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Monthly Archives: June 2012

Eric (and Ernie)

I have a pet snail called Eric. Well, I have Ernie too, but he is smaller. Eric freaks my lover out, it’s the eyes, the ones on the stalks, the way they pulsate and bobble on the stems, He hates them. He often won’t eat the food I cook in the kitchen because Eric and Ernie live there. In a cage of course. But my lover thinks they escape in the middle of the night and crawl over the food and on the plates. I’m scared of slugs, they are slimy vagrants, but snails are all right, they have houses, though Ernie’s cracked a bit a few days ago. He doesn’t eat enough cuttlefish to make his house strong. It is like building a tower with jelly. His insides remind me of jelly. When I told my lover this he didn’t eat dessert for a month.

I can’t wait to tell my lover I took this photo of Eric in the large pasta bowl. He will never eat Italian again with a smile.


 
 

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Meat

Something wasn’t right, not right at all. I took a sniff. The brown caffeinated bubbles of liquid gas tasted like death. I figured, after a while, that someone had put raw meat on the ice tray again. Most probably me, as I lived alone.

Mom keeps bringing bits of flesh over, dripping with blood and unidentified juices, as a way of saying ‘we know you’re struggling, we don’t want to pry, but eat something real’. I don’t digest ex-living critters, haven’t done in three years, but I’m sure if ma ‘n’ pa knew they would be phoning the nearest priest to come over and exorcise me. Or at least send for the local doc again to give me a pill.

I drank the coke down anyway, thought of the extra nutrients. I decided to make a meal of the cubes too, crunching the little slithers until I had the vague relief of brain freeze. ‘Shit’ I thought for no apparent reason and carried on with whatever it was I should have been doing.

 

 

 
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Posted by on June 10, 2012 in flash fiction, short fiction

 

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Cat Shit

I threw up from the smell of cat shit today. It’s always there, permeating the walls and climbing up the stairs. The stench that is. If the shit did that I would be packed and hitching a lift to Oklahoma by now. No, there was something about it today that made me retch. 

I hate cats. I would like to see them thrown over a fence. But my housemate, she loves the little hairballs. The shitting, fur ridden hairballs. So I end up with a fine coating of fluff and a bad attitude

But today, my god, I start it with my head down the drain and cold shivers and sweat up my spine. The little bastards. They just keep on looking while I scurry to my room and slam the door. 

This time it’s personal. 

 

(I don’t really hate cats this much, purely fiction, we have two, and most of the time they are awesome. But their shit did stink this morning)
 

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Run

I ran away, I ran away yesterday, and I ended up banging at a door, far away from where I was, banging for hours, and there was no answer so I tidied the garden. I like gardening, pulling up things that look wrong, and keeping things that feel right, sometimes they are weeds, but they have pretty flowers. And then it got dark so I knocked again, and then it was answered, a person, aged 40 years in a day, driven there by bitterness and looking at the world in tiny angles. He had a cane holding his head, it looked so heavy. So I cooked him dinner, straightened his linen and then woke up and shouted ‘it shall not take me’ and things were bright again.

 

 

 
 
 
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