THREE MICRO-FICTION STORIES
Copyright © 2003 All Rights Reserved
The Dog Cleverly Learned To Throw Its Voice
During the dog days of summer I heard the sidewalk bark. "Ruff," it went. "Ruff!" again, then I heard a guttural growl. I ran away to see what would happen. As expected, the sidewalk issued a snarl like a dog angry that its dinner dish was ripped from its mouth. I was late for an appointment so I hurried on. I returned an hour later with the hot dog seller from the next corner to serve as witness. We pressed our ears flat to the blistering pavement. I was able to discern a faint whimpering, but all the hot dog seller said he could hear was a sound like hot dogs sizzling on a grill, reminding him to go back to his stand. He was right to be concerned, for by the time he got back he found his cart overturned and a large, invisible dog casually eating burned hot dogs from the ground with relish.
In the Hawaiian Garden Where I Came to Escape Feeling Sad
Matu's feathers were a white deck of cards dipped in yellow paint, his eyes unblinking record discs. He pressed his head against the metal bars of his cage so I could pet him. When a troupe of Japanese children in matching black-and-white shorts crossed the garden's oriental bridge and marched toward him, Matu hid himself--a feather duster fettered in shade. After the children left, he alit from the shadow and began to sing again, his voice soft as fallen breadfruit.
A Piece of Depressed Cheesecake, Committed to an Asylum, Concocts An Elaborate Fantasy About a Blueberry She Remembers From Her Youth
O, blueberry, I can taste whom you left me for: a fresh tart perhaps, or a slice of key lime pie. Or is it the banana you love more than me? She can be whatever you wish her to be--a telephone, a yellow tree. It's so sexy how she drops her yellow dress, leaves it on the floor in jest. I can see you and her miles away from me sipping pina coladas beneath a yim yam tree. I've searched all that's blue for your uniqueness: lapis, ocean, skies. From coast to coast, I knocked on doors, and asked, "Has anyone seen my lost blueberry?" You were last reported rolling out of a yogurt processing plant into the dustbowl. I cried the way only a cheesecake can: big, chunky flakes of sadness rained down my triangular cheeks. Over the years, I tried tangerines, kumquats, plums, but I was never attracted to them nor to the pineapple's prickly green hat, nor to the pear--a watery fellow who drools when he speaks. Ah yes, there were some odd couplings: between myself and a pie, for example. And it's true I spent a brief time with a tangelo; it was an unhappy affair. What we saw in each other, I don't know. Oh, yes, there was a wine I entertained: he complained 'til I joined him at his table. At last, I gave up looking and went to New York. I saw my kin in every bakery bin and met my distant cousins, the blintzes. None of these mattered to the aficionado of the blueberry's round, sweet face--how he rolled around the floor as he laughed. O blueberry, it's your flesh I still crave.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
To read more about Ellen Lindquist
, including an author interview, go to www.midnightmind.com
and click on Author Profiles. Online, read her in Planet Magazine, The Cafe Irreal, Fiction Inferno
and Cenotaph Pocket Editions
. Her prose poem, The Erstwhile Wire-Woman
, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Originally from Michigan, she lives in Atlanta.