants to say. He had felt it many times before--every time he passed a man like him.

Wild Ginger

shifu - abbess
nigu - buddhist nun
miao - buddhist temple



The hills glistened under the slanted golden sun. Her hand-tucked canvas shoes and long wide sleeves, sweeping along grasses scented with dewy drops, were wet. She brushed her long hair aside along with the sweat on her forehead and drew in deeply the cold mountain air.

She had collected enough fire woods for the day and filled the giant urn in the kitchen with spring water. Shifu told her to fetch one more thing for the ceremony tonight, and she was told to do this chore by herself.

Others had described the shape and scent to her before. It’s pure white in color, they said, and they bloom in summer with dancing petals. She missed the season when she came to the miao to stay last year. She was broken then, lost her sight for life.

Shifu and other nigus nursed her back to health in their quiet and gentle ways. She gradually understood from shifu’s wise eyes that life could be simple; that heartaches could be buried.

She realized she wanted to be one of them when she was healed. The tip of her hair danced in the gentle breeze and tickled her face, her neck. Waye used to do that. She pushed the thought out of her mind.

Not today, she thought, today I need to be pure and empty. The bothersome hair will be gone forever, much like her thoughts of earthly connection. Her fingers wrapped the hair around but she was concentrating on purging her thoughts and didn’t notice.

You will know when you find it, they said. The scent is divine, there’s nothing like it! That’s why we offer it to Buddha.

She followed the turn of the road and there it was: behind the big tree in the shade, some white flowers swayed in the air. The blade shaped green leaves bounced under filtered sun light. Her hands reached out to touch the petals and the aroma seized her.

Waye’s head was buried in her hair and he whispered: “You smell like heaven.. ” She felt Waye’s arms around her and she caressed her arms achingly. Her memories were battered with horrible fragments. There was blood all over her. She remembered screaming his name, his head draped lifelessly on the steering wheel. People were shouting and pulling her away from the car, from him. She couldn't stop screaming.

They told her she was lucky to have survived, but she didn’t know how to live without Waye. Her mother took her to this miao as a last attempt to pull her back to life. Almost a year later she decided to join the women. Her head would be shaved clean, a symbol of cutting tie with the rest of the world, and her scalp would be burned with incense for spiritual cleansing. All pains would be gone for good.

Her face was wet with tears and her arms full with white wild ginger flowers. She had lost the sense of time sitting under the tree. Fresh tears kept flowing down and she let them come out freely. She was no longer lost. Her heart hurt for the first time in a year.

Shifu saw her face when she walked into the miao and knew--the broken child was repaired. She carefully put the flowers in the vase in front of Buddha’s statue and turned to face shifu.

“They smelled so...” she began to say, but words failed her and her voice cracked.

“I know.” shifu said, her eyes calm with foreboding wisdom. “ Your bag is packed and ready in your room.” she said, gently and lovingly, “Go now. Go and have a wonderful life.”

Hair Therapy

The shop was sparse when I walked in. A woman sat me down and asked what I wanted. I didn’t remember her but I was not surprised. Their turnover rate must be astronomical, and the quality of their work remains not improved.

I don’t do the $50.00 haircut. I tried, but nobody ever said “Wow. Your hair looks gorgeous!” to me.
I told myself if nobody could tell the difference, it makes no difference where I get the cut.

I don’t do Lancome or Estee Lauder brand for skincare either, but only because my skin broke out miserably every time I did. I’m more than happy to save some money there, too. Drugstore brand works great in that aspect.

My mother has a good analogy for that. She told me I was born with a body fit for a royal family (that means not very strong and needs pampering), but a fate proper for a poor peasant (that's pretty self-explanatory).

Thanks, mom.

I do draw the line at Supercuts. They butchered my hair so bad once that I looked like a man. Actually, more like a woman who would prefer a female lover.

“Your hair is wavy.” The hairdresser commented.

My hair is straight, but she would hear none of it. She pointed at the back of my head, where a few strands of hair were posing in an acrobatic twist.

“Yes, it IS wavy.” I said.

She had the scissors, so I let her win. My decades of experience with my own hair merely meant she knew better than me.

I looked around the shop when she did the cutting. I’ve learned long ago they had their own minds on how you should look. It’s beneficial for my own mental health if I indulge their artistic expressions freely.

A man walked in. He was short with dark skin, but pleasant at first glance for the smile he was sporting. He looked around and proclaimed happily, “Ah, there you are—hiding in the back!”

A woman stood up and greeted him. She was his favorite, obviously. She had a knit top on, and her torso was squeezed into three sections above her waist, in Michelin Tire logo guy style.

I soon found out she was his victim, not favorite. He talked non stop all the time while she cut his hair. I tried to tune him out, but he was only two seats down. At one time I heard him asking her if she knew the difference between smart and intelligent, then proceeded to explain the difference. She murmured mindless “uh hum” every now and then while trimming. Maybe she had a good reason to be hiding in the back.

He was either in love with her, or had a bad case of superiority complex. Either way it was an urban tragedy. She struck me as the type who would value earthly pleasure more than intellectual enlightening, with which he was so eager to impart.

He had better come up with a better strategy if he wanted this to go anywhere. I would suggest lots of dining out and leisure drives in his luxury car if he had one.

As for the complex, he’s on his own. My arms weren’t long enough to reach over and slap him out of it.

She said something to her coworkers in a foreign language after he left. I had a pretty good idea what that might be. Following is just one of many possibilities:

“WTH was that? He should pay me double for putting up with all his crap!”

A haircut is not only a fun and relaxing event, it can also be therapeutic at times.

Last Train for Home

She moved a little closer to the edge after sitting there for a while. The stomach ache gnawed at her now and then. She ignored it. The pain became easier to endure after some practice.

The locomotive in the distant dark cried a muffled woo-woo. She listened and remembered sitting in one a few months ago. How hopeful and bright-eyed she was.

Momma, wait for my letter--she had said to her mother. I will save every penny I make and send them to you. You will be able to buy meat and new fabrics for the family. We will have a much better life after I get there. They say everything is better at the factory. Money, meals, and new dorms. Oh, I can't wait to get there.

She remembered eating dry bread on the train. Her mother saved all she could to make the flat bread for her trip. She couldn't afford to buy anything during the trip. They spent all they had to get her the train ticket.

Momma, they took my ID card the first day I got here. I couldn't go home without it.

They took most of my wages, too. They said it was for security's sake. I soon realized it was for their security, not mine. It was the way to make sure we would stay there forever.

There was plenty of work. Too much work. And we weren't allowed to say no. It seemed the back-orders never stopped flooding in. The kids in "The Beautiful Country" are so lucky. These gadgets we make day and night couldn't fill their demand. They must have so much money.

We didn't have time to rest on days at a time. Often we didn't have time to eat. I had to swallow my rice so fast, soon my stomach started to ache. They wouldn't let me go to the hospital. They would deduct my wages for missing work, they said. So I pushed the pain away and worked.

At night my dorm-mates could hear my pain even though I tried to hide it. The dorms were big rooms with curtain dividers between rows of beds. Ah May was my neighbor. She was worried for me, but there was little she could do to help. She smuggled rice mush for me when she could--it helped ease my pain a bit. My line supervisor was not happy with me. He said I worked too slow. That meant deduction on my wages.

I'm so tired, momma. I feel dizzy. I hadn't slept for two days now. The orders must be filled, so nobody could rest until they were done. I complained to the head of the union once, and I learned not to do it again. The company's manager reprimanded me in front of all my dorm-mates for complaining. I was so naive. I didn't know the union leader reported to him.

We have fifteen minutes for dinner, then we have to go back to work. I snuck up here because it's quiet and peaceful. I'm tired and dizzy, but I'm not hungry. Momma, I really don't want to go back to the factory. I don't know how much longer I could endure the dreadful place and endless work. I don't care if they take my wages. I just want to sleep.

She moved again but wavered and lost her balance. The last thing she saw was the concrete-covered ground rushing up to meet her.

The woman a thousand miles away heard the soft whistle of a train passing by the village. She wondered when her daughter would be home again. Her last letter was more than a month ago. Is she alright? The low and sad whistle made her eyes watery.

She didn't know her daughter had already started her journey home.



(To the twelve workers committed suicide at Foxconn. 'The Beautiful Country' in Chinese means U.S.A.)

Grounded

Go away, I whisper to myself. Please...just go away.

But no. The little girl and her little dog get closer. The bouncy, featherless, naked dog looks into the viny grass where I thought was a good hiding place.

I back up a little when its little brown nose gets close, praying that they don't see me.

"There it is!" The little girl shrieks.

Qua! Qua! Mom is very mad at this--they are getting too close to me. She jumps around yelling with all her force. Soon dad joins her. I could see from under the grass that they both are jumping up and down, and the screaming is almost deafening.

I know they are worried sick, but all this noise is not helping with my hiding.

A woman with another little dog appears from behind a door. At lease this dog has long hair and doesn't look obscenely naked. Something tells me I should move, and fast.

I jump out of the viny grass when the little girl is not looking in my direction, and hop with all the strength I can summon to get away.

The shoulder hurts when I hop, but the other side of the courtyard looks safer than here.

The little dog, the little girl, the woman with the little dog in her arms, all follow me as if I was putting on a magic show. Mom and dad follow me from above--never stop yelling for a second.

This is aggravating. Why couldn't these people just leave me alone? Thank goodness the bushes and grass are coming up. With one last hop I dive into the grass.

The woman disappears and reappears without the little dog, and her hands are covered with something thick. She tries to grab me. I dodge and sidestep in the grass so she can't reach me. I show her my sharp beak and imitate mom's screaming when her hands are upon me. That scares her and makes her stop. She disappears.

A guy appears from nowhere and tries the same thing. I scare him away the same way I did with the woman. All this hopping around trying to stay away from them is hurting me even more.

I survived the night before on unsuspecting bugs and dew drops on the grass. I'm sure I can manage if they will just let me be.

Mom and dad still jump from branch to branch, screaming at the top of their lungs. Qua! Qua! Her voice is getting coarse, but she doesn't stop.

I'm sorry, mom. I didn't mean to make you worry. The worm looked so good and I wanted to show you how strong I was. I didn't see the short tree next to it until too late. I miss our warm and safe home up there. I want to go back, but I don't know when I will be able to fly again. My chest hurts each time the thought occurs.

The woman tells the man she called the animal services. I hope they are less annoying than these people and dogs. I can't get a minute of rest when they are around.

All of a sudden they don't worry me that much anymore.

From the corner of my eyes I could see a steel-gray cat quietly approaching. Mom told me before: it is one of the most dangerous things I should watch for when out hunting for worms.

I'm scared. From the screaming noise made by mom and dad, I know they are, too. I hope I can survive tonight.

When Good Girl Gone Bad...

I am ashamed to say that I have been a bad girl lately.

I have been a little depressed after the visit to my mom's. We are now in a holding pattern as she couldn't decide whether to move in with me or not. Regardless of her decision some significant challenges will present themselves for sure. The fact that Parkinson's could be genetically passed down didn't help either, so I escaped to the imaginary land of stories. I piled up the awards I was given, awesome blogs that I should have mentioned and passed the awards forward, and buried my head in the sand for the past few months.

That's what I meant by "good girl gone bad." I hope you weren't expecting something else.

There are other reasons for my postponement. Each time I recieve an award it's incredibly humbling for me. Someone thinks my blog is not only worth reading, but worthy of an award! I am forever grateful for being able to make the journey to the wonderland, and take you with me for the ride.

The pressure of passing down the award is another reason. All I can say is there are too many great blogs/writers out there and not enough awards to go around. All the blogs I'm following are wonderful and worth your visit.

Here are the awards I stored away and now is the time to say thanks:

http://sarah-writerinmaking.blogspot.com/

Sarah just finished her 250-page book, so I should say Sarah, a writer is born!

http://reallifeinaminute.blogspot.com/

Sandra is a former math teacher. Alas, she has moved on to other things in life. I hope someday she'll revive her blog to document the progress in her artistic pursuit.

http://ubergrumpy.blogspot.com/

He combines the Englishman's humor with the most, eh hum, interesting, pictures on his blog.

http://tgoette-sophisticatedlunacy.blogspot.com/

Tom's lunacy can be related to many, and particularly, me.

http://sarah-writerinmaking.blogspot.com/

Back to Sarah again. I find her life in Canada as a student very interesting and her writing introspective. I'm sure you will, too.

Thank you all for thinking of me. I have an award for you as well. (see below for the fireworks one)

Some awards have rules to follow and some don't. I can't remember which is which, so I'm making up my own. I'm listing some of the wonderful blogs here for you to check them out. The blog owners below can grab any awards above and do whatever they want:

Hunter has a way with words and is working on a novel. That's how you can tell who a serious writer is. http://timecrook.blogspot.com/

Bruce's columnist style writing is always insightful and powerful. I won't be surprised if he's secretly working for Boston Globe or New York Times. http://brucecoltin.blogspot.com/

Tina's supernatural stories send chills down your spine. She, too, is working on a novel--her second one. http://www.thecleanwhitepage.com/

Charlene finds lessons even in life's most difficult chapters. Her blog is always uplifting and inspirational. http://www.beamingbalance.com/

Lou is a talented writer. I think she is also working on a novel--another real writer in the making. http://livewritedream.blogspot.com/

Judie makes breathtakingly beautiful arts of various mediums. Her feelings come through in her words and just as touching. http://rogueartistsspeak.blogspot.com/

Kitty's stories make you laugh, cry, and laugh some more. Her life in UK will hook you on the first read. http://kittymoore.blogspot.com/

Angie is another artist with an uncommon medium: pyrography. It's a slow but interesting progress. http://angierea-originalpyrographicart.blogspot.com/

Robyn has the worst luck in dating, but that makes great blogging material for us. I hope her bad luck continues...just kidding Robyn. http://rawknrobynsgoneblogwild.blogspot.com/

I know I missed quite a few great bloggers out there, so here is an award I made in case you're visiting:

To all the followers and all the blogs I'm following--You are all awesome!