Flash Fictions
Busier than a long snake in the mall parking lot
Three historic neighborhoods and fifty blocks north of Oklahoma City's failing central business district, there is a strip mall. In the fifties this mall represented the future, a modernist u-shaped block of steel and brick, a place where a person could park and satisfy most of their booming desires. Twenty years later it had become a landmark, a place where campaigns were announced and developers studied. As a gangly kid, I'd walk to the Otasco (Oklahoma Tire and Service Company) where they sold a strange mix of bulky electronic equipment, misc. auto-parts and kitchen towels. I'd always try to steal action figures while the owner fixed flats for free or chatted with elderly women about their dogs. Later I might visit Stones grocery where the front glass had two bullet holes circled in paint, and Mr. Stone always gave discounts to women with children. There I'd exchange pop bottles for quarters or hide out in the back storage room, stuffing candy bars down my pants. When I was a kid I just didn't care about nostalgia or community pride. I knew the true reason for the success behind the first mall in Oklahoma was the ritualistic killing of medium-sized pets. And I figured the least I could do was steal from these dog snuffers, and secretly leave the items in the stores of the new mall down the street.
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.
