Bluebottle Nightmare

In a time of seditionists, the writer was penning the last chapter of his “The History of Optimism”

It was the summer’s worst storm.  Humid, very wet, very muggy.

One of the street’s largest bluebottle-inquisitors sought shelter through his open window and found a perch on his coffee cup, proceeding to obsess on bugging the author.

From cup to keyboard flew the invader, rousing the attention of the man’s cat, as well.

Yet…

With numerous sighs and long pauses, the man persevered until the fly took up residence on the computer’s screen.  While the writer struggled through a series of optimistic images aglow with imagined blue-sky radiance shining down on lovers picnicking on a field carpeted with yellow flowers… he couldn’t go on.

“Oh, alabaster-winged one,” he whispered, "you just don’t know what it’s like to be navigating one’s lexiconic imagination using a white cane, seeing mostly shadowed letters while groping for the right words—all because of you and your incessant pacing, preening and staring at me from my screen.”

The cat purred.

A paw whipped out.

The fly didn’t make it.

The book got published.

P.S. – the cat now has his own website: Quiet Killer.com