Category Archives: Flash Fiction

Fishing

Father Pipe resisted the urge to close his eyes as he threw up a silent prayer and randomly poked his hand into the dark recesses of the broken motor. Poncho, Juancho, Flaco, he had grown up alongside these boys, but never shared their young boys’ interest in taking things apart and putting them together to see how they worked. Even then, he knew that it would never tell him why things worked, which seemed to him a far more important question.

On the other hand, Poncho, Juancho, Flaco and the other fishermen had been taking things apart and putting them together, out of necessity now, rather than boyish curiosity, for generations. They had in those generations, cultivated the kind of religious suspicion that might have served their native ancestors well in the face of zealous missionaries. So, as much as they loved him as a brother, they knew Father Pipe was a fool to think that Jesus had anything to do with the weather or the catch. They knew the sea had a mind of its own, that the sea, if anything, was god unto itself.

So they waited patiently while he splashed their boats with his Holy Water and listened politely as he praised Jesus loudly over the roar of the resurrected boat engine, but when he retreated triumphantly into Santa Clara’s Restaurant, they agreed amongst themselves that while Father Pipe didn’t know much about god, he sure could fix a Yamaha.

Ginger

There was this woman. Her name was Ginger. She liked to walk in the rain. It didn’t matter how hard the downpour or how miserable the drizzle, step after step, she walked, occasionally glancing up to catch a few drops on her face. People would line up on the sides of the street under the shelter of awnings and deep doorways and call out to her, “Get out the rain! It’s bad for you!” But she kept on walking. Over time, her hair lost its colour, draped to her shoulders and finally washed away. Her posture slouched. She began to lose weight. The people under the shelter of their umbrellas were concerned about how unwell she looked, how soggy in the rain, and they called out to her, “Get out of the rain! You should go some place warm, like Florida. Some place you can lay out and bake in the sun.” But she ignored them and kept on walking, slouching a little more every day, pausing now and again to squint at the deep gray clouds. Then one day, when the Ginger-bread Woman had walked too long in the rain, she dissolved entirely away.