Flash Nonfiction by Mel Andrews
I’m uncomfortable around ambulances or the overdressed crowds outside funeral parlors.
I’m uncomfortable around ambulances or the overdressed crowds outside funeral parlors.
It soothes me to think of Hemingway in rough draft.
It’s an odd suggestion, but I go, leaden and lost in the dust of the midway.
The problem with ancestors is how they manifest negativity.
We kneel beside a perfect print of a mountain lion on the sandy bar.
How strange that they’d preserve a single piece of the forest they destroyed.
Perhaps the rest of the herd can tell the calf is headed to its death.
What if I’d been less inhibited? What if I’d cried out, 'Jesus, what the hell is that?'
In her confusion, my mother doesn’t always remember who’s alive or dead.
By the time the last clip of hair fluttered to the floor, he was a teenager.