Oh, bloody hell…

by janeeatonhamilton

Trying like stink to write a mini essay for the CBC contest today and instead I get fiction.  Here is the first paragraph of what may well go nowhere, and what in any case does not further the cause:

“The starlings have landed, hustling their backyard suet.  Go murmur, birds, he thinks, go roil in the sky like magnetic shavings, go sweep the clouds, because in a lick, a gobble, an ingurgitate, the beastlings have devoured the two new cakes of sunflower seeds, millet and cranberries.  Bastards, he thinks, and listens to them chatter.  They sound smooth and watery, calm and reassuring, which they are certainly not, not starlings, not the assholes of the avian world, anymore than he, anymore, is the husband he once promised he’d be.”

UPDATE:  I did get a non-fiction piece, finally, called “Battery” about the factory farming of chickens, and no further on the story, above.