Flash Fiction

I saw Salvador Dali swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. He swam with the sea elephant and the codling. He swam the stroke of a butterfly. I saw him get out of the salt water and rub himself dry like a shaman on heat, on the holy pumice stone and then I saw him divest himself of his sodden meagre attire. From somewhere, probably a hollow in the pumiced rocks he produced a primitive comb. He combed out his locks and straightened his not yet famous mustachios.

A sea elephant that had crawled with him onto the rocky beach now began a process of advanced osmosis with, that most holy, surrounding rock from which Dali was able to produce several brush stems. From the codling, which lay gentle in his hand when asked, he brought their scale for the brush as is. Pummelling the rocks around him and mixing the resultant dust with his own sweat, piss blood and tears gave him his paint.

And I saw him paint, alone on a beach, sea wrecked and magnificent, which made the giant lizards crawl foetal like from their hiding places. They circled convincingly and with a single cry rolled over to their exposed putent backs like the kills of Lydia and he dispensed his holy water for them to use as tears so that they could cry at the beauty he had created.