Tag: short fiction

While I’m brewing a cup of tea in the kitchen, Fleegle comes in from the patio with something muddy in his mouth.

“Why don’t you leave that gooky ball outside?”

He mouths around it, “It’s not a ball, Raud, it’s something else.”

“What then?”

He sets it on the floor. “I don’t know. I found it in the earth.”

It’s smaller than one of his tennis balls and shaped like an egg. I pick it up and rinse it off in the sink. “It’s blue, the sky blue of July.” I weigh it in my hand. “It’s too heavy to be an egg.”

“If it were an egg I would’ve eaten it.”

“Don’t let George hear you say that.”

“He’s mad at me.”

“Did you eat all his Chickie Puffs again?”

“You try eating just one.”

“That’s a dangerous advertizing meme you’re repeating started by the potato chip companies.” I look down at the egg thingy in my hand, which is now pink, the rose pink of sunset.

Fleegle tilts his head to the side. “I thought you said it was blue.”

I look at him. “It was blue, now it’s pink.”

“No, now it’s yellow.”

“The yellow of a ripe lemon.”

“Yuck, I hate lemons. Give it to me and I’ll go put it back in the ground.”

“But you like lemon scones.”

“Scones are biscuits.”

“Why don’t you show me where you found it.”

I follow Fleegle into the backyard toward the fence at the property line and into the bamboo to a hole he’s dug.

“I found it in that hole,” he says.

“What made you dig there?”

“It smelled funny, like that egg thingy smells funny. Let’s bury it and leave it alone.”

“But what if it’s an egg left by those crazy space chickens?”

“The ones Timber Jack and his date ate? The Master Race of chickendom?”

“Yeah, those chickens.”

“Then drop it in a food bowl and put it out with the garbage cans on garbage day. Let Timber Jack finish what he started. We can watch from the picture window, nice and safe on the living room couch.”

In the dark of the bamboo the egg thingy gives off a lot of light. “I’ve got a better idea. The fridge bulb burnt out this morning, let’s use this instead.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“You’ve been watching too much Star Wars.”

 

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While retrieving the tennis ball during a game of fetch at the park, Fleegle drops the ball to sniff the grass. After a bit, he begins rolling on his back where he was sniffing. Then he starts grinding his shoulder into the spot. Finally, he stands and shakes, then picks up the ball and trots over.

“Found something good to roll in, eh?” I say, scanning him for telltale tan smears of coyote poop, my least favorite thing Fleegle gets into.

He drops the ball at my feet. “Yep.”

“But not coyote poo.”

His tail wags. “The next best thing.”

And then I catch the scent on the breeze. “Ugh, coyote pee. You really stink.”

“I smell awesome. I smell like a coyote. Don’t I look bigger to you now?”

“You certainly smell bigger.”

“Maybe Hunter will think I’m a coyote now and give me my due respect.”

“You mean by not trying to hump you every other second.”

“I lie down and he still tries to hump me.”

Later, when we arrive at Hunter’s house for a play session, Hunter gives Fleegle’s shoulders a good sniffing over. His eyes glaze over and then he jumps on Fleegle and starts humping like never before.

“Looks like you’ve discovered that coyote pee is an aphrodisiac.”

Fleegle looks at me and rolls his eyes. “He’s not nicknamed Humper for nothing.”

 

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