Mocking Words

I love sitting out on my lanai writing. Something about the warm Florida air and picturesque green scenes of flora and fauna often inspires me. As I type away on a recent novel, I briefly note a bird sitting on my lanai screen. Barely paying attention I feverishly type away and then come to a pause. When writing mysteries, I frequently question myself in mock trial fashion to arrange the details of the case in my head. Somehow, hearing it out loud helps me work out the crime. “And then the killer confessed, I hid the knife,” I dramatically narrate, only to hear a strange echo in a soprano pitch. “Knife.” As I’m on a roll, I hardly pay attention to the resounding cry. “Yes, I killed my wife! I say softly, careful not to falsely alert the ears of my close neighbors. “Wife.” The high c tone continues, masked by my vigorous typing. I’m close to the big reveal. The killer confessed, but there was another twist. “No, you didn’t. She already died.” I say with melodramatic flare. “Died. Died.” The voice utters again. But this time, I stop and look around. Annoyed, I yell at my husband in the house. “Very funny. Cut it out. I’m working.” But looking into the sliding glass door, I realize it was dark. He’s not there. Confused, I turn around in a concentric search, but I’m alone. An occupational habit of mystery writers is too much curiosity. I couldn’t let it go. Where did the voice come from? When a more complete investigation of the whole house provides no clue, I go back to work. “I poisoned her.” I type audibly and stop to listen. Not a sound. Satisfied that whatever was mocking me was gone, I ramp up my rhetoric for the big conclusion. “You didn’t kill her. It was I.” “I I I I I I.” The voice is back. My head quickly spins around when I hear the repetitive ring. There it is. A black bird looking at me with the strangest glare, prompting the most absurd mocking tirade. “What, you don’t agree with my reveal? I suppose you can do better? No, you don’t have the ability to type, although you do have very long stringy talons which are actually perfect for it. The bird blank stared me straight in the face and raised its beak into the air as if to say… fine. I’m leaving. And it flies off. “I guess everybody’s a critic.” Authors’s Note: No, I don’t think birds are talking to me. This is fictional-something that just struck me as funny. Although I do often write outside and there are a number of flora and fauna in my scope. See my view below. And this is not from anything I’m writing…right now. But who knows?