Flash Fictions
Where sperm goes.
Sitting on the orange carpet, in the main hallway, just past apartment number three hundred and eight-four, were three small, or not so small, things. I know thing is a very general word, but then words have relatives, and they always live longer than they should. Maybe longer isn't the right way to put it, because it is a complex noun. And complexity isn't linear. I suppose this might account for the way water separates and then links and then separates. I suppose. But remember these are small things, and things become linear when they get small. What happens when things get large, you ask with a frothy mouth and leaky hands? I'm not quite sure, except that when you plant a tree or bush or a sloppy kiss, things grow, and growing takes up more space.
Too Much Television
You can't dodge them all. There are too many of them coming at you, and at such great velocities. You will fail. Oh, I know you'll fail. Sure if you flex your knees and keep your eyes fixed close on the first few, you might juke and dive your way through five or ten minutes. But these are high and fancy things, with happy edges that focus on each move. They miss, only at first to study your head's desires and the way your brain commands along lines through nerves and joints and muscles. Even if after fifteen minutes you still stand on the sweaty gym floor panting and grunting names from long ago times, these things have discovered what makes you so much like the other ten million categories of you. Each pass now they come closer to glancing a shoulder or clipping your chest. And each pass they learn, even before you learn, about your concepts of time and love and church and bizarre wood sculptors. By the rarest chance twenty minutes might be signaled by some incremental movements by hands and dials and springs and token bursts of electricity. And when this one third of an hour comes, they will be stealing your breath with every toss, and drinking sight from the sockets that you need to fumble through casinos in search of small chips and full grain leather. And when the moment passes, when clocks run closer to rhythms or a question, and when room and space do not belong, the balls won't feel the miss.
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.
