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Fiction

Fish Story

Frank Sloan

the man at the lottery counter asked me, “how many mouths does that writing of yours feed?”

I fumbled for an answer that didn’t sound elitist.  shame and disgust overwhelmed me.

I slunk back home and threw a stack of my stories into the river. 

a six pound catfish scooped the oeuvre into in his maw and swam up stream toward the dam.  he munched upon my words as he went.  my mountain of precious language turned to mush in his mouth.

fate (that anthisesis of Sarah Palin self-reliance) arranged for a pair of climate biologists to capture that cat in their net.  they hauled him into their boat and gaped with alarm at the pulp that oozed below his whiskers.

those steady men of science determined that the fish had been poisoned by a sinister pollution.  they quarantined the river until the source could be pinpointed.

the entire town lost it’s primary source of drinking water which led to riots and mayhem and stalemated government and I fled to the remote valley of pesky contradictions where I set up shop as a fish monger. 

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