Soy Sauce
Do you have any packets of soy sauce?
the man asked.
Sorry, we don’t have that,
came the reply from the kid
behind the cash.
You didn’t even look.
We don’t have any!
the kid repeated.
Well, can you look for me?
the man asked.
Sir, we don’t have any of that.
I would suggest you look.
I’m not going to look for something
we don’t have!
The man then pulled out a gun
and shot the kid in the face.
Leaving the restaurant
without eating.
Dig
That thoughtless
slippery eel of a blade
going in
well below the ribs
because everyone
is scared
and no one knows
how to fight
anymore.
Shane called
from upstate,
sounded just like anyone
sent up river without a paddle,
complained that his celly was into children,
had all these pictures from the catalogue
and that the weight room always smelled
like dirty men on their worst day
and that Janine and the children
had stopped coming by,
that he thought she was out
dating again (taking a flyer) and I told him
I didn’t know anything about that
even though I did,
because a man can only deal
with so much when the world has
him down and the system
keeps kicking him in the balls
which never feels good
even though some men pay
handsomely for just such a service
from some broad in black leather
and impossible cockroach killers
that rip apart your floors
and forget the safe word
just for kicks.
©2023 Ryan Quinn Flanagan All rights reserved.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Cajun Mutt Press, Dumpster Fire Press, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Victory Slab by Ryan Quinn Flanagan:


