The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean by David Almond Read Free Book Online Page A

say.
    Let me gide you bak towards the sky I say.
    But nothin helps. Bak and forwad goes the frantic bird flutterin & bangin & skweekin & terrifyd of bein wer its fownd itself terrifyd of Billy Dean with no idea wer the windo is no idea that the windo is the only plays of possibl escayp.
    Bang crash flutter wallop skweek skweek skweek!
    O poor littl desprit bird I see you now.
    Carm down I want to call agen. Carm down and let me gide you to the sky.
    Soon it starts fallin to the flor then flutterin up agen then fallin agen then tryin to flutter agen.
    It falls to the flore a finil time. All its flyin finishd. It has abandond itself to its fayt.
    It crepes under the sofa.
    And as it crepes the rane stops fallin & the air owtsyd grows stil agen & the sky gose pinky bluw.
    I crowch down ther agenst the flore.
    Littl bird I softly call.
    I peep into the darknes & ther it is so frayl & timid bundld up in its wings.
    Poor spuggy I wisper. Billy Dean wont harm you.
    I get the playt that the sandwich was on. I dip my finger in the crums of bred & stretch my hand into the dark beneeth the sofa.
    Woud you like sum bred?
    It dusnt respond.
    I wotch. The darknes is deepenin now darknes with a shaft of pink in it comin from the sky. Soon the bird is just a shado just a ball of black in ther. I reech rite under the sofa & fele the softnes of the burd & take it into my hand & draw it owt.
    Such a little lite thing its almost like its hardly ther at arl. It dose not breeth. No beatin hart. I tuch its beek its little claws its tenda fethers. Its wings are shut its hed rests on my parm.
    Thank you for yor sacrifiys I wisper.
    I dont wate.
    I switch on the lite. I inspect the feathers. I spred the wings & tayl. The fethers on the wings & tayl are bigest & strongest wich is obvyos I supose. I try to pul a wing fether owt but its stuk ded tite. Obvyos agen I supose. I get the sissors & try to lever the point of the fether owt of the flesh & here it cums at last with just a drop of blud at its point. I scrayp the blud away. I hold the fether in my fingas lyk my Daddy holds a pen. I move it back and forth across the paypa to get the nack & fele of it.
    I get sum felt tips open them up and sqeez the ink owt of them onto the samwich playt. I dip the point of the fether in & I start ritin on the payper. I try to moov slo & careful more slo & careful than Ive ever yet movd wen Iv rit. I tel myself it is the tym to gro in intellijens and skil. I mayk little curvs & little jagged marks that look lyk words & letters. I no they are not true words & leters becos I do not yet no how to make such things. But I tel myself that even things that are meaningless can stil be things of byuty. I try to copy the shayps of the words in the mastapees which are byutiful but sumtyms meaninless even to my Dad. I work for hours til the marks start lookin a littl bit rite. But the inks no good just runny and payl. So I get the sissors and open up the bird and cut and jently cut until I get to the hart wer the bluds still wet. I mix the blud with the ink & I rite agen. Its beter. I try cutting the point of the fether into different shayps. I tug out another fether wen that one starts crakin up. I kepe on ritin. Soon the blud of the bird drys up. So I cut my arm just insyd the elbo with the point of the sissors & I sqeez the cut & let the blud drip down into the ink & I rite with that.
    I am so exited. A hole nite passes.
    I no nothing but the pashon of the ritin.
    Then mornins on its way agen.
    I look at my paje. The shayps of the marks are gettin beter the lyns of shayps are getting strayter.
    I put the bird & the fether & the pajes unda the bed. I wosh the playt & the sissors & nife.
    I get into bed as the lite in the sky is back agen.
    I dreme that ther is the tiny red hart of a bird in me. I dreme that ther are fethers and wings on me. I dreme of flyin down into the room throu the open windo & not fyndin my way owt agen. I dreme of Dad liftin me up. Poor little bird he