New writing

My fiction on Zingmagazine is about ten years old, people. Here's the first paragraph of my second novel: Two Augusts in a Row in a Row.

Chapter 1.
The solitary reason I can write now is because of the two hawks mating on the roof above my apartment on the top floor. I hear them screech and occasionally they look over the edge of the roof into my apartment. Other birds, as small as sparrows, knock on my window, not a click, click with a claw or beak, but a thump, thump of the top of their heads, asking I don’t know what. I can’t tell today. Maybe tomorrow. Why do the birds knock on my window? To get in? Possibly to remind me to continue with my studies of magic? 1:11 am and 1:11 pm, I take note of these times of the day. Or at least on a 2:22, or 5:11, or 4:44. Or 6:66. Not really the latter.

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