Memphis Fast Fiction Home
04.02.2011
wrangle
Mike Hoffmeyer

The overwhelming beigeness of the subdivision going up down the street made Elsa Mae spit. She could see the huge trucks moving through the tree line, like some kind of horrible metal monsters that sent her rabbits scattering.

Elsa’s property was the largest in the area. Her grandfather had purchased it as a homestead a century ago. She still lived in the house that her grandfather and father had built. Her parents married on the front porch. Elsa was born here, and wed Henry under the oak tree you could see just out the parlor window.

Her Henry had succumbed to the cancer three years past. They’d never been blessed with children. Instead they raised rabbits. Acres of them, with plenty of runs, slopes and tree roots to hide and play amongst. Jacks, lops, hares, and a pair of Flemmish giants that she wished would get off their duff and make some kits.

Elsa spit again, and went to wrangle her children into their hutches for the night.

It was just her and the rabbits now, holding off the metastasizing growth of the suburbs. A last bastion of what was, standing firm against what is. It was a good fight.

Memphis Note
There are still places like this, out on the edges of Memphis. Where people lived before the city grew out to meet them. It always breaks my heart a little bit when I see one of them sold to a developer to be sliced up into a dozen less interesting homes.

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