Sunday, May 30, 2010

two more flashes

How about another two short flash fiction pieces this Sunday?

Written from word prompts . . . I'll let you guess which words were prompt words and which weren't.

In other words, I'm too lazy to do it for you on this sunny, summer-ish Sunday.

Enjoy!

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I own this dog that thinks he’s a cat. Aloof, he struts by, head held high, nails clicking regally across the worn linoleum surface without paying me any attention, unless he’s hungry. Then I rate a passing glance and a possible side show.

He’s the master of inveigling treats when, preternaturally sensing my moments of weakness, he rises up, gives me that practiced too-cute tilted-head look, his little paws in the air. But he’s just playing me, the cad, and you would think I’d be on to his obvious tricks by now.

I swear he was an Emperor in his last life, Napoleon or Tito. The way he carries himself you would think his drab grey-brown coat was made of ermine, and that silly little tuft of hair which never sits straight on the top of his head, a crown.

And he never, ever wants to snuggle unless he initiates it. It’s completely beneath him to give in to my will. I almost think that if he could open the dog food cans himself, I would be deleted from his mind like so many excess words.

You see, I own this dog that thinks he’s a cat.

But I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

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When I eat chicken pot pie, my Mommy says the crust is optional. But she makes sure I eat the insides to give me horsepower, whatever that is. I tell her I’m a girl not a horse when she tucks me into bed. She laughs and kisses my cheek. The blinds are open and in through the window shines a moonbeam leaving patchwork shadows on my quilt. It’s the one grandma made for my bed, heavy as grandpa’s leather coat and soft as velvet. My Mommy pulls it right up to my chin and tells me that I’m as cozy as a bug in a rug.

My cheek feels cool where my Mommy kissed it, and the nighttime world folds around me like melted marshmallows on a bed of chocolate cake. I wonder if the moon really is made of cheese as my Mommy closes my bedroom door while the one to dreamland opens.

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Until next Sunday . . .

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