There are toadstools popping up everywhere, spiders assuming ownership of every part of the garden, webs binding innocent passersby; and it’s the time for pruning, lifting and splitting, a month of putting it all to rest. And I have a short story which is spinning in my head, needing to be trapped, pruned, lifted and split.
It’s the fruit of that passing moment when an image strikes as different and worth pursuing. A man carrying a bunch of gladioli. And those people on the bus who, depending on the time of day, offer a great range of rich pickings. Early morning there are the ones who are off to work, later the pensioners with bus passes; and the delight of finding in each the group the friendliness, the regularity of their timetable meaning that many are acquainted, carrying conversations from day to day.
I’m the outsider. Listening and watching, making a surreptious note. Is that the role of the author, I wonder? Observation requires subtle involvement, being unobserved. The unseen and unheard intruder, the interloper, the gatecrasher at someone else’s party. What fun!
Magic, like those toadstools, arriving without invitation, another quiet intruder.