Flash Fiction
THE LAST OF THE DRAGONFLIES By Matthew Dexter
After sprinkling some of my father’s ashes into a blunt, butterflies gathered around my head, their wings tickled my ears as I lay at the edge of the river and licked it, dipped it in a half-empty formaldehyde container borrowed from the basement. Dizzy with sadness and euphoria, dancing with sunset reflections I listened to the crickets giving life to the embalming fluid as it drifted into my lungs. The smoke sailed lower, borne down by the breeze as if by some nefarious puppet master pulling the final ethereal curtain over the scene, an obstinate purpled rippled demon which made love to the orange moon, all the while as fluorescent caterpillars come out from the dampened moss. “What are ya doing down here Jay?” my sister asked. She was little and didn’t realize Dad was a fraud, afraid of offering his body to the earth. “Can I hold that urn?” she asked. I handed her the fancy last wish of our father. His written instructions were to dump his ashes in the river, sell the house, and enjoy our lives. The Atticus Review│Get Lit: Round 1
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