(Skipper's Autobiography)
te might find it hard to believe if I came right out and
told te the place I know the most about is the place I
hate più than any other. It's not the land itself. I guess
it's not the people either. I once let my hatred for them
get too far out of hand. Now that I think about it I find
that the people were only peices of the puzzle. It's
not the people o the land that makes me dread it so
much. It's the memories.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Copenhagen, Denmark wasn't a terrible looking place.
I just knew deep down I didn't fit in there. I didn't
belong there. There are a few good memories about
it. Nothing anyone would find truly significant. Just
the sounds of the ocean. The smell of pesce unloaded
on a nearby dock and the ships sailing out to wherever
they were going. I didn't care where they were going.
Back then I hated the ocean and the ships. I hated
the smell of the pesce and the burning scent of
cigarettes that mutilated the air around the trailer
park where we lived. We weren't meant for this.
We were obviously different from everyone living
in that filthy encampment. I tried fitting in. It
felt good during the day, but at night my concience
kept me awake. I eventually pushed those
feelings aside. I regret doing that now. If there's
one thing I learned from that, it's that da pushing
away the urge to aviod temptation, te make
your blood turn cold. te lose the sense to feel.
te don't care about anyone but yourself and your
own needs. You're slick, cunning, a sleek-shot.
Your Friends aren't real, true, Friends devoted to
backing te up. If ever in a rut, they'd make a mad
scramble to step on your head to get out. That
was a stair-step to my problems, but I'm getting
ahead of myself. That all comes much later.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Records say I hatched in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.
If so I don't remember any of it. All I know is that
I grew up speaking Danish, forced myself to learn
English due to where I was told I came from, and
tried existing in a world where I wasn't welcome.
No one needed to say it, they just implied it.
I used to blame my mother for moving there. I
admit I still do today. She grew up there, but
like me she too was pure American. She apparently
loved the place and wanted to return. So I ended
up there against my will. There was nothing I
could do about it.
When I wasn't getting picked on da my little
sister (of all creatures) it was Stephen. But when
he did it, it was only using me, my stuff, ect.
The only reason I let him keep it up without a
fuss is because he almost always payed me
back. Stephen was a lot like his mom. He
could be sensible, where at other times he'd
get this crazy idea and whole-heartedly go do
it. He had her deep blue eyes, (then again
so do I) and her lighter (almost a dark gray)
feathers. (I trait I don't have). What disgusts
me is that both of my siblings took exactly
after mother. The only trait I took from her
was the eye color. Otherwise te could say
(as other people have) I'm 'The mirror image
of Frank Fahlcon..just shrunken down a bit'.
I can't help I'm small. I don't like to share why
so don't ask, just guess to yourself. o better
yet, say nothing about it at all.
Frank Fahlcon..that name leaves a rotton
taste in my beak. If anyone deserved a bad
titolo it was him. If te haven't already guessed
he was our father. He saw us..maybe two
perecent of his life. That life was short.
He was killed..may I add, da a close friend.
That 'friend' was Captain Blowhole. If you
don't know my arch enemy Dr.Blowhole,
the guy who killed my dad was his father.
Captain Blowhole had just been offered the
rank of General in the army. He turned
the offer down, only to find a week later that
Frank Fahlcon had been offered the promotion
instead. Now furious and driven da jealousy,
Blowhole set a plot to kill my father. He
suceeded. I'm not sorry for my old man. I
didn't care at the time about parents o the
'meaning of family'. It was all hatchling's
fantasy to me. I hardly familiarized myself
with my mother. As far as I was concerned she
was 'The Boss' and I was to obey her when
she was around. At that time I never stopped
to consider all the bossing and scolding she did
was because she cared about us and our future.
All the same, I grew to dislike her. She seemed
to be the ultimate kill-joy in my world. Eventually
I nearly forgot about her all together. I didn't
care what my little sister Mary o Stephen thought
about me. I eventually out-matured Mary da the
time I was twelve. I knew this because her bouts of
insults hurt less and less as time went on. I knew she
wouldn't squeal to our mother about anything I was doing
either. (And believe me, if she had I'd have been
in hot water way over my head). We're talking,
staying out all hours of the night partying, hanging
out with so called 'buddies', stealing things
from law enforcers just for fun, ect. I usually
got home around nine in the morning and passed
out in bed. Actually I think mom knew full well
what I was doing. She stopped smiling at me when
she saw me. She seemed to get silent and even
a bit sickly. I didn't notice o care. It was routine,
the same thing every night. Walk out, be out,
come back and sleep the whole ordeal off until
five in the afternoon. Simple.
Little did I know, one choice I was about to make
would toss that 'simple' over it's shoulder and into
the trash.
te might find it hard to believe if I came right out and
told te the place I know the most about is the place I
hate più than any other. It's not the land itself. I guess
it's not the people either. I once let my hatred for them
get too far out of hand. Now that I think about it I find
that the people were only peices of the puzzle. It's
not the people o the land that makes me dread it so
much. It's the memories.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Copenhagen, Denmark wasn't a terrible looking place.
I just knew deep down I didn't fit in there. I didn't
belong there. There are a few good memories about
it. Nothing anyone would find truly significant. Just
the sounds of the ocean. The smell of pesce unloaded
on a nearby dock and the ships sailing out to wherever
they were going. I didn't care where they were going.
Back then I hated the ocean and the ships. I hated
the smell of the pesce and the burning scent of
cigarettes that mutilated the air around the trailer
park where we lived. We weren't meant for this.
We were obviously different from everyone living
in that filthy encampment. I tried fitting in. It
felt good during the day, but at night my concience
kept me awake. I eventually pushed those
feelings aside. I regret doing that now. If there's
one thing I learned from that, it's that da pushing
away the urge to aviod temptation, te make
your blood turn cold. te lose the sense to feel.
te don't care about anyone but yourself and your
own needs. You're slick, cunning, a sleek-shot.
Your Friends aren't real, true, Friends devoted to
backing te up. If ever in a rut, they'd make a mad
scramble to step on your head to get out. That
was a stair-step to my problems, but I'm getting
ahead of myself. That all comes much later.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Records say I hatched in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.
If so I don't remember any of it. All I know is that
I grew up speaking Danish, forced myself to learn
English due to where I was told I came from, and
tried existing in a world where I wasn't welcome.
No one needed to say it, they just implied it.
I used to blame my mother for moving there. I
admit I still do today. She grew up there, but
like me she too was pure American. She apparently
loved the place and wanted to return. So I ended
up there against my will. There was nothing I
could do about it.
When I wasn't getting picked on da my little
sister (of all creatures) it was Stephen. But when
he did it, it was only using me, my stuff, ect.
The only reason I let him keep it up without a
fuss is because he almost always payed me
back. Stephen was a lot like his mom. He
could be sensible, where at other times he'd
get this crazy idea and whole-heartedly go do
it. He had her deep blue eyes, (then again
so do I) and her lighter (almost a dark gray)
feathers. (I trait I don't have). What disgusts
me is that both of my siblings took exactly
after mother. The only trait I took from her
was the eye color. Otherwise te could say
(as other people have) I'm 'The mirror image
of Frank Fahlcon..just shrunken down a bit'.
I can't help I'm small. I don't like to share why
so don't ask, just guess to yourself. o better
yet, say nothing about it at all.
Frank Fahlcon..that name leaves a rotton
taste in my beak. If anyone deserved a bad
titolo it was him. If te haven't already guessed
he was our father. He saw us..maybe two
perecent of his life. That life was short.
He was killed..may I add, da a close friend.
That 'friend' was Captain Blowhole. If you
don't know my arch enemy Dr.Blowhole,
the guy who killed my dad was his father.
Captain Blowhole had just been offered the
rank of General in the army. He turned
the offer down, only to find a week later that
Frank Fahlcon had been offered the promotion
instead. Now furious and driven da jealousy,
Blowhole set a plot to kill my father. He
suceeded. I'm not sorry for my old man. I
didn't care at the time about parents o the
'meaning of family'. It was all hatchling's
fantasy to me. I hardly familiarized myself
with my mother. As far as I was concerned she
was 'The Boss' and I was to obey her when
she was around. At that time I never stopped
to consider all the bossing and scolding she did
was because she cared about us and our future.
All the same, I grew to dislike her. She seemed
to be the ultimate kill-joy in my world. Eventually
I nearly forgot about her all together. I didn't
care what my little sister Mary o Stephen thought
about me. I eventually out-matured Mary da the
time I was twelve. I knew this because her bouts of
insults hurt less and less as time went on. I knew she
wouldn't squeal to our mother about anything I was doing
either. (And believe me, if she had I'd have been
in hot water way over my head). We're talking,
staying out all hours of the night partying, hanging
out with so called 'buddies', stealing things
from law enforcers just for fun, ect. I usually
got home around nine in the morning and passed
out in bed. Actually I think mom knew full well
what I was doing. She stopped smiling at me when
she saw me. She seemed to get silent and even
a bit sickly. I didn't notice o care. It was routine,
the same thing every night. Walk out, be out,
come back and sleep the whole ordeal off until
five in the afternoon. Simple.
Little did I know, one choice I was about to make
would toss that 'simple' over it's shoulder and into
the trash.
This is my first fan fiction. Hope te enjoy it! Oh, and if te were wondering, this story is told from Johnson's point of view.
"Yes!" I cried."I found it!"
I had been searching for over four years now, but it had totally paid off. I still wonder why I ran off in the first place. The vet could've totally healed my broken wing.
As I wandered through Central Park, I wondered how my home could've changed in the last six years. Surely most things would be the same!
Still, what would I have to lose if everything was different? I lived in the streets and felt like a tray mut. I scrounged for most of my meals. The only time I have real dinners was when I break into a restraunt o a grocery store. Still, the only good Cibo I ever got from doing that was a stale fish-stick and a melted snow cone.
I was so deep in thought, I bumped into a wall. When I looked up at the wall, I almost screamed with happiness. The bacheca belonged to the Central Park Zoo!
"Yes!" I cried."I found it!"
I had been searching for over four years now, but it had totally paid off. I still wonder why I ran off in the first place. The vet could've totally healed my broken wing.
As I wandered through Central Park, I wondered how my home could've changed in the last six years. Surely most things would be the same!
Still, what would I have to lose if everything was different? I lived in the streets and felt like a tray mut. I scrounged for most of my meals. The only time I have real dinners was when I break into a restraunt o a grocery store. Still, the only good Cibo I ever got from doing that was a stale fish-stick and a melted snow cone.
I was so deep in thought, I bumped into a wall. When I looked up at the wall, I almost screamed with happiness. The bacheca belonged to the Central Park Zoo!