This item, written in less than 20 minutes, is one of 2 winning entries from our Non-Fiction Writing Competition held on 10 April, 2014.
© 2014, Kenny Morris
Her name was Susan; but my secret nickname for her was Blue Susan. This was for a reason. She had a hole in her heart. One day, I overheard my mother, a midwife, say to her mum Doreen, over the garden fence, that she was going to have to be strong and accept that wee Susan was a child of borrowed time. She was my firstist friend, both of us four years of age, inseparable. True love.
Together we used to kick the roses and run, as they were full of bumble bees; until one day, one chased me and, before I had reached our garden gate, stung me cruelly on my right ear. Hot, throbbing and stinging, it hurt very much. I told Susan that I had learned two lessons from it. One, respect Mother Nature, and two, the bee has a brain. From that day on, I began to collect dead bees, never minding all the other strays. I placed each one of them in a matchbox, kept them in the garden shed, brought them out sometimes and stroked their velvety backs; not knowing, even subconsciously, how like miniature coffins they were in.
Blue Susan always called me Yenny, as she couldn't say Kenny. As for me, I would add a letter D at the end of most words. I'd go: "I'm cleaning my card and making it shined. Oh, dear little card, I'm glad you are mined".