The Trail

The pigeons descended almost immediately on the bit of sausage on the ground. Marko looked down at them; he looked at the trail of tomato sauce running down his trouser leg.

The clouds had cleared overnight and, with a spring in his step, he had gone out that fine morning to treat himself to a hotdog. He walked over to Flower Square and bought a hrenovke, sat down by the flower vendors, took a bite of the sausage and then watched as it – Whee! – escaped its bread roll like a slippery eel, squirted right out of the bottom of the bun, tumbled down his leg and landed on the ground.

Whee! The sausage flew up into the air again and again as the pigeons attacked it. The ground, a battlefield, was covered in splotches of red. Whee! Up it flies! And peck, peck, peck went the pigeons until there was nothing of the sausage left.

The pigeons, excited, stood around flapping for a few more minutes, desperate to find another sausage, another bread crumb. If they’d had tongues they would have licked up the sauce.

Eventually, they got wind of another sausage, pie, pizza, donut that had fallen in another square and collectively they took off, took to the skies and disappeared.

Marko was left alone in the square. All that was left of the violent crime scene was a trail of tomato sauce down his trouser leg.

ketchup-splotch-sq

***
Today’s flash fiction was inspired by real life events. I think we can all relate to the trauma of losing a hotdog.

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Nat Newman

Nat Newman is an award-winning writer of short stories, content, podcasts, feature articles, drunk text messages and, soon, a novella.

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