by Jerome Berglund
The garter was very small when it slithered into the high-rise complex, through a barely distinguishable slit in a screen. So minute and indistinct in coloration was the serpent that it blended right into the slot-machine carpeting, was able to wriggle right on past the front desk manager and security man, and weave effortlessly through the many orthopedic shoes and walker tennis-balls of the residents, indeed entirely unnoticed at first. But it would not remain so inconspicuous for long. Because the snake soon discovered it had a mighty appetite, and that its newfound asylum presented a ripe buffet for the taking should it care to sup concertedly. The garter initially contented itself with fatting upon rodents and insects, the odd gerbil or Guinea pig, but as its girth expanded those soon proved too light and inconsequential fare to satisfy its rumbling elongated stomach. These pillages further excited some little scandal and outrage about the grounds, especially when the serpent began picking off more obvious ferrets and pussycats, Pomeranians and poodles, and the collective body rallied to arms and amassed quite frightfully with pitchforks and mag-lites in attempt to slay their resident dragon. But to a matron and pensioner they were a slow and rickety lot, which allowed the garter to quickly shake their tailing by escaping into the ventilation systems, through which it swiftly became quite efficient and versed in navigating, and ventured out of only under the direst circumstances when hunger demanded to snatch an errant grandchild or convalescent. Frustrated by their inability to exterminate or even momentarily thwart the beast’s efforts the terrified townsfolk at last threw up their hands and abandoned the tower of condominiums to vacancy and prospective demolition. It was immediately snatched up by a distant conglomeration of shadowy investors to be leveled and replaced with a high-end assisted living cooperative catering to only the most well-heeled clientele. But the serpent seemed fated not to be around to observe these impending developments, for right around when its food source up and relocated the creature found itself quite caught up and entangled, like the pixelated protagonist of that old Nintendo game had become damnably knotted, as halyard by an experienced yachtsman was tight affixed amongst the various pipes and ducts, wedged firmly in place at any number of turns by sundry parrots, preschoolers and postman it was in different stages of digesting, and those encumbrances kept the snake decisively rooted until its enzymes dissolved the fleshy morsels and they could be metabolized and spread evenly across the downright outlandish length it had stretched out to. So like an overzealous New Yorker desperate to hobnob with the Studio 54 smart set, the garter snake ultimately expired ignominiously amidst dusty ceiling tiles, made food for the many smaller bugs and intrepid vermin it had once glutted upon. In the end, ultimately, it brought the place crashing down and was buried beneath unconsecrated wreckage without eulogy, remembered exclusively with terror and loathing alone by those few whom briefly made its acquaintance, each left always wishing it could have been briefer in any way possible.
Jerome Berglund graduated from the University of Southern California’s Cinema-Television Production program and spent a picaresque decade in the entertainment industry before returning to the midwest where he was born and raised. Since then he has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Berglund has previously published stories in Bright Flash, Grim & Gilded, Stardust and the Watershed Review, a play in Iris Literary Journal, and poetry in Suspect Device, Meat For Tea, and the Starlight. He is furthermore an established, award-winning fine art photographer, whose black and white pictures have been exhibited in New York, Minneapolis, and Santa Monica galleries.
