Fleeting Tale Vol. 3 “Goodbye, Miles…”

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He sighed. Carved the webbing from the door along with the petrified corpse of his eight-legged friend Miles.

Miles was amazing. A solid friend who kept flies out of his basement and away from where he practiced his turntables every Sunday. And in return, he allowed Miles to use the real estate at the top corner of his basement door. To grow his web-condominium. Shelter from the unpredictable autumn elements.

Goodbye friend. 

He used the plastic knife to scrape webbing into a paper towel.

His dog licked his hand. Woof. 

He softly pinched his dog’s ear. “I’ll miss him too.”

 

The End

 

Fleeting tale (Unedited Short vol 1)

Windows

He stood from his desk and walked to the window.

It was sunny, but deceptively cold. His toes were cryogenically frozen in his shoes- and will outlast him long after his death.

He thought of how much wife says he’s good. Had the potential to be something. Thought about how much she hated his short sentences. 

He threw on his jacket. Grabbed his two cameras. Powered down his monitors.

May never succeed, but I have to try. I owe it to them. To her.  

Exhaled.

He’ll walk about. He’ll deeply reflect. He’ll continue to create and to work, despite fear.

Oh Mother

He sulked. Protruded his lips. Stared fiery daggers into the cute young woman preparing Mother’s cheeseburger at an elderly turtle’s pace.

Past midnight. Should be home. In bed. But Mother needs help moving. And fast food at an ungodly hour. Sucked being the favorite. Favorites do the heavy lifting. Physical. Emotional. Lifting. 

“Appreciate you.” Mother said.

He smirked.

“Want anything?” Mother asked.

Yes. Sleep. Freaking tired. 

“Nah,” He answered.

Mother bit into a stale-ish looking fry.

“Good?” He asked.

Mother nodded. “Thank you, son.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Mother’s smile offset some of his saltiness. Some… Not all.

Yawn.

Hungry.

 

 

 

 

Mem-brain Theorem

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Reality’s collapsing around us. Just… us.

Volatile, inter-dimensional shifts bubbling throughout our home. We’re existing in the same space, breathing the same air. Or so it seems.

She enters our kitchen. Phases through me.

“Morning,” I say.

Silence. No reaction to me. She sips coffee. No slurps nor satisfied gasps.

Thick layers of brane… brain? Translucent fields inflaming and growing denser. Filtering my greetings. My regrets. My apologies.

I waved. “Hey”.

Marcey nodded.

“Good?”

“Great…”

Final hypothesis. 

We are occupying the same time and space. But never quite the same time. And. Or. Space.

Mission critical. Must. Reunite. Our. Realities.  

Too Early

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She’s more interested in war than peace. And by now… So. Am. I.

She’s in the living room. Morning exercise. Smirking like our disagreement is her improv skit.

Too early…

“Sure… you’re above it all.” I climb the stairs.

“Your tone,” She snipes.

Riiight. Play innocent.

I return. “Don’t dictate how I respond.”

She snickers. “Wow.”

“Laughter?”

“Wipe your mouth before you argue.”

I scrape my lip-corners. “Always agitating.”

“Nope…”

“Name-calling, shit-talking…”

“Wrong again.”

She judges. Points fingers. Ignites conflict like an emotional arsonist. Never concedes or compromises! Yet… my tone?!

“I’m done,” I ascend the stairs.

“Fine…”

“Perfection…”

Baby Tongue

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It scorched layers off his Lingual Papillae.

A mere thirty seconds for the microwave to bubble his mac and cheese into molten lava.

He gulped water.

Efforts… futile. Tongue screaming.

“You okay?” She smirked.

“Hot,” He replied.

“Seriously?”

“Yes….”

“Baby tongue.”

“Hush.”

“Want milk, baby tongue?”

“No…”

He had warm cranberry juice. No need for milk, ice, or her debilitating jabs.

He blew on his bowl before eating another forkful of her macaroni.

“Tasty?” She asked.

Nicely crusted…. perfectly seasoned parade of cheeses. Brilliance in a bowl.

Spectacular.

The best he’d ever tasted.

“Its okay,” He answered. “I’ve had better.”

 

 

 

 

Cold Dinner

 

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He vehemently stared at the screen.

Technopathy failed. Nothing creative or profound had materialized in his thoughts or Word Processor. His muse was an unsurprising no-show. Why waste inspiration on atrocious writers like him? Right?

“What’s up?” She asked.

“Suffering.” He typed a paragraph.

“Food’s getting cold.”

“Cool.” He deleted everything.

“Hurry… Eat.” She rested a full plate between them. “You’re probably hungry.”

“Probably am…”  He reached for the plate.

Stomach’s tight. Extremely lethargic.

He hadn’t eaten sinc-

Pap!

She slapped the biscuit out of his hand. “Food’s on the stove.”

Seriously?” He asked.

“Grab yourself a plate.”

Well, damn.

The Penalty for honesty… at work.

What’s the penalty for honesty at work? I wondered as I pretended to work.

I stared out the window for a moment.

My heart skipped a beat when my boss entered the room. I froze.

Gotta look busy. Look valuable. 

She quietly entered her office and shut the door.

What’s the penalty for my honesty? I pondered at I scrolled desperately through my social media feed for good news, a motivational post, or photographs of the nieces, nephews, and godchildren I never get to see.

There’s a seemingly immovable forty hour a week boulder in the middle of my existence. Unshakable. Immovable. Virtually unbreakable. Boulder.

I yawned. I stretched. I checked my text messages as I stretched.

I wondered. If I revealed to them… I’m overwhelmed. Can’t seem to get a foothold on the work. Can’t seem to get it together. Can’t tell whether its boredom or incompetence on my part. 

My stomach hurt. Terrible gas.

I skipped breakfast. Late for work again. So much to think about. So much to do. So little time. Vacation was nothing more than the space between misery. Like work release or yard time. I was being melodramatic.

What if I revealed to them that they need not smile in my direction. I know you don’t like me. I know you think I’m incompetent– when I make a mistake– and beneath you. I know you think I was hired to work under you and serve you– which I probably was. 

I stood. Stretch my legs.

What if I was honest with them about myself? What if I admitted to myself and to them that I was equally as fake? I don’t like you either. But I return your illusion with one of my own. Because I understand my role is to make them comfortable. And how crucial it is to the job, and my livelihood, 

I sat. Powered the scanner.

Error.

I restarted the machine.

Same results.

I softly pounded my fist on the desk.

I’m the only tool in the office not allowed to malfunction. And, the easiest to replace.

I slumped in my chair.

Can they tell I dig my nails into my forearms when they dress me down in front of my peers? Can they read in my eyes how much sleep I lose thinking about all the stuff I have to do the next day? Or the people I have to deal with. Or, how I can’t handle the amount of work they are tossing my way Probably not.

“Good Morning,” One of my smiley supervisors greeted.

“Good Morning,” I replied with a smile bright enough to overload a solar powered city.

“How’s everything going?” Smiley Supervisor asked.

“Excellent!” I replied as my face started to get sore from smiling. “Working on this and then I’ll head back and work on your stuff.”

“Okay, great!” Smiley Supervisor said, returning to her office.

Couldn’t afford to be honest. No matter how hard I crunched the numbers, I just couldn’t afford it.

A real man would…

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He remembered quietly leaving his seat, pretending the next stop was his. He remembered wanting to be subtle. Not wanting it to seem to the young mother as if he was offering his seat her. He didn’t want the attention. Especially since the young mother’s husband -or boyfriend- called out all men on the train for not giving his wife and daughter their seat. Didn’t want it to seem he gave up the seat on account of the guy.

He left the conference room.

He wanted to speak freely.

Nosey coworkers lurking.

“Is it a man’s responsibility?” He asked Marcey over the phone.

How old’s the child?” Marcey asked.

“About five,” He replied.

Hmmmm… I’d give them the seat,” Marcey declared.

He clasped his eyes.

“Hold on a sec,” He lowered his phone and walked further up the hall.

He was hungry and felt a headache forming.

He hadn’t gotten a break since he sat down to log into his desktop. It was the day of the Christmas party. He wondered how the hell he got caught up in coordinating the event. Especially before he drank his morning coffee. Sure, it was nice to be away from his work, even though he knew dam well it was all piling up as he decorated the cheese and cracker tray. But being away from his desk didn’t mean he was away from hard labor. All so his coworkers could show up, eat, and leave him and a few others to clean up the mess.

He yawned.

He was just cranky. And tired from the six miles he ran that morning. From the Wing Chun class the night prior. And he was even crankier and more tired on the train. He needed the seat, but he gave it up to the woman and child anyway.

“I don’t know that I would,” He told Marcey. “Is that bad? I guess if the kid can’t stand on their own. What do you think?”

What do you think?” Marcey asked.

“I don’t know,” He replied. “The woman’s guy declared men should stand for mothers.”

Okay,” Marcey said.

“Makes sense right?” He said “Women have the children. Its the least a man can do.”

I guess.” Marcey sounded uncertain. “Eat anything?”

“I’ll eat something at the party,” He replied.

“Okay dear… Talk later?” Marcey said .

“Sure, talk later,” He ended the call.

He wondered…  Does or should a real man give up his seat for a woman with a child? A woman with child? An older woman. He would. He should. As long as he could. But is that something he should do as a man? Or is it a societal construct weaved into basic human decency. Or was he thinking too much?

He rejoined his coworkers in the conference room.

More work to be done. An hour until party time. He decided he’d have to ponder the idea of what it meant to be a man later. After coffee. Whence cleaned up after his adult coworkers.

 

 

 

Super-serum or Cybersuit?

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Hungry. Stomach sticking to the back of his spine hungry. He felt the if I don’t get food in my system soon I’m going to collapse kind of hungry.

The car emptied. Several seats were available.

He approached a seat. Removed his backpack. Pulled back at the last second. Remained standing.

He wanted the seat. In some ways he felt he needed a seat. Deserved a seat. But sitting down would be a terrible idea. He’d fall asleep the moment his ass hit the cushion. He’d slip into a coma the instant his head tilted back or his temple hit the window.  He’d Oversleep. Miss his stop. Be forced to wait another twelve minutes for a train. Bad idea to sit.

“Super serum or Cybernetic suit?” He asked himself in a whisper.

Super serum, he thought. Cyber suits would be too much to lug around on his commute. And he imagined a man with super serum couldn’t/wouldn’t suffer from extreme tiredness and hunger. And a super serum recipient could hold their pee much longer than the average man. Super serum it is, he thought.

He took a seat. Rested his head against the window.