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Flash Fictions
How the Sun Works
From a distance, somewhere between two and a half-million miles and seventeen inches, I look sad. It's not my fault, but rather the gnomes living on my face. They're tiny creatures, with hairy foreheads and three big stubby fingers. They operate a series of pulleys and a lattice work of scaffolding around my mouth. You can't see them. No, not even if you had an electron microscope and a Norwegian lab assistant, could you see their fumbling hands yanking and contorting my expressions. You have to understand, well you don't have to, but I'd sure appreciate it, that it's really not my fault I look sad. Somewhere deep in the bureaucratic mess of gnome society it is required by gnome law, I look sorrowful and distraught. I've tried legal maneuvers, but I'd need knee pads and really loose hip sockets, which are expensive and messy. I've hired a lobbyist for the next gnome legislative session, in hopes of at least changing the law enough so I can go from looking sad to just looking slightly confused.
Complete Comfort
There's a footstool somewhere. A gigantic footstool covering five or six acres of prime farm land. I think there's a creek close by, but my memory is a bit foggy, something to do with the humidity and temperature in rich loam basins. Sometimes I wish I could prop my feet up on that stool, and recline back in complete comfort. People would drive by on the ruddy county roads to see, avoiding holes and the dashing rabbits, and be really jealous. But I'd probably turn my body to wave sarcastically, and fall back a hundred feet to the freshly plowed field below.
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.
