The Scorpion
by Salvatore Difalco
I caught it out back on the morning you said you were leaving. Put it in a jar. It remained still till noon when it raised its stinger, angry pincers clicking, likely screaming for air. So I pierced the jar lid with the Montblanc pen you gifted me last anniversary, the year the itch began for you, if not for me.
Anyway, the packing started months ago and will soon be done.
Easy to dwell on the scorpion: does it wonder why it’s under hot white lights, ogled by bloodshot eyes?
I choose life over death most times. Feeling particularly petty I almost end the story with an open tap. But I never do fill the jar. I remove the lid and tip it by the matrimonial bed I’ve never fully tested.
Salvatore Difalco is the author of five books of fiction, including The Mountie at Niagara Falls (Anvil Press) and a collection of microfiction.
