Magenta Dawn

 

As I rounded the corner early one morning, EOS had just risen from the RIVER OCEANUS, opened the gates of heaven, and painted the dawn. It was a prodigious body of work to be sure, even if it had taken the entire day! Maspeth was still a silhouette and just beginning to stir from its slumber. Fluorescent, magenta, pink and violet clouds streamed silently across the sky-blue sky. Occasionally, cloudy fuchsia sailing ships cut silently through a light blue sea. The ensconced sconce of Venus streamed its light through a magenta tuft of cotton candy clouds. The sleeping town would regret missing this gallery opening.

Jim- November 25’

Just Some Thoughts - by Georgia P

 

It’s busy today at the cemetery. November 1. Another November I. Ordinary November 1 Regular visitors and funeral. Clear, Cold day. Fall flowers, mums. Carnations. Yellow, red, and white. Falling leaves make way for winter.  

Another soul lost yet safe in the home of the dead. 

Hyperbole - by Georgia P

 

My cat is so big and fluffy that he could block out the sun. 

 

My cat's meow is so loud and high pitched he could blow out every window in the neighborhood. 

Metaphors - by Georgia P.

 

The baby's coo was sunlight shining through the clouds.

 

Time was the thief that stole moments that I needed for later. 

 

Words are seeds that quietly take root in the mind. 

The Bug - A True Story

 

I woke up at 1 a.m. to the sound of my cat hunting—either a bug or a mouse. We don’t have mice; they won’t come here because of the cat. The mice can smell him.

I went back to sleep and heard nothing more.

When I got up at my usual time, I checked on the cat, who was sound asleep in his box, and went into the bathroom.

There it was—a big, ugly water bug, upside down with its legs up, looking quite dead. Black marks in the tub suggested an epic battle between my cat and the bug. It looked like my cat had won the fight.

Creeped out, I grabbed a dustpan and brush to pick up the dead bug and throw it out the window.

As I tried to collect it, the bug turned quite alive—very alive. Apparently, it had been playing dead.

It began running for its life in the tub, trying desperately to escape—up and down the sides, frantic. I smashed it six or seven times with the brush, yet nothing could stop it. The black bug, with its big wings, only seemed to grow more energetic.

I had chills and could barely breathe, watching its armored shell scuttling everywhere. Every nerve in my body tingled with terror.

In a flash, its antennae and legs disappeared down the drain. I quickly put a shampoo bottle over the drain to keep it there until I could figure out what to do next.

Unbeknownst to me, my cat had been watching the whole ordeal. As I exited the bathroom, Monsieur Brave Kitty—the same hero who had hunted in the dead of night and thought he’d killed his prey—entered the scene. I called for him to get out, but he didn’t listen. I walked away, shaking and trying to calm myself.

A short while later, my cat emerged. When I went back into the bathroom, the shampoo bottle was knocked over. He knew what I’d done. Now I wasn’t sure if the bug had crawled out of the drain or not. I replaced the bottle. I’ll remove it later.

The exterminator was called and arrived promptly. He put bug bait in the bathroom and kitchen and gave me some traps—just in case the buggy culprit or his friends show up again from the tub drain or somewhere else.

The cat and I are safe—for now.

As we carry on with our daily tasks, I can only wonder when the next attack of the bug will be.

Georgia