We live in a world with elephants
Flash fiction makes you ditch the socks, refold the clothes, be sparing with the accessories. It makes you focus on the essentials, pare down to the basics, select only the most important.
Last year, I put the book I'm writing down for a bit, frustrated with my own lack of progress, or too much progress, too many avenues taken, too many things crammed in. It risked becoming the comedy suitcase beloved of old sitcoms trying to demonstrate how men are superior at packing. The odd socks of my research were hanging out at the sides.
So I turned to flash fiction.
Flash fiction makes you ditch the socks, refold the clothes, be sparing with the accessories. It makes you focus on the essentials, pare down to the basics, select only the most important. It's also good practice for me, a person wedded to her beloved adjectives and adverbs and similies. Flash fiction shakes you down like a practised mugger, throwing them all away and then hoofing it with just your wallet and phone.
See, similie love.
Anyway, here is a piece of flash fiction, inspired by my thinking, completely out of nowhere but profound enough for me to write it down, just how awesome it is that we live in a world with elephants. Think about that for a moment. It really is, right?
The Day Trip
“You said you’d packed it properly.”
She blows at a strand of hair clinging to her nose.
“It won’t take a minute, I can wipe the yogurt off, just…” she swipes the hair away with her forearm, hands full of wet flannel, bag and smears of burst yogurt. Beside her, Jamie is red, grizzling, eyes scrunched small.
“You said you’d packed it properly. I can’t eat those,” the sandwich packet is wet and sticky with yogurt, a corner torn and the contents poking through.
In the corner of her vision, the toe of his shoe taps just once.
“Why don’t you two find an ice cream, see the penguins. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jamie?” They stride away, the child running to catch up.
The glare from the sun makes her eyes water. Squatting on the ground, biting her lip, she wipes the bag again, drops the cloth by her feet. There is no one around to watch her sit, rest her head against her arms.
A sound from behind makes her turn. Looking up, she meets the dark eyes of a female elephant on the other side of the high fence. A blast of hot breath, a deep sigh, stirs her shirt. She is reflected, shrunk small and crouched, in its wet, long-lashed gaze. Between cracked tusks, the crevassed trunk waves, snout flaring, the mottled pink interior stretching towards her. It breathes her in: the yogurt, the sweat, the despair. She watches her reflected self unravel, unfurl, stand. Another heavy breath, blowing the hair from her face, the ground vibrating.
This close, she can see how the heavy folds of grey skin fit the giant frame.
This close, she can see the velvet of the muzzle, the forehead and ears.
This close she can see how beautiful it is.
