In Amber

Sunday morning I was baking pancakes. I had the mix ready and started pouring it into the warmed up frying pan, small and slightly undercooked, just how I like them.

Feeling decadent I decided I’d have them with strawberry jam instead of the usual maple syrup. I opened the jar and took a big dollop out, smearing it all over my pancakes, making sure not to leave any corner uncovered. Time to dig in.

A mosquito was buzzing around the kitchen, probably attracted to all the heat and light. I felt it buzz beside my ear and shooed it away. However, the mosquito was momentarily spellbound by the redness of my jam, a gooey red blood ready for him to gulp down greedily. Swooping down, he fell in, sinking into the jam as if it were quicksand, planted there as a trap.

I was about to finish my last pancake when I noticed what seemed to be a small mosquito so I left it on the side. It had too much jam on it anyway. I placed the plate on the counter, too lazy to wash it straight away.

Meanwhile, the mosquito was stuck, initially thriving to escape, but having realized it was no use, ceased to struggle. He was stuck in the redness as if in his own blood. A cruel death he thought, but caused by his own idiocy. The jam hardened and thickened, leaving him incarcerated as if in amber, only to be chucked into the drains later in the day, making his way through the sewers, landing somewhere, but where?

An unlucky photographer

In front of a small chapel in Cyprus, a photographer was waiting to take pictures of the bride and groom when, without warning, they burst out yelling at each other. The marriage hadn’t taken place yet.
Inside, their friends and family sat, anxiously awaiting their return in order for the ceremony to proceed.
Outside, the photographer paced back and forth, already thinking he wouldn’t be able to take any photos and consequently wouldn’t be paid. How would he explain to his wife that he’d been away all day but had received no payment? The last few months had been rough. Not as many people were getting married, or maybe they just didn’t want him as the photographer and, to save money, asked their family to take the pictures.
The couple continued to argue beside him, but he wasn’t listening to a word they were saying. It never even crossed his mind that if he had attempted to speak to them, soothing and calming them, they might have recognized that their argument was petty, hug, make up and go back inside the chapel. Alas, the photographer continued to pace side to side, overcome by his own problems.