Flash Fictions
Birthday Boy
There at the end of the last dirt road sits a boy. This story isn't about him. Today is his birthday, but you shouldn't care or remember. This story has nothing to do with him or his new red bike. Absolutely nothing. I don't see any reason to document his future rise to fame in the meat packing industry, or about how he loses his virginity to an old woman high on blood pressure medicine. These are meaningless facts and fillers you should have thrown away by now. So, if this story happens to veer from its scripted path, and makes mention of the boy's first real acknowledgment of gravity when he broke his arm swinging from a rope swing, just stop reading. In this story there are no boys and there are no birthdays. This is a story only about dogs. Only dogs and maybe a squeaky swivel chair.
Go back to: Busier than a long snake in the mall parking lot
Raising rabbits is not easy. No, no it's really not. If you get scared, e-mail me and I'll calm you down. Things being what things being.
