Mini Musings

Sally

A little divvy written for the Quick Short Story Challenge. Round one, goup one. I am pretty pleased with the story, and like the characters (and the setting). I hope you enjoy reading it, too. Happy Reading!

Sally

(c) SP Parish 2013

Sally sunk into the bags beneath her hips, attempting to find a comfortable spot. The woven plastic edges poked and scratched her porcelain skin, but she ignored it easily. Her grandmother, God rest her soul, had told Sally over and over as a child that she got lost to the world easier than a raindrop in a cloud. Today was no exception.

Watching the comings and goings across the way, Sally was easily swept away in her distractions.

But this was no surprise, no, Sally’s grandmother had been right about her all knees and elbows granddaughter—she was driven to distraction by the people and the happenings around her, much like right now.

The surprise really was that they were not distracted by Sally.

“Always be yourself,” Grandmother had said. In her polka dotted dress, plaid socks and heels, Sally was nothing but.

Which leads us to something Sally always says:

“Unforgettable is forgettable.”

And it just so happened she was right.

She tilted her head as the men continued in their preparations—four banging out dough, three heating the oven, the rest, hauling the rest of the ingredients from the truck, into the store, where they would be used in constructing this enormous dish.

She continued to watch them tossing bags, dicing peppers and tomatoes, pounding inane piles of flour, water, and yeast, when out of the corner of her eye she noticed a large shape pounding down the exceptionally wide Indian street. The corner of Sally’s mouth tipped in delight as horns from the surrounding tut-tuts sounded in protest at an elephant crowding their street.

They could honk all they wanted. Gerald wasn’t going anywhere.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He was going to Sally.

Sally continued to sloppily perch on her dusty merchant sacks, watching the men across the street, when the elephant in question bent his front legs, kneeling directly in her view, and directly in the street to the demise of the tut-tut drivers.

Both corners of her mouth tipped, and in one motion, Sally slid off her perch, and glided seamlessly over to Gerald. One hop, and she was now nestled atop the wrinkly folds of his neck. She had traded the endless poking of the bag for the warm, coarsely haired skin of her friend. It was a toss up to which one was better.

“Ugh,” Gerald said, winding slowly, cautiously past the vendors, drivers, and shoppers in the street. Sally would have fussed if he would have smashed anyone. Plus, the paperwork for killing someone, even in a place as remote as this, was dreadful. If there was one thing Gerald hated more than being an elephant, it was India. “This place,” he wined through his triangular mouth, “I do not see how you like it so much.”

From her seat above the hoopla, Sally smiled. To passersby’s Gerald would have sounded like a protesting elephant—frustrated at the noise and bustle all around him. Little did they know, he sounded mush the same to Sally.

 Even though he could not see her, Sally shrugged, “It’s a beautiful place.”

Gerald scoffed, “It is a dreadful place. Dreadful and stinky.” Gerald flicked a big, floppy ear at a protesting taxi. “Dreadful, stinky, and noisy, and hot.”