Sneaky Flash Fiction #1 : The Leak

After a chaotic and action packed couple of weeks I missed the Fictionistas’ deadline, but committed to finishing my story anyway. Here it is.

The [fantastic] prompt: “Your dog has dug a large hole in your backyard and is losing their mind about what’s inside. You look in the hole and know instantly that you will be on the news.”

SantiagoMarichal, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Anise.

The iridescent green goo lining the hole your dog, Kevin, has just scraped through the fake turf smells of anise. And didn’t you once read that anise was catnip for dogs? Perhaps that’s what possessed him to bloody his claws––

You want to say liberating it, but that’s not right.

Kevin looks at you with the epitome of soft brown hangdog eyes. He was just chasing a high. You can’t blame him. 

You kneel to examine the goo. The volume appears to be increasing. It’s leaking in from somewhere. Leaking out of the hole. So even though you really don’t want to, it’s probably a good idea, as a responsible homeowner, to do something. Call someone. Get it taken care of. Because despite the not-unpleasant smell, it looks nasty.

You stand and unlock your phone. 9-1-1? That’s such a politically loaded choice these days. Do you really want to buy into the law enforcement industrial complex over what might turn out to be, you don’t know, some kind of sewage leak? The dispatcher is going to laugh at you and apply some brutal code to the call that means the uniforms’ hands will be itching towards the Crazy Lady Tazer hanging from their utility belts before they’re even out of their patrol car.

All units, we have a [stifled giggle] 36-22-63 in Cumberland Gardens.

Then who? It seems a little—thirsty to call the local news station out of the gate. But you video the goo for a few seconds anyway, check the focus, turn your phone landscape, zoom in and out. 30 seconds of quality eye witness footage. Perhaps you can syndicate it, make some cash? 

Dish soap. It has the exact viscosity of dish soap.

You scroll through the last few numbers you’ve dialed. None of these people will be the slightest help. Not the dentist, not the food delivery driver, not Uber, not—maybe Erica?

You and everyone else on NextDoor call Erica when you spot a mange-ridden coyote, a stray newborn kitten, or a broken-winged crow. Any critter that ends up in your yard and for which you do not have time. Of course you’re an animal lover, you adopted Kevin from a rescue, obviously. But Erica’s older, retired, doesn’t have a family—at least you think she doesn’t, you’ve never asked—and she’ll show up with a ladder and a cage and pair of serious-looking suede gauntlets and take care of it, whatever it is, for free.

You dial. She picks up instantly.

“I have absolutely no idea and I can’t help you,” she says.

She hangs up—rude!— and you find yourself listening. The lizard part of your brain that prioritizes survival cuts through the noise. Where are my fellow humans? My tribe, who will keep me safe? The ficus trees your landscaper planted usually do a good job of keeping your neighbors out of both sight and hearing but now you realize they fail to block the sounds of panic rippling around your usually silent gated community. You hear a short scream, and another one, one close, the second further off. A dog barks, defiantly, then yelps, then falls silent. In the distance, sirens. Above, helicopters approach.

Kevin slinks closer to your feet and you both take a few steps back, onto the patio, towards the house, away from the goo which is coming faster now, flowing rather than oozing.

You make the choice, call 9-1-1, and holy shit the line is too busy to connect your call. The goo is gushing now, faster, practically spurting towards you. You try to sidle off the patio and it changes direction to follow you, it’s coming for you, it wants you. You specifically.

You pick Kevin up, but he’s heavy and wriggling so you both crash to the ground. He scampers, but your skull hit the concrete a little too hard for you to stand immediately so you lie there dazed as the goo reaches you pulsing moist little tentacles across your skin, your face and into your eyes and nose and mouth and it’s not as bad as you thought it would be and––

The helicopter spotlight hits you, illuminating your final thought.

I’ll be on the news tonight.

Then, anise.