Short Stories Written on the bus ride home

The maple on the corner that is dying has turned red, reminding us all of fall. The days are still long and hot, and we complain of them to our neighbors. We talk of little else. But when we pass the tree we can almost feel the moisture emptying itself from the air. The air begins to smell of something pumpkin baking in the kitchen. Perhaps this is what is meant by a noble death.

I am jealous of the neighbor's lawn, thick, short, and uniform. His wife, bears the same qualities, and I am not so jealous of her.

She and I argued last night again, after supper. In the next room, the baby was playing with a blue spiky ball. And now I am up before everyone, sipping coffee and looking out the window at a fly who has gotten himself caught in the corner and is banging himself senseless against the glass. He, so desperate to get in, and me, desperate to get out.

Sometimes the things I desire are so small. It seems a shame not to have them. I want you to look up at me, looking at you, and smile.

--the crape myrtle in bloom and a host of small brown nameless birds, startling as I hurry to catch the bus. Watching them, I see that their whole day is made up of a series of startlings.

I feel peaceful, I say, crossing the street on a day filled with warm and generous sun, as if I have accomplished something for once by not turning something beautiful into ruins.

You have a gift, someone told me. Do not waste it. I have spent my life wasting gifts, money, youth, happiness. Why should I not waste this one as well?

Sometimes, I take dynamite into the living room. I place it on the floor and light the fuse. Then I step away and wonder if I have made a mistake. I think what I meant to say is that I sometimes want to be elsewhere, and the fact that I am here, with that thought, distresses me. I did not mean to light the dynamite. I only wanted to cause movement.

The houses that line the street are ornate. They have gables and eaves and wide, ornately designed windows. They are so nice that it is tempting to start wondering who might live in such fine houses, what they might do on a particular evening, how they go about playing a game of Monopoly, whether they allow people to trade properties or put the fine money in the middle of the game board. But I am too tired right now to imagine things. Instead, I convince myself that the houses are all empty, row upon row of houses, tended in the morning by gardeners and visited by birds, so that we might have a pleasant view from our seats on the bus.

--thick green leaves, then wires, strips of cirrus, then pure sky, above that, a row of angels playing a card game, bored stiff, but still not willing to show their hand.