by Bill Rector

F. Scott Fitzgerald Isn’t In. Please Leave

A Message.

Buttercup may not bray Latin in the barn at 3 a.m., but even a donkey might swish her rough tail at the sting of timor mortis. Blue whales bell the bottommost depths of the Marianas Trench like sunken buoys. Red-eye submariners ceilinged by Arctic ice can’t sleep for the thrumming in their skulls.

Where was I?

Even a bit of flesh and blood as minute as a mosquito may be troubled by the flight of time, especially if the blood swelling its belly is yours or mine… perhaps the pest remembers playing hide and seek as a pupa with bubbles in a ditch… wonders where the search for blood has led it… 

the usual whining...

the mosquito zeroes in. I swat my head. Feeling better about things, the mosquito dives again