The Writing

The fly sits, staring at the breaking dawn

Wondering if the power of its yawn could reach

Somewhere beyond the crack in the window. He dare not



Bravery was lost to him. It escaped where the painter’s tape met the floor.


The swatter waits on the arm of the couch. Their last encounter left them both exhausted and

The swatter with a slight slouch.

Neither can roar.


The fly wants to catch the fading sun. The swatter just wants to add a splash of red,

A matching pattern to the wine in the carpet. There are stories here.

dinnertime keeps them all quiet. The silence is load-bearing but not readily unbearable.

“If only it could talk,” said the moon. “There are stories to hear.”

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