Flash Fiction

DOG AT THE PARK

by

Mary McCluskey
 

I'm watching a girl in a white raincoat throw a ball. Her terrier runs, leaps, skids to catch it, then bounds back, the ball between his grinning teeth, to lay it at her feet. A gift. She laughs and throws again.

Your new woman wears a white raincoat. I hope she throws hard and fast, makes you leap high to catch the ball between aching jaws, and when you lay it at her feet, I hope she laughs.

§ § §

Mary McCluskey is a British journalist who alternates between Los Angeles, California and a small Shropshire village in the UK.

Her work has appeared in a number of publications, including Zoetrope's ALL STORY EXTRA, LINNAEAN STREET, The PAMAUNOK REVIEW, EXQUISITE CORPSE, SALON and ATLANTIC UNBOUND.

She has just completed a novel White Nights, and is working on another.

She is a Contributing Editor of LITERARY POTPOURRI and can be reached at:mary.mccluskey1@btinternet.com .

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