Thanks for the excellent critiques last night, guys. You really helped me solidify some things in my mind so I can rewrite and get it submitted by Nov. 1--if I start right now. Just kidding, I won't have any trouble getting the story fixed up so The First Line can't help but accept my story this time. I got home to find Don and Ann still at dinner (turns out Don didn't leave work until 8) so I quickly pulled out my notebook and got to writing. I almost got to the end of the page before they got home, then I lost the oomph of the thought. Oh well.
Threads of black silhouettes cross the purple orange sky. The sight never fails to soothe me. I figure the world must still be on an even keel when I get the chance to watch the flamingos fly back to their roost in Venezuela at sunset. Their elongated shapes, so awkward when they wade in the salt pans seining out their brine shrimp meal, fly like arrows gracefully riding the fading light, they wings flapping slowly, their long legs trailing behind like a rudder. I love this time of day when the tourists are tucked in their resorts and the natives have gone home. I sit witching the sun's fiery orb sink into the sea, listening to the eternal push-pull of waves on shore.
See? Even though I kind of trailed off, okay, lost it, there's still some good stuff in there. Later, dudes. Gotta go knit some gloves.
--Barbara
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