Ficlets

The Lowest Form Of Literature (Except Maybe When Kafka Does It)

“Please come out,” I beg. “You’re useless down there.”

“No,” the donkey says from the bottom of the well. It’s known for being stubborn like that, but this is ridiculous.

“But why? Please. I need your help.”

“I ain’t comin’ out. Safe down here. Long as I sit down here and look confident, ain’t nobody gonna blame me.”

I lie down on my stomach and try again. “Maybe you’re scared-”

“I ain’t scart!”

“I just mean that thing has been running mad, and, well, it scares me.”

A booming noise echoes across the valley.

At the eastern end of the valley, a levee holds back a flooding river. And right now, the elephant is charging the dike, slamming its thick head into the middle of it. It’s gotta hurt, but the stupid pachyderm says it can’t quit now. Water’s hissing through a spiderweb of cracks.

“When the levee breaks, we’re gonna drown,” I say.

“At least everyone’ll know whose fault it was: the damn elephant’s.”

“You’ll be first to drown down there!” I shout.

“I ain’t movin.’”

I’m gonna cry.

View this story's 5 comments.