Z is for Zoom

Broomsticks gather fallen leaves and numbers in the moonlight. The gazebo at Turtle Bay’s Caravan Park is packed with brooms shuffling about each other.

It is a good turn out this year.

Many old acquaintances brush up against each other joyfully and pass dust and stories to and fro.

A vacuum cleaner sits back against one of the pillars. It had come as a “plus one” with a brush and shovel. It felt cold – no one was paying it any attention and it was not used to being outside. Many of the broomsticks purposefully turned their bristles away from the appliance which was “too new” and a job stealer.

One of the older ones took the transgressing brush and shovel aside to explain in short, sharp brush strokes what was and was not “the done thing” at such events as these.

The oldest broom shuffles forward and scrapes its brittle twigs over the gazebo’s boards. All move aside to give it the floor.

It maps out the history of their kind and draws pictures of the many battles between them and cats. It flutters about, dancing in the memory of the children that use them to pretend to be witches.

The audience twitches in anticipation.

Finally, in long and majestic sweeps, it tells them of the witches who inspired the children to ride them. It reminds the crowd that it is the last broomstick left that had served as stead to the original witches. In those times, the air was clean with invisible waves and streams that allowed their magical hosts to ride the brooms deep into the night.

The air, the old broom twirled, has the same sweetness once more. It prophesized that before their next meeting in a year’s time, another new being of magic would rise up and become the first of a new generation. And someone here – some stick, brush or even vacuum, could be the catalyst for change.

They all bristled with excitement – even the vacuum twisted slightly at the news.

The old broomstick stepped down from the gazebo and swept quietly and calmly along the Listless River and disappeared back into the woods. The others dispersed back to their homes – each wondering who of them would be the catalyst of change.

Z is for Zone

She carried her babies on her back across the linoleum plateau. Her tiny legs held up her load gainfully and despite the huge relative distance of her trek, she moved with great speed.

I watched her for a full minute in wonder. Her egg sac was twice the size of her body but she was agile. What would it be like when the babies came out? Would she still be so nimble or would the burden of parenthood overwhelm and weigh her down.

THUD

The Complete Illustrated Works of Oscar Wilde lands squarely on the spider with the gigantic egg sac.

Sorry bitch.

This house only has room for one struggling mother.