Botswana Wilks was a quiet man.
He worked long and hard at avoiding drama.
Boring was a cherished title he strove to maintain and he wasn’t about to let the sudden appearance of the little spot screw up a peaceful Saturday afternoon.
The flyswatter was in the kitchen and he’d gotten comfortable in his easy chair, so he rolled up his magazine and gave the floating spot a little swat, which left three dime-sized holes in the mag, which annoyed Botswana quite a bit.
He hadn’t finished reading the article extolling the joys of watching paint dry.
The spot hiccuped and grew to quarter-size.
Botswana pondered the matter.
The spot hovered and pulsed, but it didn’t get any bigger.
Perhaps, Botswana thought, if he didn’t swat it again, it wouldn’t grow any more.
“At least you’re quiet,” Botswana finally told the spot, then pushed back his chair back, levered up his feet and took a nap.
The only things interesting about Acquanetta M. Sproule are her name and her stories.
