Yesterday's Drabble

Why even pretend anymore? I didn't post this because I am lazy and distractable.

Nothing reminds me of my childhood as much as the song of the mourning dove: Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo. Doves were as common as crows and noisier in the twilight hours. It always sounded not like a mournful wail but a lonely whistle – there were birds in my parents’ backyard that cried like children, but the mourning dove was the sound of wind through a flute; empty, sweet, and alone.

Now, its longing call, through the gray mist of memory, reminds me that I am no longer a child.

Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; you have left.

Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; you can never go back.

Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; it is gone.

I have discovered that I cannot write my short story without reading some more Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and possibly that I should read Frankenstein, The Island of Dr Moreau, and The Moonstone as well. This whole trying-a-different-style thing is interesting. And non-trivial. Next step: download an anthology onto the Kindle.

So, it will be a while (especially when the next quarter starts and, again, I drop off the face of the planet).