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.


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