Fiction | Short Story


Place the trout upon the pan, she whispered.

Velma had told. Velma had told of trout. Velma had told of cooking  trout.

Velma’s eyes were pleasing and I looked long, or tried to look long, at them. 

Place the trout upon the pan, she whispered.

What? I said. I heard clearly what she said, but wanted her closer, closer to my ear.

Place the trout upon the pan.

Season the trout?

With salt, with pepper.

With butter?

Butter is not a seasoning.


But I could not see Velma’s eyes, so  I turned her head. I turned the head slowly, so slowly. But, with the head turned, I could scarcely hear her words, for she continued to whisper, for people were near, and they were wild and snatching  people who were continuously grasping at the air with their aural passages, but did I need to know her words? at least more than see the eyes. For the eyes had some to say, much to say, so I’ve heard.