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Flash Fictions
Sandwiches and Orange Juice
Below one level is another. And below this lower level is a small metal box. Surrounded by thieves, the small metal box is locked. There is a key somewhere hidden by men and women with good paying jobs and dominant impressions of the way things work. Below the box and those angry thieves is a jealous sea. Beneath this large watery body is the hour before two a.m. Crouched with sandwiches and orange juice, I’m in the metal box looking through the air holes by my feet. And through those holes, I listen to the desperate thieves scratch and watch the sea tie its shoes and ride its ten-speed home.
Three of ten water forms
Golden Delicious apples know this isn’t true. They find themselves caught in an awkward pose, a gaudy picture painted between two quarreling parties. One fiddles unendingly with their coat, trying to convince the threads and buttons and more buttons that fruit needs warmth. And the other jumps from conclusion to conclusion as if answers were small boats static on a placid stream. The apples, so metallic and tasty, heft this great pressure, this need for fightingly resolve, with surprising ease. They understand that beyond the hydroelectric dam to the north, there are pies waiting and muffins waiting and breakfast cereals waiting for their fruity flavoring. And despite the gorgeous advances in artificial taste, and despite their shiny wax residue, apples still command a multitude of vitamins. Besides, all conflicts need cellular health, and vitamins know the truth hidden between grocery store isles, between what is frozen and what isn’t nearly as cold.
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.
