Crowds swarm among blossoming cherry trees. Taking pictures, trampling fallen flowers—ignoring the aspiring poet who composes beneath their branches.
Hopeful koi surface,
mistaking floating petals
for drowned dragonflies.
Winds strip every tree overnight, faded blooms smothering the lake. He drifts with them, dreams and poems erased by uncaring water.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
Deborah – I enjoy your 50-word stories here…and I am REALLY curious about those “five hundred pet bugs” surrounding you at your desk. Write about them! Please!!
Thank you so much for your lovely comments, Amanda :) My bugs are Indian stick insects who live in their own little bug houses in colonies, are mostly all girls (although boys do hatch occasionally), eat tons of bramble leaves and all have names. I’m into the tenth year of keeping them now, so some names have been used a lot!
A wonderfully subtle story, using strong imagery.
Really appreciate your encouraging comments, Adele – thank you :)
Insightful and gorgeous!
Thank you so much, Julie :)
Beautiful. So much in so short a text. Thank you.
So glad you enjoyed it, Amanda. Thank you for commenting :)
🥺