Flash Fiction for the Day: Snake Charmer ©

Snake Charmer

She loved the way the snake curled around her V-neck sweater, his hard diamondback pattern shifting in the sun. It was unseasonably hot for early November, and she could smell its animalistic odour, like her own sweat. She liked the way it felt, slick as oil, its firm sliding muscles, tense and locked now, ready to spring – to strike.

    During the year the townsfolk had a picnic and contest to see how many diamondbacks they could pull out of the ground. There were prizes for the heaviest snake, the longest snake, the first one caught and the last one caught.

    Georgia won first prize for the smallest snake, naming him Flush. Flush was only twelve weeks old, so she started to train him and knew that later he would be entered into the pit. The “pit” as it was commonly called was a feast of snakes, all writhing, crawling, twisting over one another. The men bet on how many rats, mice and red meat each snake could eat. Usually it was Rattlesnake Queen who won every Saturday, consuming two rats and five mice, sometimes more.

    Georgia hoped that Flush would become the big boss in the pit, taking home the prize.

    However, weeks, months passed and still Flush remained small.

    Matlock, Georgia’s husband said, ‘You have to feed him some of those ghost rats, the white ones with pink feet. That’ll bulk him out.’

    Georgia opened the spring-hinged door at the top of the cage. She sat the rat on the door, letting it ratchet inwards. The rat plopped to her feet, her long pink tail ticking back and forth like a clock counter. Flush, coiled in the corner, a tiredness in his demeanour, rippled slightly. The rat sat upright and began cleaning her underbelly with rhythmic and graceful brushes.

    Georgia hissed at Flush. ‘Go boy, lunch!’

    Inquisitive, Flush uncoiled and seemed to be caging the rat with his right eye. The rat darted forward and sat on Flush’s head, then ran down the length of his body and back again, as if carrying out a daily massage.

    Georgia, her legs almost folding underneath her, watched on. The rat was not trembling or frozen in fright, instead it patiently licked Flush’s face. In some divine fancy or adoration, she used a circling motion over his mouth and eyes like a gentle lover.

    Georgia heard Matlock’s footsteps and called out. ‘Take a look at this!’

    Matlock looked down into the cage, instead of Flush opening his jaw to swallow the rat, his darting tongue surged forward, as if ready, in response, to cleanse the rat’s head.

    ‘I can’t understand it,’ said Georgia. ‘I know a lot about animals, about fully-grown snakes eating rats, about us eating rattlers, our yearly round-ups, but nobody, nobody in this great southern town could tell me that a rat and a diamondback would EVER become friends!’

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Flash Fiction for the Day: The Collector ©

The Collector

In the distress of turning seventy-five and losing her driver's license, Marjorie was forced to walk to the shops every day for groceries, to the bank, chemist or her most important stop, Good Sammy's.

    In previous years she hadn't noticed all the street litter scattered throughout her town. Her journeys had always been viewed from inside, on plush leather seats, with the immensity of the landscape flashing by from tinted windows or through windscreen wipers on foggy, winter mornings.

    On foot, she walked past rubbish that was left where it couldn't possibly find its own strategy to leave. Mostly, the littered items were cigarette butts, plastic bags, bottles, packaging and take-away food containers. In the local park she felt the hooded presence of vandalism: broken glass, graffiti, and two swings left twisted into an inaccessible knot on the top crossbar. Marjorie cared that the broken glass was dangerous, especially for school children, other elderly pedestrians and the local tom cats.

   It annoyed her that on rubbish days, the wheelie bins overflowed with smelly foodstuff, attracting the crows. 'Look at this,' she allowed herself to call out. 'Bread crusts, tomato ends, soggy paper, sticking to my good shoes. Be damned!'

   She carried small amounts of shopping back from the supermarket and an extra rolled bag for the rubbish. In her exuberant way it was to avenge those who littered. With her full water bottle, she washed the exterior of plastic bottles or cans, and also rinsed her fingers before placing a dirty carton or chocolate wrapper inside.

   Each day she went shopping, she picked up litter that was in her reach, and returned with it. Each day it was a collection of recycling: paper scraps, plastic, Big Mac polystyrene. Marjorie avoided the broken glass for fear of cutting herself.

   When she arrived home, she opened the garage door and threw the full plastic bag inside. It landed with a clunk on top of the car.

   She squeezed back the front door. Everything was inert and too big to pass by, so she climbed over a stack of junkmail, cardboard boxes, pizza boxes and newspapers. After she had put the cold items in the fridge, Marjorie felt the comforting seasons of everything accumulated. The deceptive tenderness of handmade cushions, crochet, children's clothes, stuffed toys, quilts and embroidery. She sat down on a giant bag of clothes that was plumb with junk mail, old catalogues and kitchen cloths. She picked up her knitting that spread the length of the sitting room, and struggled with the red wool that had snared behind the couch.

    Tired from her day's collecting, Marjorie groped her way upstairs, moving slowly step over step as one does over a thousand dangers. She lay on her double bed, dominated with the forlorn glad-rags of time; the empty shapes of coats, skirts, blouses, furs, hats and dresses and fell into a deep, comfortable sleep.

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Flash Fiction for the Day: The Old Man ©

The Old Man

He wasn't always old. When young he won his school's one-hundred metre dash in under three minutes. He rode motor bikes, built model airplanes and lathed and varnished jarrah tables. That was then. Now his wife had died and his children were overseas. He knew no one in the convoy of early morning walkers and only had the company of his shadow when circuiting the park. There were days that had little strength, a few dog owners drifting past, nodding, some crooning about Pippa or Bluey, others less impassioned about the weather. When they were gone there was nothing more to add. It would have been easier just to ring an empty bell. At night he watched TV, its flashes of coloured light and noise livening up the room. He watched one program and had the idea to visit his local tavern.

    The main bar was dark and musty, mostly men his age seated on stools. On Friday nights he went along hoping to meet a new friend, but one regular, who had previously spoken, continued to crouch over his beer, the glass propping up the sadness in his face. 

    Come this Saturday, the bartender said. We get a good crowd and usually a country music band. You'll have fun.

    The night wasn’t what he expected, and it brought a change to his face. A younger crowd greeted him. Handshakes and shoulders touched like a bridge. And like a crossing, he encountered the simplicity of conversation over a round of beers. He noticed, above the hubbub of music, laughter and voices, all the young men sported beards. They were impressive, neat and tidy, colourful and not at all housing breakfast crumbs, toothpaste or foreign bodies.

   It's the new rage, said one fellow. Why not grow one and join the club?

   He went along every Saturday night. Why hadn't he thought of wearing a beard before? In all his eighty years he had lathered and shaved, rinsed and patted.

   Overnight the hairs inched forward beginning as little brown wisps. He looked like Benjamin Disraeli. When it had grown and bushed out he resembled Sir John Forrest. On days when it grew long and unkempt he was Gandalf.

   The young men invited him to car trials, quiz nights, beard contests, and to zero birthdays. Mostly, it was a thirtieth or fortieth and the talk revolved around shapes, styles and colour. There was the Johnny Depp, the David Beckham, the Santa Claus, the goatee, the short-boxed and the stubble. His head heard words like 'soul patch, terminal and mouche'. The men told him about a city barber where he could have his beard trimmed and coloured, but if he couldn't afford that, there was the beard trimmer at K-Mart.

   Each morning as he splashed water on his face, he gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror. He was not a bristled Anthony Hopkins, but staring back between a neatly trimmed moustache and Silverfox beard, a smile formed.

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