Not old

So instead, here is the story I wrote for the trial School Certificate last year.
WILL ANYONE ACTUALLY READ ALL OF THIS? WHO KNOWS.


Question 52 (20 marks)
Write a real OR imaginary incident based on a childhood memory of growing up.
You should write at least 150 words.

Write your short story on the lines provided below:

I can hear a scratchy kind of chirping coming from somewhere in the grass, but I can't pinpoint the location. I'm wandering around my back yard, trying to follow my ears, but it seems impossible to home in on. Every time I turn around, it seems to be coming from my left. Or right. Or behind me, or something.
I'm pretty sure there's an injured bird somewhere around here. Probably the one I sometimes see in the big fruit tree in the backyard. I don't even know what kind of fruit, because it never seems to bear any. Maybe the bird has fallen out of the fruit tree and has injured its foot [the marker here circled it and wrote 'claws?'], though that hardly makes sense to me. Being able to fly seems like the only advantage about being a bird. It'd be pretty crappy to eat worms or birdseed or grass or dirt or whatever it is birds eat.
I don't even know what breed the bird is, except that it's not a pigeon. I do remember that it's a really nice shade of blue. Bright blue. If I were ever to paint my room, I'd paint it blue.
I eventually decide it's coming from the base of the tree. I walk over, but slowly and carefully, just in case it's not at the tree and I accidentally step on it or something.
And yes, here it is, and yes, it seems to have fallen the fairly considerable two metres to the ground, though I really can't imagine how. It's hopping about frantically. I think its right leg is hurt coz ['because,' noted the marker] it seems to freak out when it tries to walk on it.
I read a book on cats once, saying that if you want to approach one, don't make sudden movements, and slowly lower yourself to its level. Maybe it's the same with birds. I get down on my stomach and crawl towards the bird. Maybe I should have worn something other than white, coz I'm getting grassy dirt stains all over my shirt. I reach my hand out in the friendliest way I can manage. I highly doubt it's actually going to hop right into my hand, but I suppose it's worth a shot anyway. After all, I am just trying to help. If I were the bird, I'd trust me.
The bird seems to have calmed down. Or maybe it's just extremely exhausted. To my slight surprise, it lets me slowly work my hands around it, and pick it up gingerly.
It now occurs to me that I don't know how to take care of birds, or in my case, an injured one. I think it's safe to assume they're nothing like cats.
I decide to take my chances, and leave the bird on a thick, folded towel inside the bathroom. I sprint down the stairs and down to the shops just down the road, and arrive huffing and puffing at the small pet store on the end.
I enter and ask the girl at the counter if she has any birdcare manuals. She tells me she does, and it'll be $14.99, thanks. On the way back, I half-jog, half read the book. The more I read it, the more I'm looking forward to treating this bird. Maybe it'll get better, and it'll go back to the tree. Maybe I'll build a kind of treehouse, so I can visit it and its family. I'll let it sleep in my room sometimes. Maybe I'll buy some branches and leaves, so it feels right at home.
"I'm going to name you Ocean," I think to myself. It'd suit the nice blue color of its feathers.
I jog up the stairs and open the bathroom door. There are feathers everywhere, and smears of what I think looks like blood. My heart is racing. I try to make sense of the frenzied mass of blue feathers and red smudge. My gaze drifts over to the corner near the bathtub.
My heart drops.

WEYYY!!
DRAMATIC ENDING.
You can come up with your own story for the birds demise, but I was just thinking my cat got in.
Not based on a real incident.