The Summer Flowers

flowers

 

I was out among the summer flowers

Reading Stephen King

The story where the boy’s mother dies

From a bee sting

When a bee alighted on the page,

Buzz off! I spoke. Buzz off!

As I brushed it with my hand when all of a sudden

My throat ……

 

 

Niche

 

I’m looking for my niche.

I know it’s around somewhere.

But where?

The next corner?

At my window of opportunity knocking

While I’m off elsewhere?

We may have even bumped into each other

And not known.

But I’ll keep looking.

I know it’s out there looking for me too.

After all, we are made for each other.

Perhaps if I wore a name tag.

But I’m getting warm. I’m feeling lucky.

Before I only lapped at the shores

Of achievement

But once I find my niche

I’ll really make waves!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Open Door is Not an Invitation

 

He was getting too familiar, planting himself on the chair next to us without being asked. But it didn’t seem to bother her. If anything she was amused.

 

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” I sneered.

 

But he just ignored me, fixing us with his stony stare, as if he were waiting for something and we were to provide it.

 

Then she went indoors and the inevitable happened.

 

He got up and followed.

 

“Hey!” I called out, “Hey!”

 

But he went in anyway, asserting his territory. Then pandemonium broke loose.

 

She panicked and he panicked, blindly bumping against doors and windows. Finally he found his way out through the open door.

 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I won’t feed Scruffy anymore.”

 

Scruffy was a big, beefy Murray magpie with a sense of entitlement.

 

Two Men Sit at a Bar

 

Two men sit at either end of a bar.

One has a gun in his right hand.

He is nervous, twitchy.

The other is heavy set.

They look at each other.

“What’s your name?” one asks across the space.

“I don’t have one yet. What’s yours?”

“Me neither.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their scotch, looking into the shadows, when one turns to the other.

“I wish he’d come soon instead of just planting us here”

“Calls himself a writer”, the other laughs. “He doesn’t know what to do with us. That’s the problem. Still long as the drinks keep coming ….”