James Bybee Page 3
  Vines climb the tower of the forbidden.
Imagine the time is midnight.
Midnight hastens into dawn.
Lightning sparked; matches lit.
Voices call to voices in a chamber of echoes.
The matador flourished his cape for the aficionados and the ladies.
A cry in the night.
No blood shed.
Flourishes lead to more flourishes.
Flourishes appeared on paper vellum.
Red tulips flourish as well as yellow.
Purple and black tulips lead the attack on Rembrandt's Holland.
With a flourish of the brush Rembrandt painted his own care-laden face.
Tulips fell from the vase.

He fell asleep.


    The pen found itself neglected. He sat on the desk day after day.
    He heard the singing of the birds coming from an open window and longed to describe the sound.
     The pen could think but it could not write. He was a beautiful black pen with silver filigree.
He was owned by a banker.
     The pen was frustrated. It had things to say but could not say them.
     One day he clogged up so that the banker could no longer write.
    The pen had a plan. He knew the banker would eventually throw him away. He longed for the day he could find a new owner.
     He ended up in a pawn shop.
     He waited for weeks until one day a young woman came into the shop and was attracted to the beautiful pen.