A Trip to the Zoo - Flash Fiction by Sam Kilkenny

A Trip to the Zoo

Flash Fiction

by Sam Kilkenny

Mike lived in a house across from the zoo. He rented this little two bedroom with his roommate, Stephen. Despite their proximity Mike and Stephen rarely saw each other. Not by chance, either. Stephen had a habit of leaving his dishes wherever he ate. Mike had a habit of being very annoyed by that.

That morning, the overcast sky was filled with geese. Mike loved geese. He loved that multiple geese are called a gaggle. He left the house after piling Stephen’s bowls and cups into a nice stack and left them on the stairs. The stray cat was waiting by the door and Mike gave her a handful of kibble.

“God, you’re getting fat, Turkmenistan. Might need to cut back on your portions.” The cat meowed. Mike walked down the concrete porch steps, cracked by rainwater freezing in its porous body. His boots made a thunk with each step. Down the street, a car pulled out of a gravel driveway. A few song birds chirped in the trees. He headed toward the zoo. In the morning he could see the elephants and giraffes leaving their stalls, eating and drinking. He wished he knew what a group of giraffes was called. A little coffee shop preceded the zoo, just a small stall. The coffee was bitter but it was hot and cheap. The biscuits were dry but the geese loved them. He laid four dollars on the counter.

“Cream and sugar?” the clerk asked, not looking up.

“You know how I take it.” The clerk looked up this time, purple rings around his eyes. Mike thought that he might need the cup of coffee more than himself.

“Right, didn’t recognize ya. Boss is in today so I got the ol’ nose to the grindstone ya get me? A man’s gotta keep his job nowadays,” the clerk said with a tired wink.

“No doubt. Black is fine, thanks,” Mike reminded him, in case the clerk was too embarrassed to ask again.

“No problem, bub.” He handed Mike his coffee and biscuit along with his change. Mike dropped the dime in the tip jar.

“Don’t spend it all in one place now. Bub,” Mike said, returning the tired wink. He gave the bell on the counter a little tap and it dinged sweetly, resonating in the air as he walked off. It really is the little joys of life that keep us going, Mike thought as he took his first sip. It was lava hot, so he took the lid off to let it cool faster. The steam filled the chill morning air in a cloud. He lit a cigarette and walked on.

Mike walked up the hill to where the best vantage point of the elephants was. The wind was picking up a bit now and his hands were getting cold. He took the cardboard sleeve off his coffee to be closer to the warmth. As he approached the crest of the hill he saw the geese, circling the small pond on their squat little legs. He crushed the dry biscuit in his hand and flung it to them. They honked and he smiled as the gaggle ate.

The cigarette was burning down to the filter now. He took one last obligatory puff and stomped the butt out on the concrete. Pausing a moment he picked the butt up and put it in his pack and sat down on the bench. The iron was cold. It felt damp somehow, and Mike took another sip of coffee, cradling the paper cup with both hands.

He waited there, patient as a monk, for the big barn door to slide open and let the elephants out. He thought about Stephen walking downstairs and tripping over his dishes, falling on the floor, covered by last night’s dinner. It annoyed him that he didn’t find some joy in that. Stephen was alright.

The barn door creaked open. The world’s loudest creak. He saw the elephant’s heads, their ears flapping, from their own volition or the wind, he could not tell. His favourite elephant came out second. A big grey beast like the rest of them, but he always seemed a bit dirtier than the rest. He had a brown tinge to him. He came out of the barn, eyes half open, gave the air a little trumpet, and took a five pound shit on the floor.

Sam Kilkenny is a nonfiction writer and poet. He lives in Atlanta, GA where he writes everyday. He is currently writing with C.W. Bryan at poetryispretentious.com When he isn’t writing, you can find him biking around Atlanta like a madman.