My name is Charish and I’ve been calling myself a writer for a while now. Where do I get these ideas about other people? I work in a library and I’m constantly observing the interesting people that frequent it. I find that I have nothing better to do. Work? Yeah, I guess I could get around to that. I ride the city buses and there is no shortage of writing material. Something slightly strange is always happening on a bus. Just the other day, I suspected the man in front of me was pretending to be deaf while flirting with a couple of co-ed, sitting across from him.
I have a muse in the form of an eight-year-old me. I realized that I was my most creative when I was eight. I talked to myself, told lies, and tried to stand on my head. I don’t believe life can get anymore creative. I continually refer to my muse so she can remind me that it’s okay to ask a multitude of questions, laugh raucously at my own jokes, bite my nails, and speak in foreign accents. I keep her placated with sugary snacks and rolled up baloney slices. We get along pretty well. Other than writing and feeding my muse, I read when I can and watch plenty of television. You can’t ever read too many books nor watch too much television. This is the God’s honest truth.
He was Ahab in a leather jacket
Shit kicking boots and silver earring
His lofty stature; like an aging oak
This comely gent did not wish to dally
He waited to use the copy machine
But there was a line to stand behind
“Sir, there’s another copy machine to use,”
I said, in awe, as I stared up at him
He smiled an nodded acknowledgment
In a deep rumbled voice, he said, “Thank you.”
My face turned red for a man twice my age
He walked to the machine with a purpose
Assuredly, his copies were produced
I watched him leave without preamble.
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