A Pair of Aces

I put my book down, no longer able to focus on the story. The reader in me and the writer in me are at it again, battling it out for my time—the reader busy taking note of words, phrases, ideas, craft; the writer wanting to do something about it.

“That’s great,” I tell them, “but I don’t have a story. Nothing yet, anyway.” And then it hits me. Not everything has to be a part of something bigger, a piece of a complete story. Just jot down observations without thinking about whether each will be a lead, the theme, a symbol, an ending, vitally important or something that will be cut.

And so one ace trumps the other and I let my writer loose. I sit there, in my camp chair, paper in lap, pen in hand.

There’s a fluttering on my right that I note from the corner of my eye. A butterfly? No. It’s a leaf. It’s dropped from the huge cottonwood above me and floated down, its final resting spot on the ground near my feet. Not yellow, green. Not fall yet, late summer. A symbol? Could be a loss, a demise. Too soon. More