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.

Well, it’s not Friday, but it’s still Flash Fiction Frunday, when myself and four others write a short story based on a common rule.

I seem unable to overcome my continual FFF tardiness, and for that I apologize. I also have to apologize in advance for the less than high quality of the work this week, but I chose a difficult (yet fun) assignment that will I hope be appreciated by a tiny segment of the population. Extra points to the first person who can name a certain lovely lady scorer in the comments along with the rule.

That said, this weeks’ rule was a pretty easy one to guess, and lo and behold, there have already been some comments at my three compatriot’s blogs. Speaking of which, do make sure to read the other works by Robin (rule-maker), Crow, and Caiti. They are much fun. And now, without further adieu:

Mornington Crescent

Many years ago, a band was playing softly as guests arrived at a lovely castle somewhere outside of London. It was the night of the Parlour Games Society Ball, and all the gentry was out in force to celebrate. Once everyone had arrived and the welcoming conversations had died down, the band ground to a halt when it noticed that no one was swaying to its melodies.

Sadly, the hosts, Irish Dame Cat O’Goreese and her husband, the French Compte de Mont Oppoli, had in their haste to prepare for the ball forgotten to order a dance floor! Cries of panic went out from all corners of the hall. How would the attendees pass the time without a dance? Would they actually be forced to talk, substantively, with one another?

Several parlour games were suggested, but no one could produce a deck of cards, a game board of any kind, pen and paper, or even enough chairs to seat a majority of the assembled company. Stunned silence passed over the room, and the two hosts retreated to bow their heads somberly in the corner, horribly embarrassed at the apparent failure of their ball.

Breaking the morose reverie, the doorman cleared his throat. Some late arrivals! Perhaps they would have an answer.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he intoned, “presenting Misters Graeme Garden, Barry Cryer, Willie Rushton and Tim Brooke-Taylor. Oh, we also have a Mr. and Mrs. Bennett-not-those-four-old-farts-again, and their son, Gordon Bennett-not-those-four-old-farts-again.”

The four stepped triumphantly into the room and surveyed the puzzled faces of the still speechless crowd. The other family slinked quietly behind them into the room, preferring not to make a scene.

“Wake up, Humph!” yelled Willie, and the assembly parted to reveal the raised wooden bandstand, where the chiseled old band leader, the last of the players still remaining at his post, was just waking out of an apparently deep slumber. One eye opened with a start and surveyed the silent crowd.

“Oh no,” he said drearily as the other eye opened and a pair of large round bifocals were set over the wizened blue pearls. “I suppose you’ll want me to fix this mess as usual.”

“Yes, please,” said Tim, and the four latecomers walked up to sit beside him on the stage, all facing the crowd.

“Well,” said Humph, “now that you all have finally arrived, I suppose it’s time to play the game called Mornington Crescent.”

The crowd burst into applause and gathered eagerly around the five men on the bandstand. However, their enthusiasm had to be put on hold as a butler shuffled up to Humph with a parcel in hand. Humph took it, ripped it open, removed a piece of paper and read it to himself before turning to the crowd.

“Mmmm,” he muttered. “I have a letter here from a Mrs. Trellis of North Wales. She writes: ‘Dear Nick, I quite enjoyed last weeks’ show, especially the bit about repetitive deviations. I still don’t know what it all means, but I’m glad to have you as a math teacher. Have you ever considered appearing on Mastermind? I think you would fair well. Sincerely, Mrs. Trellis of North Wales.’ Anyhow, tonight we’ll be playing, of course, the Society Ball variation, which means no lateral shunting before the first circle and sideways transversions are absolutely forbidden unless the previous move is hinted. Right, Tim, you start.”

“Thank you Humph,” said Tim. All the audience’s heads turned towards the man with square spectacles mounted partway down his nose. “Let me see. Um, Aldwych.”

The faces of most of the gathered showed hopeless ignorance for the brilliance of the move, but some scattered oohs and aahs shot out from the knowledgeable amongst the crowd. Whispers circled through the great hall. A straight lateral opening! Tim was in top form.

“Barry, your turn.”

“Liverpool Street,” said Barry. “Don’t you try to get tricky with me, it won’t work.”

“Graeme.”

“Oh,” said a puzzled Mr. Garden, stroking what hair was left on his otherwise bare, be-speckled head. “I’m thinking Manor House, but–”

“–careful,” interrupted Tim.

“Oh,” returned Graeme, “Redbridge. It’s obvious.”

Recognizing solid play, the crowd burst forth with a round of modest two-fingered applause.

“Don’t be silly, it was the obvious choice.”

“That’s enough Barry,” said Humph. “Willie, your turn.”

The great bearded fellow sat for a moment in thought.

“Redbridge,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Redbridge to, let me see, avoid the Picadilly lateral…Baron’s Court!”

A large round of applause was quickly cut off by Tim’s protestations.

“No no, Baron’s Court from Redbridge? It’s Travelcard Zone 2, that clearly puts Willie in Knid!”

Silence filled the room as Humph considered this point and readied his judgement.

“Yes, I’ll have to agree with you there,” he said after a short moment’s deliberation. “And Society rules, so, it reverses back to you, Graeme.”

“Tottenham Court Road.”

“Barry.”

“Canada Water.”

“Watch the diagonals, uh, let’s see, Regent’s…Park.”

“Well, I don’t like being in knid, not at all, in fact, so I’ll have to go on too…” Willie trailed off, lost in thought.

“Yes, it’s your turn Willie, hurry along,” said Humph.

“No need to pressure me. Uh, shall we say, a little jaunt to, Turnham Green!”

“Ooooh,” came the uproar from the crowd. “Two moves,” shouted one gentlemen. “No, three,” said another. The nervous chatter betrayed the crowd’s excitement that victory for someone was close at hand. But who?

“Sorry, there’s no other way I can see it. Dollis Hill.”

The audience’s reaction to Graeme’s move was a series of depressed sighs, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Not the dreaded Dollis Hill loop!

“Oh dear,” said Barry. “Dollis Hill.”

“Dollis Hill,” followed Tim after a millisecond’s consideration.

“Yes, there’s no other way. Dollis Hill,” said Willie.

“Aha!” said Graeme, “I’ve tricked you! Everyone knows the loop is hinted, therefore I can escape with a sideways transversion straight to…”

He paused for dramatic effect. The crowd drew a simultaneous breath, not daring to exhale or else miss what could be the final move.

“Mornington Crescent!”

Silence, and then uproarious applause followed as some of the amateur players in the room stormed the stage to congratulate Graeme on his winning brilliance, and the rest for fair play. The rest of the evening was spent discussing, in minute detail, the moves and strategy involved in this fantastic playing of the game, and to this very day the five noble players are talked about for having at the very least saved all of high society from a very boring night indeed.

So, it’s that time of the week again (actually a little later). Crow chose the common theme that he, Robin, Caiti and I wrote on. As per usual, make sure you read all of their stories as well, and then use any of our comment sections to try and guess at what the theme was.

Now, I realize it’s Sunday night, which is pretty late. My story is also pretty short this week (which is probably good, actually). Now, I have a pretty good excuse for being late, but I don’t want to make excuses. I mean, I could blame the fact that I had to fight my computer randomly crashing every few minutes all week. I could blame the fact that it was in the shop for the better part of the weekend. I could use these excuses, but I’m not going to. So without further adieu, here it is.

Stone Age

I looked on as yellow flame engulfed the tablet. It was sad, seeing modern fire carve through ancient stone, but the steel of the rocket was so much more durable, flexible, gliding perfectly through the air on a smooth trajectory into the stars beyond. In the end, we were glad to see the stone age gone.

So as the inferno subsided and the vessel disappeared into the deep, as metal gave way to mountains and combustion to clouds, I knew my soul was Man. I saw my place and my purpose clearly as never before, and a longing crept up in me, my destiny. I would conquer those dusty hills and celebrate the darkness of my city with thoughts of neither Good nor Evil. My inhabitants would prostrate themselves in front of me and recognize at last the true king of their dominion, reason untarnished by faith.

These images, too, were fleeting, escaping even through clenched fists and leaving a frost on my fingertips that spread up through the spine and embalmed my pure thoughts. This city was not dark but glinting in the midday sun, and on the Eastern side a shadow of grime towered over my ingenuity. The only warmth on my skin shone down from a fiery dot on the cold blue sky, and I wished for the stone age again.

—

Great, now go read the others from Robin, Caiti and Crow.

This week we all seem to have been late posting our stories, so Flash Fiction Fraturday seems a more apt title, and I’m using that graphic with, hopefully, everyone’s permission. I picked the rule we based all four stories on this week, and if you haven’t already, you should check out the other three from Crow, Caiti and Robin.

As always, once you’ve read all four, you should use the comments to guess at what you think the overarching rule was for this weeks’ story. I gather not many people have taken a stab thus far, so it would be nice to see some this week. Thanks, and enjoy.

To Die For

I noticed her staring at me somewhere in between pseudo-intellectualism and utter superficiality, but it didn’t matter because of those perfect blond bangs, hair draped in a straight line over plucked eyebrows. I’d kill for that look, I’d die for that look, I’d go to war with terror, jihadists, the Vietcong, anything to save the right of American girls everywhere to have that look.

Unfortunately, so would the guy in red sweatpants sitting between us spewing nonsense about the United States’ role in the Cold War. Don’t call me paranoid, but whenever I see someone with that square of a jaw, pure blond hair and light blue eyes, I automatically replay scenes from Schindler’s list in my head, and it didn’t help that he yelled “Hitler” right as my subconscious was done calculating how many Jews his Nazi grandmother had killed during World War II.

“Look at all the things he did, and it’s the same with the communists. They promise peace and human rights and, whatever, but we all know that’s not true. They’re just imperialist hypocrites, in it for, what did he call it?” If he says liebenstrom, I’ll know he’s out to get me. “Liebenstrom. Look at Poland!”

I don’t expect these creeps to have much of a world view, but it disturbed me that the girl who could turn me into a hero nodded at her aryan counterpart’s defense of the good old Red, White and Blue. So, I chuckled at his vapidity and watched her deep blues lock into my browns with confusion and more than just a little lust.

“So you’re saying we should have let ideology get in the way of détente?” It was way over his head. “Sorry buddy, but just because they had gulags doesn’t mean we had a right to prop up corrupt Middle Eastern dictatorships.”

She smiled right at me, damn her. I’d been trying at that for weeks, and my shallowest comment of the year was the one that got her? Still, she approached me after class, and I noticed a few silver chains working nicely with her darling little blue vest and grey shirt combo.

“That was intense,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“You made some great points.”

“Thanks.”

I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t that she was lying to be nice. I doubt she was. No, it was her downright earnestness and admiration that got to me. I’m not exactly a therapist, but I can tell you her problem was that she had too much trust in humanity. I mean, I was an insecure little git, and she couldn’t help but stand there, drooling all over me. My guilt at the shock when she found out who I really was would kill me, so why bother? I told you I’d die for her, and I think that kind of lasting pessimism suits me better than momentary happiness anyway.