We’re at it again. I hope you enjoy this story, and then go check out the similarly-themed stylings of Crow (graphic-maker), Robin, and Caiti. Also, I believe I owe Hockeyfalls a shout-out for her tremendous help conceptualizing this piece.

The Terrible Fate of Mr. Johnson

“Oh God. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.” A moment’s pause. “Are you sure?”

He sighed beneath his woven black mask.

“Yes,” he said again, his voice still booming, confident and unwavering.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said his victim, sprawled on a small wooden table with his hands tied together above his head and his feet spread apart. “Acid? That is so cliché.”

The dark figure towered above the victim’s head, clenching a string in his gloved hand, which was tied to the bottom of a bucket that was affixed to a swivel, which had been bolted to the ceiling. He didn’t move, not one inch.

“And what is that bullshit Rube Goldberg contraption?”

The masked head tilted up to the ceiling, and slowly down again. “I’m quite fond of it, actually. Now that you mention it, however, I think a laser would be more cliché, and considerably less painful. Would you rather wait here for a few weeks while I acquire and assemble one?”

“No!” came the anguished response. “I’d rather you didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“What will the guys think when I’m found like that?” Johnson closed his eyes. “I can see Larry, Mike, and David huddled around that water cooler… ”

“How’s this for an obituary?” Mike muttered, squinting to force back tears. “Johnson: a man who never did live up to his namesake.”

The three men each scrambled for a surface to grab on to, narrowly avoiding doubling over with laughter. David stuck out a stubby arm and leaned on the blue jug for support, which sent the plastic container toppling from its white base, water soaring into the air. Mike and Larry scurried out of the way of the torrent, but soon fell to the ground themselves, panting.

When he had finished describing his prediction, a delighted chuckle erupted from behind the mask. “That would be very unfortunate.”

The figure started to pull on the rope, tipping the bucket slowly towards the ground.

“Oh Jesus!” whimpered Johnson, and his arm muscles tightened, pulling desperately at their bindings.

The bucket halted at a 45-degree angle to the ground, and swung haphazardly back to its starting position, splattering a drop of white liquid between the victim’s legs. It hissed softly as it dissolved through the wood.

“It is interesting, though. You say you’re most worried about what your coworkers will think of you?”

Johnson let out a relieved sigh. “Yeah, why?”

“Not your loved ones?”

“I don’t really get along with much of my family.”

“Children?”

“Nope, never wanted any,” said Johnson impatiently.

“How about–”

“–look, do you really need my life story?”

“No, no I suppose not.” The masked man paused, letting his gloved hand float perilously next to the rope.

Johnson squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, preparing for the inevitable.

“Only,” came the booming voice once more, “it is curious.”

Johnson opened his eyes to roll them at his captor. “What?”

“I notice you didn’t even mention your wife.”

“Eh,” said Johnson, “she never had much use for it anyway.”

Well, we’re back! Or at least, I’m back. The other FFFers have been at it for a while, but I’ve been out of town. Regardless, it is my pleasure now to present to you the eighth Flash Fiction Friday I have written so far, and also to encourage you to read the pieces of my companions in this venture, as always all of them and mine written off of the same prompt. In no particular order: Caiti, Robin, Crow.

Lately

Lately, I’ve been noticing that things aren’t right. It’s not that I’ve contracted some kind of angst (and I shudder at using the word, even in my thoughts) that you get sometimes and can’t shake, no, it’s a different kind of unsettling fear about the future, and it’s frankly appalling that a man of my age and stature should feel it at all. After all, here I am, living my own dream, possibly the dream, surrounded by fans and actors and producers…

And it’s not that I can’t focus or can’t do anything, but it’s more that there’s a layer of thin fog covering everything, and it’s not disappearing or drifting off, either. And I can see my idea, my salvation, you might say, it’s sitting right there in front of me, but just beyond my reach and I can’t see it clearly enough to copy down anything because this cloud has descended upon me. And it’s getting thicker, and it makes it that much harder for me to figure out where I’m going.

Understanding that is of the utmost importance. I decided at the age of thirteen when my best friend nearly died (twice) of cancer that I wouldn’t live for nothing. And to a new, official teenager like me, I guess that meant I would, well, really do something with my life that would somehow add a touch of meaning to that storied and most important entity, mankind. (As a side note, it meant that I also had to be unlike my parents, who, near as I could tell, were completely content in waking up and working and living and dying.) But it’s a difficult thing, being important and making contributions to what I now know is a mere concept. I figured that I wasn’t, as they say, cut out for politics, or wired for law or well-suited to anything else. But I was creative, in some ways, even if it all came out of negativity and death, and I had read somewhere that art was truth and truth beauty, and my family had the necessary connections, so I decided to make films. Of course, it’s a hard thing, making meaningful films. Sure, you can send messages or make statements, but it’s ultimately not up to you, it’s up to the people watching. And I’ll admit that I have no idea what makes a great film and what makes a bad one. I’ve put out films that I thought were golden but that the critics and everyone else absolutely spat on, and vice versa. I guess when it comes down to it, I’ll just have to accept that there isn’t perfection in film, as there isn’t in anything else…probably less, given that there’s always going to be someone who doesn’t like what you’ve made, and that’s the only criteria you ought to judge by…but early on, I made it my mission to capture and captivate each and every one of those lost souls who just didn’t “get” it or refused to acknowledge my genius and my contributions or for whatever other reason didn’t respect my work, and so I guess you could say I decided to be discontent.

Rather, as I’ve come to see it now, helpless. And I remember inserting some of this same struggle into one of my early films, where the protagonist, (and I always give them tragic names) Anthony, laments that he is insignificant. “This world,” he says in a bit of a soliloquy, although it is visually quite interesting, not static like you see a lot of in lesser works, “is God’s punishment for Eve’s pride. Individually, we are all beautiful and unique, but together we form a crowd so large that the tallest man could not be seen from the front. I am short; why should I yearn to have any part in that?” He was murdered at the end of that film, randomly, by petty criminals, in the dead of night, and the critics called it melodramatic. I’m not sure if I even cared about the reviews, because all I could do once committing myself to the decision to be famous and worthwhile was step back and watch myself go towards something, towards anything that I thought would influence people or get my name out there or, I don’t know, make me feel like some kind of progress was being made towards a substantial end of any kind whatsoever.

Except, and I realize this only now, that destination has never been entirely clear, if at all. Life is not one of my films, although it tends to be just as depressing sometimes. There is no end to any of this except the end, no credits to follow the last picture, and I know it’s irrational, but I can’t help but feel that if I don’t find one, I’ll be a miserable failure, even if they judge me to be a success by my cars and jewels and, I suppose I should mention, artistry. And there’s only one solution to that problem, and I’m already doing it as much and as well as I can, so it’s hard for me to understand why I still can’t feel as if things are right and well in this world.

Never before have I had such an insatiable thirst to escape reality, even though it’s what I’ve always sought to do, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because mankind alone among the stars had the unlucky stroke of being endowed with the courage to imagine things greater than ourselves. Yet, what can I do but keep letting myself think freely? It is, after all, what I am paid for.

So. This is a Friday. And I am posting Flash Fiction. Unfortunately, this is actually last Friday’s Flash fiction. It’s horrible, I know, but I did write something, and wanted to put it up. I’m going to try to have another one up today, so, you know, treat it as a double-header. Two-for-one, or what have you.

So, for this (last Friday’s) piece, Crow chose the rule (and I shamelessly stole his graphic), and Robin and Caiti followed suit as always. Make sure to read their pieces when you can and try to guess at the common rule that runs throughout them.

To Old Friends

So, how are the ladies? I say, cracking a mischievous smile. He looks away. It’s the first thing I want to know with him, every time we come back home. He tells me there aren’t any, and I shrug it off. Only I’m thinking about how little has changed. His problem has always been that he’s just a little too annoying, talks to much. Talking right now about something. He desperately needs a girl who can stand him, who makes him settle down. Had one once, but let her go. I wonder why?

He stops to take a bite of his sandwich. I cut in, You read that story about COIN in Pakistan? His eyes light up. Yes, he tells me, and goes on to explain why he doesn’t think it’s going to work. The US is still having problems with it, how would a subpar military only loosely commanded by an evaporating government do any better? I’m not sure I disagree, but I’m not sure he knows what he’s talking about, either. He says he studied it in South Asian Policy class. Okay.

Next up, it’s sports. Baseball team bad, basketball team good. What are they doing to the Broncos? I laugh, and ask if he can still be a fan. He says yes, but he won’t enjoy it until all the remnants of JMD are gone.

There’s silence for a while. Food’s almost done. Do I want to finish it? he asks. No, I’ll take it home and eat it later.  It’s time to go already, doubly understood. Ball-game tomorrow? I pause. I’ve to about 30 games with him over the years. Most of them have been fun. Okay, I say. It’s good to be back, we both agree. Nice to see you. You too. And we leave.

Well, I’m late again…see if you can guess what I was up to this weekend from the story. But more importantly, see if you can guess the rule that connects all four stories this week from myself, Crow (rulemaker and creator of this weeks’ awesome FFF graphic I’m featuring), Caiti, and Robin. Enjoy. Or don’t. Whatever suits you.

Outfits and Rituals

As far as rituals go, unpacking after college is about as un-stately as they come. It’s just the transfer of your wardrobe and a few select items from a box to a drawer, and if you do it right, you don’t even have to refold. Not much pomp and circumstance, physically speaking.

But in a way, unpacking is a bit like sorting through old memories. Not that the outfit defines the moment or the person, but it’s hard to unpack and not remember things you’ve done and said while wearing your favorite pieces, and your least favorite.

Because clothing does influence, in a small way, how people characterize you from the outside, and you have to wonder if things would have gone differently had you, for instance, been wearing your nice black shoes instead of the dirty sneakers you rocked at the last party of the year. Unfortunately, you had already packed most of your nice things, and were making due with the tennis shoes, a practical red corduroy, and what your friends describe as “the middle school jeans.”

Of course, looking back on it, what really would have changed? Maybe you were just a little more self-conscious than usual, and maybe you were just a little less open than usual. Maybe it showed a tiny bit in conversations and interactions, but nothing would have been noticeable except on a subconscious level.

Still, it’s that subconscious level that drives you to dress better. You realize how important even the smallest choices can be, and that attention to detail means you already have plenty of insecurities about yourself as it is. Knowing you look good is just one less concern weighing on your mind that could derail a conversation, and possibly a whole evening.

Today, however, you have to remind yourself that it’s impossible to trace exactly what caused you to be off your game at the party, and equally impossible to live that way. That was three thousand miles and a weekend ago. You’re home now, just unpacking.

 

 

 

 

 

You know the drill. Every Friday your four intrepid FFF bloggers write a short story on a common rule, which you, dear reader, are encouraged to guess in the comments of the four posts. This week, I chose the rule, and although I’m late as always, Robin already has hers up (amazing!), and I’m sure Crow and Caiti will soon follow. So enjoy, and then head over and read the rest. See you next week.

My Mother Would Know

One of the first things we learned in ethics class was that determinism may not be incompatible with morality in everyday life. I think even my mother would be okay with this notion. Despite her constant nagging to “put on a jacket, because I’m cold,” “wash your hands first,” and not “go outside in the snow in flip-flops,” she knew that just because I never listened, just because she didn’t prevent me from catching all manner of colds and illnesses, it didn’t make her love for me any less real.

My mother was obsessed with every negative study she read in a magazine. Non-whole grains, aspartame, fried potatoes of all varieties, and even antioxidant supplements were at various points banned from the household. On the rare occasions when a positive study made its way into her bubble, of course, it was instantly invalidated as “junk science.”

I remember the first days of this outbreak, when the powers that be told us not to panic. My mom’s reaction would have been the opposite. We would have been forced to stay inside or face a severe guilt trip, wash our hands thoroughly every ten minutes while she watched over our shoulder to make sure we were doing it right, and stay five feet away from all other people at all times. She had a tape measure with a belt clip.

Now the whole world’s slipping from our grasp, but I can only lie here and wonder if things would have gone differently had my mother still been around. Plus, there’s something about your mother’s matzo ball soup that heals all wounds, especially those caused by illness, and unlike the Tamiflu stockpile that dissipated weeks ago, when she made soup, she never seemed to run out.

It’s too late to learn lessons now. It’s too late to change anything, even though we never truly had the power to. But I’d like to think that somewhere my mother’s spirit lives on, without the limits of human perception, seeing the infinite streams of cause and effect and cursing us for not listening to her wisdom when we had the chance. Not that she blames us, or loves us any less.

________

That’s it, now head over and read Crow, Caiti and Robin’s.