I can see him watching me. His dark, piercing eyes rolled in his head to watch me as I moved about. His head never moved, except to suddenly cock to the side occasionally to examine me from another angle. He wants to eat me. I know it. He's thinking about the taste of my flesh. He can't wait to tear into my skin. I should run. Maybe I can get inside before he comes after me. Maybe he'll find someone else who looks tastier. Really, I've consumed so much diet soda I probably taste like aspartame. God, I hate birds.
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The above is my first attempt at a drabble, a fiction of exactly 100 words. Needs work I'm sure, but I wrote it during the sermon at church, so that's gotta say something. I hate birds. My husband's family has a bird. Birds are like cats: they sense the ones who don't want them around and camp out on their person. I'm scared of birds. Their skittering little feet remind me of roaches. Big roaches with talons and a mean beak. (His family has a cockatiel so my imaginings don't quite meet with reality.) Husband's cockatiel liked to land on my head, and then his feet would get caught in my hair. The bird would panic. I was already panicking. Panicking ensued on several sides. Yeah, I hate birds. Even outdoor ones scare me. But, at least outdoor birds generally want to stay away from you. Though, for some reason there are great big black birds that hang out near our home. They sit in the trees and watch me when I go to the mailbox or get in the car. Once, I was unpacking my trunk and the bird cawed at me. My first – instant – response was to call out, “I'm not dead yet!” Dirty, mangy scavenger birds.