Tuesday, November 29, 2011

flash fiction

The Prevention of Sasquatch

She misses the forest in her shorts, but, you know, the wolf. There. Waiting to make pretty girls dogs in the dark.

Once, we heard about a woman with sasquatch under her arms. My friend came with me, on our bikes to see. Gross. We looked through the launderette window and saw a fat woman make change, sell suds and empty machines. She stopped, slipped one hand under her arm to stroke sasquatch’s head, calm as petting a cat.

‘Do you think it feels soft?’ my friend said.

I didn’t know. Something like that could bite a hand. Undergrowth must be controlled. On the way home, we stole Nair from the drugstore. Smooth. We thought it would be easy, but losing the forest we heard hair like felled trees. Rustling. Rabbits ran for cover and found no place. The log cabin burnt. The wolf sloped, tail between legs. We are safe, but some nights, stroke fur on our sleeves, lonely for wolves serenading moons. I know my friend misses leaves, red streaking through shade. Just knowing the wolf’s there is something, red cap on its tracks, cape held above her head like she’s made a kite of her arms.


This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.

("FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now" should link to http://bit.ly/femflash)

No comments:

About Me

Poetry is like having an imaginary friend, who still forgets your birthday.