The Little Man

The little man was willing to travel any distance for the perfect slice of pizza. He was so little that he could literally build a home on top of a pizza. If only he could find the perfect one, he would settle down and stop his endless searching.

He had spent several years in Italy, moving from city to city, and after many airplane rides had narrowed it down to Sicily. Although he started reminiscing about Florence.

He was afraid to pick a final pizza, in a finite location; this he equated with death.

If he kept moving, like a shark, he wouldn't die.

This is what he told himself, anyway, and he chose to believe it.

(From Writer's Emporium Club, September 22, 2011)

Goodbye, Summer!

Today is the last day of Summer. I am not sad to see it go. I bid it a fond adieu. I don't hold much against it except the unbearable heat it exuded for long periods of time, and the migraines it inflicted upon me.

The Summer asks me: "How do you know it is because of me that you suffered so? And do you even know what true suffering is? Maybe you create your own suffering and ailments and look for scapegoats in the innocent. Some people thrive in Summer, and manifest beauty all around themselves in any season because of their strong character and light-hearted spirit. Maybe you are heavy and dark like the Abominable Snowman, freezing in your own ice-hot Hell?"

"No, I don't think so," I told Summer. "I tend to get migraines when it's too hot, and you can't deny that it was too hot."

"Hmmpf!" Summer retorted, and faded silently away into the cooling night.

(From Writer's Emporium Club, Spetember 22, 2011)