Trupial

Okay, my latest idea to try and force myself to write is to (brace yourself) write at my writing desk. *gasp* I know, it's shocking, but I figure desperate times call for desperate measures. I tried it last night and, you know what, it worked. I'm off today and Don's working so I'm going to try it again once I get this typed in and I brush my teeth. Maybe I'll get a page of Horizon retyped. That'd be very good. Warning! Actual writing content follows...

The large robin-sized bird perched on the garden gate glaring at Mona. She couldn't get over how vivid orange the bird's breast was and how the contrast of its black head feathers made the orange even brighter. There was a yellow ring around the shiny black eye that gave the bird a horror film look. Mona studied the elegant looking creature as she sipped her coffee and toyed with the toast that Maria set before her. "You see the trupial, Miss?" Maria asked. "I wondered what it was--a trupial." As if responding to its name the bird stretched its neck, threw its head up, and gave a loud clear call, one note that it flung at the blazing morning sun like a gauntlet. Almost before the note stopped ringing in the heated air there came an answering call from a nearby tree. Maria laughed. "Just like a man. He calls her to come to him." She cocked her head to the side. "You watch," said the younger woman, "pretty soon a female will come and flutter down beside him." Sure enough another trupial flew over and landed on the gate. "How can you tell males from females?" Mona asked. Maria crossed her arms and shook her head. "Easy. You see he's all duded up; she's just a little drabber. I figure to soothe his ego." The women looked at each other and burst out laughing at the universal truth of those words. The trupials flew away unfed.

There now, that wasn't so hard was it? You can do it again, Barbara, just tap the little keys or push the pencil around and words line up, and almost like you want them to. Almost.

--Barbara