Sunday, October 4, 2009

Flash fiction by Ellen Lindquist

Flash fiction
by Ellen Lindquist


In a mystical realm, wherein exist goddess snails, are properly pedigreed snails: proud Daughters of American Revolutionary slugs, descendents of those who chugged alongside the Mayflower in the cold water, or slept snug in the ship's cracks, escaping the fate of downtrodden cousins impressed into the army of haute cuisine. Liberated from crackers, on backyard patios, DAR snails sing in plaintive remembrance of ancestral escargot who lost their lives to silver services and olive oil.



Every hour on the half, you dialed your princess phone. You had to depress me so. Your cat died a delirious death--he overindulged on cat nip, so said the vet. Your tiny refrigerator swooned to the floor, drowning itself like a milk-immolated Ophelia. Your landlord, an old man with a mole on his nose as big as a tornado, tacked purple notes to your door, signed, Love, Scorpio. His wife lay in wait to sing you songs from an old musical. You chased her away with a knife but accidentally cut your own wrist and she had to take you to the hospital. The whole way, she continued singing.

Your roommate at the hospital had a blue glass eye that she kept in a water pitcher. Suffering from a psychotic thirst, you drank the water, forgetting about the eye that lay on the container’s bottom winking at you. Inside it, you saw so many things: Alaska, snow shoes, Eskimo pies, drawings of friendly one-dimensional Eskimos suited up in winter coats, fur framing their pudgy faces. Flat black eyes staring at you from ice cream packages.

Author bio:

Ellen Lindquist's flash fiction "Peggy Guggenheim's Nose" was a winner in Caferati's flash fiction contest in 2008. She has new work in Rumble, Swink, Six Sentences and in the March, 2009 issue of Contemporary Haibun Online. She lives in Atlanta. Visit her: Ellen Lindquist.

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