Riding the Bus

Short story inspired by "Idea for a Sign" by Lydia Davis.


I'm not one of those annoying patrons of the bus who spends the entire trip on their phone. Believe me that is not me. 

You will not hear what I did throughout the day; will not hear what she did or did not do; will not hear about how sick I have felt all day, making you wonder if I am still contagious; would not ride the bus if I was contagious, unless, of course, I had to, which I wouldn't; will not hear how I can't wait until I get home; how slow the bus driver is driving; how bad traffic is. Of course you can see those things for yourself so why would I say them? I will not laugh loudly and unexpectedly, causing you to spill your coffee on your shirt and bag; would never get an argument on the phone, how awkward to hear a one-sided argument; will not have the ringer obnoxiously loud then answer the phone just as loudly to say "I'm on the bus!".

Unless, of course, someone calls me.

Save the Fly

This story was for the Figment.com July contest. The challenge was to write about an animal activist. I decided instead to be the animal activist for an undervalued animal in our society. Here is my tongue-in-cheek entry.

Consider musca domestica. Short life: thirty days. Less, if you are successful.

Soaring through the kitchen air.  Hair flowing. Globe-like eyes, golden iridescence seeing everything. Light shining through asymmetrical shapes etched into translucent wings, causing prism-like rainbows on the wall. Swift movements, grace unmatched, dodging between fingers, twirling around instruments of doom. Laughing at the hunter's clumsiness?

Fighting for survival. Living peacefully, buzzing joyously. Continually hunted, anxiety marring the happy flight.

Consider musca domestica. Short is his life: only thirty days. Someday there will be no buzzing, no iridescent eyes, no prism-wings, no pirouettes; only miserable silence.