Flash Fictions
Tracing
A collection of rocks and lines border this boat I’ve found. Left in the salty rain, its rudder is permanently bent to the West. I’ve lived in the Southeast for two years, and the idea of directional averages has furthered my need for clean water and larger than large hills. The rocks are soft and porous, volcanic remnants. And as is the case for most things, they float until submerged. Bordering the rocks that border boat are murky white lines drawn in chalk. With every wave the chalk dissolves. And with every wake the fish spit powdery white from their gills, outlining anything that floats. Why they do this is no mystery. A mystery is a tale involving spies or jealous skies, all hell-bent on taking liberties and dashing about with inquisitive smiles. Instead, it’s obvious by their tenacious tracing that the fish are in love. And their amorous intentions have less to do with long and straight Western roads than their desire to suck oxygen from the rain.
Gnomes and Spaniels
Should all things be here? This is such a small space. There only seems to be room for two or three people, a couple of folding chairs, and a mini fridge filled with lunch meat. I just don’t see enough square footage for all things. Maybe it’s the color of the walls and the low ceilings that make this space appear so small. I once knew a philosopher who thought we, all creatures, lived in a room created by alien scientists. They, he would say, created this place to study our reactions, interactions, and contractual disputes. They didn’t do this for control of the earth or to have tentacle sex with long-legged models. It was our ceramic figurines, he figured, that they so greatly desired. Why they wanted these intricately crafted miniatures of this world’s cutest creatures, he didn’t know. Sure, this sounds like the insane theories of a jobless Ph.D. And sure, I’ve considered calling the police many times. But now that I’m in this deceivingly small room, and can see the ornately carved shelves in the corner with labels for Christmas gnomes and Springer Spaniels, I’m less sure, far less sure.
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.
