Lake Day

Sometimes we take rides on our friend Charles. These rides can be quite a hoot because Charles is a frog the size of a dump truck. One morning we rode Charles to Waffle House. We ordered 3002 hash browns: 2 for us and 3000 for Charles. Then we hopped along to the lake because Charles is too big for the pool. If he sits in the pool, then there isn’t a pool anymore, just Charles. On the way to the lake Charles ate some watermelons from the watermelon man’s stand—slorp!—real fast, shooting out his tongue the size of a down spout. We got to the lake, and it turned out to be one of those delicate nice days where the dragonflies are enough to keep you cool. We called a few friends and heard their phones ringing from inside Charles. “Not again!” we said. Charles opened wide and we saw our friends down there, eating watermelon. We helped them climb out. Then, Charles swam out to the middle of the lake and sat there while we played at dodging his tongue and sliding down his big back. “This is nice,” he said. “Yes it is,” we agreed. The watermelon man pacing on the shore could wait a bit longer.

Emerald Ocelot

In the middle of a snowy night you shook me awake and said, “I need a tray of nachos.” All we had in the house were neon oil pastels, so I drew you a huge tray of tortilla chips covered with glowing jalapeños and pink lava cheese. “Sorry,” you said, “this just makes me hungrier.”

I was determined to make this work but I still had a long way to go.

So I promised to go get some nachos, no funny business, back before this snow sticks, call you if I need you.

I scraped the ice off the windshield, threw a twelve pack in the passenger seat and drove out toward an all-night grocery. Our town was so small, even the gas station had fallen into ruin.

At the highway onramp, an emerald ocelot stretched across both lanes. Fuck, I said, not again.

I stopped the car, got out and waved. The ocelot beckoned me over with a huge shimmering paw. I brought the twelve pack with me. The ocelot and I laughed about the times we’d met before, like, remember the night I missed two flights? That story, again. Other cars drove around us.

Soon I was leaning against him like a big furry couch in the snow. Then the ocelot said your name and asked how we were. I told him, growing apart.

The night got colder and the cars passing by started to pick up speed, even though it was snowing. The ocelot began to lick the ice off his paw and I forgot why I was there. The warm wet sound of the tongue confused the issue.

The whole time the nachos sat steaming in the car.

When I walked in I told you I was tired and the grocery store was far away. I hid how drunk I was, or thought I had until the Styrofoam box slipped out of my hands. The nachos looked ridiculous on the kitchen floor. I had talked to the ocelot so long, the cheese must’ve been cold by then.

You said, “Was he there again?”

I denied it but you shook your head in disgust.

I had a lot of wrong ideas upon reflection.

I walked toward the back door. The big tree in the yard was gone. The porch light showed the snow ending abruptly in the night. The sea green ocelot stood trapped in the sliding glass door. Its eyes were gray like crumbling stars. Its paws stuck in the soft powder. It was lonely and nothing else. Just like I wanted.

Joe Gallagher was born and raised in Orlando, FL. He now lives in Frederick, MD where he runs an independent press and writes poetry, prose, plays, and the occasional essay about space travel. Previous work has appeared in Carolina Quarterly, DIAGRAM, and Corium. He received an MA in Creative Writing & Publishing from Emerson College, where he was the poetry editor for Redivider. He has a wife who writes novels, two small children, and one large dog. Follow him on Instagram for more art & writing: @jgonestudio.