Momma's home

November 9, 2009
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The parrot was even quiet that night. For how I longed for it to say
“Momma’s home” I sure do wish she could say that, but she can’t. I treaded her beak shut. Momma wouldn’t be too happy, because I used the thread from the shirt she died with. The birdie would die soon; I haven’t feed it in a couple days. My eyes seem to try to make me fall asleep, so I helped them by shifting in my momma’s bed. I remember when ever momma would come home, she would pet the parrot. And the parrot would say
“Momma’s home.” I drifted into a deep sleep, until I heard a crash. I hopped out of bed, only to find the parrot stalking me out of its cage.
“Now momma,” I started. “Don’t be mad, its better this way.”I said in a calm voice. It tried to say something, but the threads cut her short. I leaned back, and sat down on my favorite chair. A knife cut my back, and slit the back of my neck. I screamed in pain. The threads came off her beak, and she said:
“Momma’s home!”

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