On a recent outing, a friend looked at my outfit and asked, “Where’s your touch of red?”

“Red?” I asked confused.

“For Valentine, February is the month of love,” she laughed.

A few days after we’ve put away our Christmas trees, we’re bombarded with Valentine’s Day paraphernalia in stores and on the media. It seems as though nearly every month has a theme. I think that I am safe, insulated from the commercialism of love. But when this idea interrupted the dialogue of a story I was writing in my head—why not repost a couple of love stories from your blog—I realized love was closer than I thought.

Neil Gaiman said that ideas come from confluence (confluence: a place where things merge or flow together, especially rivers). My friend’s comment, cuddly teddies with red hearts, and valentine hampers secured with red ribbons, conspired to birth this idea, as when you watch a movie before bedtime, you dream about something similar. Steve Jobs said that creative people are able to connect experiences they’ve had and synthesize new things.

So, enjoy either story or enjoy both and I hope from them, you synthesize fresh beginnings.

Take lemons, make life & jump for joy!

 

 

Bluetooth Lottery

“May I buy you coffee?” He points to the Kiosk shop.

It is the least I can do. “Sure,” I say still subtracting, adding, and rewinding the lottery winner announcement.

“Life is funny,” he begins. “We spend so much time chasing what’s ahead, when we could just look back.”

I don’t have time for pop psychology. Lottery is a game of chance, a thrill-seeker’s fantasy.

“Like you,” he gestures with his cup, “You’re reaching for someone; meanwhile, he’s probably reaching for someone else—”  Read more . . .

 

Bus 281

“Marry me!” his voice was urgent.

The thing in my stomach grew. My chest rose and threatened to pop the buttons of my blouse. I darted to the middle of the road and waved my hands with all my might.

Two yellow eyes flashed twice, cutting through the darkness. The sound of the engine grew louder. I ran to the side just as the bus screeched to a stop, lowered her belly, and the doors swung open. I clambered in and willed the driver to read my eyes.

“Close the door!” I screamed. Read more …

 

© Timi Yeseibo 2017

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