Friday, July 5, 2013

3 minutes. Go!

We look at the world from tiny screens that cut out the context. I am sitting and listening to the birds and the bad banda music, and I wish the birds had sub-woofers. They try though. They sing their guts out. But I like banda, too. I'm not talking shit. I can barely even see you from behind the little screen. I have a slow, dying animal where my brain should be. I picture it, ape-like, flinging its shit in desperation, hoping that some of it will hit the right person. Flailing. You look at me, and I can see the sadness in your eyes. We will not handle our grieving the same way. None of us will. It will be one more thing to drive us all apart. To put a wedge where the humanity used to be. Just make sure you slam that thing in good, I don't know if I could handle it otherwise.

16 comments:

  1. I won’t tell you where I’m from, because you’ve never heard of it before, and you’ll make up whatever preconceived lovely tiny town you want in your head, so why waste the time? Isn’t it more practical to ask where I’m going, so you can decide if you want to tag along? Makes more sense, huh, so you’ll know whether to pack an umbrella or a fountain pen, bring an ascot or perhaps jodhpurs, depending on the city and time of year. And maybe you’ll need a snack for the trip. You can’t depend on roadside assistance anymore; everything tastes like cardboard and is made by the same company anyway. So come with me and bring a towel, because it’s good for so many things, and bring a little cash in case we get busted in some town that doesn’t understand. You know a lawyer, right? A doctor? Someone who can sew buttons? Good. Make a list. All the things you need to do when the grid is gone. Cause we’ll need them. Oh, and gum. Get the good kind, the one that doesn’t pull out your fillings, because where we’re going, it might be a damned sight hard to find a dentist.

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  2. Sat no more than three feet apart, verbal communication was still uneasy. Uncomfortable. The backlit, black, wipe clean mirrors that reflected our dark moods twittered away in our hands. My eyes dart to meet hers over my phone; seeking that reassuring narrowing of the pupils:
    "Has she received it, yet? I sent it five, maybe six seconds ago?"
    A digitised spiralling blip emerges from her speaker.
    Her eyes narrow. Her brow furrows. She squints, absorbing my text.
    She looks up, pupils now wild and wide pupilled. She grins that frisky smirk, mouth open slightly about to utter something.
    "Please, please speak to me!" My angry ape brain pleads.
    Instead, she looks down, and furiously thumbs her buttons.
    My handset vibrates.

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    Replies
    1. This is great. I especially like the 'wipe clean mirrors'. Thanks for playing. :)

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  3. I hear this voice. Know one knows about her. I would never tell. It would complicate things. Currently, our gambit is hidden. We are behind the scenes. We are the puppet masters. You wouldn't believe me about the voice anyway. She said no one would believe me. She tells me how to get the bloodstains off. Where to hide the bodies. I resisted only for a few moments the first time. Her voice is too beautiful. She is a symphony conductor. She is an artist. She paints in blood and torment. She is always with me, urging me forward. We are partners. It's not like I don't have a say in it. I choose to listen. Before she came, the world was so confusing. I was always getting lost and ending up on the wrong way of a dead end street. Death. It always comes back to death. To the gentle voice in my ear and their screams which are the tableau.

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  4. I bought her a coat like mine. The ski parka she was so jealous of. I brought it to her apartment to surprise her, but she did not come to the door. I could see her car parked in the lot, so I walk through the dark rainy streets to a pay phone to call her. She answers on the first ring. "I have company she says."
    Being to total clueless bastard I have always been I don't catch the meaning of company. "Meet me in the parking lot I have a present for you."
    She is obviously troubled, I hand her the sack and explain what is inside. There is no reaction, no joy in her acceptance of the gift. But she did accept it. It was a nice coat.
    "Look, Susan..."
    "Umm I know you are good with words, but I just can't do this now. Call me tomorrow."
    I walk to my car alone. "She said I was good with words." At least I took something away from the relationship.

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    Replies
    1. Ouch. That was good. And familiar...

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  5. Gratitude [3 minute flash fiction]
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    They walked to the edge of the old wooden bridge and stared down silently at the muddy water below. They looked at each other, smile and jumped, their hands clasped tightly together.

    No witnesses to see them make their deadly leap. No witnesses to speculate about the why. They were there and then they were gone. The only sign that they were ever there were the ripples of water where they had gone under.

    Two weeks later their bodies washed up on the riverbank several miles from the bridge. It was late at night and the only witnesses were the wolves who were grateful for the impromptu dinner buffet.

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    Replies
    1. Oh, I like that. The last line is chilling. Thanks for the bloggage. ;)

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  6. We watch these TV shows and movies where people meet and connect in a way that doesn't really happen anymore outside of bars and whorehouses. Disney America shut all of the whorehouses down a few years back, so we're down to bars. We see people with full, rich lives that don't involve the internet or books, and I wonder how the actors feel about playing people who don't exist anymore. If you aren't the person texting the idiot who is about to run into you with a cart you don't exist...until the idiot hits you with the cart, then calls you an idiot.

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    Replies
    1. Disney America. Totally. :)

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    2. If two idiots texting while pushing carts in the grocery store crash into each other but don't tweet, facebook, blog, or text about it, does it make reality?

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  7. I'd been down this road before. Literally. I just couldn't remember when. Or why. Why the fuck would I have been on a dark, twisty road running through western Louisiana and on into the backwoods of East Texas?

    Maybe for the same reason I was driving it then. Maybe it had something to do with...whatever it was that had sent me on the run.

    I shook my head, clearing out the cobwebs that threatened to take over. I didn't have time for that nonsense. Not on that road in the dead of night. I'd figure things out once the sun came up. Provided I lived that long.

    I glanced in my rearview mirror at the lights that had appeared on my six, and I knew that living until dawn wasn't a certainty. I pushed the accelerator to the floor.

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  8. I don't think you want my three minutes. First of all, it's not even Friday. But I am here anyway, and I'm not sure if there is anything you can do about it. You will not gain anything by reading this, and since I didn't look at the clock when I started writing, you will never know if I stopped writing after three minutes had passed. In between the last sentence and this one I paused; how long did I wait before I started writing again? You will never know. Does this uncertainty bother you? Will it eat at your conscience and leave you wondering how long I took? Or, will you move on and never think about this again? Have you even continued to read, or did you stop halfway through?

    I will never know.

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