Parachuting in Stilettos

Contributor: Cheryl Anne Gardner

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It had finally hit the triple digits, and the beach looked like a garlic pizza with roasted humans on top. While I was snoozing in the sun, I had this bizarre dream of a glass lemon hanging in the air above my head as a waiter dressed in black tie towered over me reciting a menu in French. When I opened my eyes, an oily bohunk in a slinky banana hammock was standing over me. He was so greasy, he could have slipped, nipples first, into another dimension. He had a fistful of sand, which he proceeded to fling into my face. I spit some exorcism in pig-Latin at him, and he smiled, then asked me if I wanted to go dancing. I told him to "fuck off," so he left only to return five minutes later with a pina-colada that had an umbrella in it so huge that it eclipsed the sun.

I really did want to go dancing, but my feet had always been too big for high heels. I can clunk, I can funk, I can jump strapless off the shoulders of a naked barista ... but I can't glide in them enough to dance.


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Cheryl Anne Gardner prefers novellas and flash fiction to writing bios because she always seems to forget what point of view she is in. When she isn’t writing, she likes to chase marbles on a glass floor, eat lint, play with sharp objects, and make taxidermy dioramas with dead flies.
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One Response to this post

  1. Steve Ramey on March 12, 2013 at 3:39 PM

    I like the breeziness of this, as well as the sharp edges. Very nice.

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