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Hugging the Elephant: Microfiction


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Hugging the Elephant

"I'll have everything over easy," Layla ordered at the Bellyup Barn that morning.

"We're serving Tastefully Crass Grasses in Watercress Cottilions at noon from the Salad Hutch and Barely Worn Glass on Featherdarned Battallions around two in the Layer Lofts," Leon stuttered thoughtfully, waving directions with mittened hands from the teetering edge of Growlamp Lit Bandstand.

"Fronds of Psalms milk for supper every Wednesday, rain or not," Lee continued auspiciously from his Dripping Suspicion Crouch against Green Armory in the Cornered Back Crawl.

"Where did you learn to tend turnips and trolls?" Layla bravely queried on the Grazed Lamb in passing.

Her carousel lurched as ducks and seal fell to their feet. Poppin Bobbin landed on his nose. Puffing in tantrums rebel stirrups rose and spurted into Rainbow Pause Sounding on a platter piled high with sliced styrofoam die.

"I'm not telling," Layla screamed into the tangerine mike smoking in its tin behind the closed curtain. "Fifty come seven," she relented to the golden spoon.

"Do you have the key?" Leon scurried cross-stage to the trumpet section of their pets and ponyup pavillion.

"I've lost it." Layla fell to her elbows on a seering sham of gease in a wading bin of purple lapels.

"Roll wth it," Lee ordered sternly.

She flopped to the edge obediently.

"Raise your eyes," he barked to keep her from smothering.

She turned on her back to regard the retreating stars cheating on the eclipse of the moon.

"I think I'll have Grounds of Ginger Flambe' instead of the Plaited Ferns of Clay Pleating ," Layla burst with sudden clarity.

"I don't feel like Maiden Jars today," Leon grumbled on his way back to Spindly Cacti Wax.

Preying pansies purred in the drifting curl of Layla.

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Original material c. A Country Rag, Inc. and/or Jeannette Harris, Jonesborough Tennessee, April 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014. All rights reserved.


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