By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
THE FRANKS WERE FRENCH LONG BEFORE THEY EVER BECAME HOTDOGS Tiara Morgan barbecues in the crew cut grass line burbs. A semi-circle of rosy-cheeked beer garden parents and a tiny splash pool for the shrieking ecstatic kiddies. Attention seeking progeny and some matted little rescue dog living out its days of swaddled butt-sniffing glory. As the buns come out, the smoke from grandpas fiery holy grill. The Franks were French long before they ever became hotdogs, did you know that? Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! The hamburger crowd could care less and all those tiny Orange Crush faces hugging droopy sunflowers in buzzing yellow-belted back gardens. The roof retiled and the floors just redone. There is a tour for the wives lost to marriage. And animated refills bringing out the paper plates. A condiment-rich table for the snotty rug rats. On these long summer days that smell thrice as good as they ever look. Not a cloud in the passing service station sky. Everyone laughing and young as they will ever be again.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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