Picking His Poison

Flash Fiction

The dry rattle of the snake’s tail pushes the boy into the shed corner and holds him there. Dust and grit sift down onto his head. The boy doesn’t move. 

Only the snake’s tail moves. The sound it makes is hypnotizing, is pebbles rattling in papery rodent skulls, is an autumn wind rustling dead leaves across a drought-stricken plain.

Outside, a car hisses …