Flash Fiction *Night of the Lemmings*

Night of the Lemmings

Ken MacGregor

By day, Bob was nobody. Forty-two; chubby; a greasy film clung to his skin; he was a background player.

Your eyes slid off him and onto someone or something more interesting.

But, at night, by moonlight, Bob was legion. He threw his head back, ecstatic in anticipation for what was to come.

His clothes hung suspended briefly as his new selves, tiny, furred, fountained from sleeves, from pant legs, spilling everywhere. The garments lay, discarded on the hardwood floor.

He split, fragmented into 200 tiny minds. Their unifying thought: RUN.

A moving carpet of lemmings defenestrated onto the fire escape. Leapfrogging riser-less steps, they scurried to the roof.

As one, the lemmings skittered across the gravel-laden tar. They crested the steel lipped edge and plunged.

Their hive-mind cried out: OOPS.

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