Harry’s Inflatable Crocodile

By Kim Farleigh

 

 

Harry moved over blood-red ground towards bone-white trees beside a sapphire river.  A rubber crocodile tried biting his feet.

 

Harry swam through a deep section.

 

The crocodile expanded, filling with air.  Harry stepped on it, the crocodile deflating like a trivial concern.

 

The river disappeared where blood-red roofs topped bone-white buildings.

 

Harry dived into a swimming pool beside a creamy house.  The crocodile dived in after him, no longer made of rubber.

 

Harry sprinted towards glass doors, the crocodile now big and real.

 

Sharp teeth protruded, with haphazard wildness, from the crocodile’s mouth.

 

Harry shut the doors.  The crocodile smacked into glass.  The glass wobbled like soldiers on troop carriers.

 

Harry started watching television.  False distractions rescue us – momentarily.

 

Creatures, with high-pitched voices, purple hair, and pink, fairy-floss heads, were moving in TV glass, nothing real.

 

The crocodile smashed the doors.  Cracking glass made yelps, like breaking illusions.

 

The crocodile chased Harry along a hallway.

 

Harry tried shutting a bedroom door.  The crocodile placed a foot between the door and the door jamb.  Fiberglas fangs expanded from the crocodile’s feet, like sensors picking up fear.

 

Harry grabbed a gun from a drawer.  Guns thrive in drawers under blood-red roofs.

 

Fangs ripped holes in the door’s timber, wood flying away like jagged birds.

 

Harry shot the beast between the eyes.

 

Harry woke in a black cocoon.  That crocodile had almost got him.  It had got bigger and bigger.  It could have become a dinosaur.

 

My life, he thought, must change.

 

A haggard crocodile was sitting at the bar, the next night, drinking a Martini.

 

“I admit, Harry,” the crocodile said, “you’ve got me.  You’ve made strategic changes.”

 

Cigarette smoke swirled around the reptile’s red eyes, yellow patches on his green fingers.

 

“You got too big, Frank,” Harry said, “for your paws.  I’ve got too much to live for.”

 

“Do you want a drink, Harry?”

 

“No, thanks.  I’ve got to go to my naked wrestling class; then to my Korean aardvark appreciation class; then I’m going to a lecture on asteroids hitting planets.”

 

“Harry, you’re now really living.  I’m all washed up.”

 

“I’ve got you to thank for it.”

 

Frank raised his Martini in tribute.

 

“Harry,” he said, “there’s a crocodile waiting for everyone.  And this crocodile hates waiting.”

 

“Put in a transfer, Frank.  You’re now wasting your time here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

BIO:  Kim Farleigh believes that there is an inflatable crocodile in us all that requires constant deflating. It can expand at any time, but hopefully not at Xmas.