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Speed Bumps of Surveillance, by Patrick Trotti

29/9/2017

 
The first thing I do when entering a room is to check for cameras.

But that’s just for self-preservation. At least that’s what I tell myself. It sounds better than the reality of the situation, that on most days I feel like I’m the subject of some unidentified larger surveillance program.

And on really bad days I feel as though my life is in jeopardy. But on good days I can get around okay and do what I have to do with only minor speed bumps. That’s not my desired term; it’s what my therapist calls my episodes.

He says that speed bumps are nothing more than a momentary inconvenience. But if you don’t see them, or are in a rush, the bumps have the ability to disable the car. When he first told me of the metaphor I got lost in thought over what type of car my brain would be.

Scaffolding, by Hector Duarte Jr

29/9/2017

 
Snapping the picture means it’s just in your phone. No one but you sees it. After your thumb strikes the illustrated trash can, all proof of your impulsiveness ceases to exist.

Snapping the picture and editing the message for audience, tone, and purpose means it’s not a picture anymore. It’s an invitation, a request. Every request deserves a response.

Your thumb hits the four-letter verb encased in a beige box, shooting out the message and with it: restraint, decency, professionalism, ethics, the things most people say matter.

What a rush. You’re not a gambling man but your fingers are crossed. This might be the day she responds in kind.

Steps, by Eric Smith

23/9/2017

 
After the meeting, they sat outside on the curb—shoulder to shoulder.

The man started. “We didn’t go to church or school together. You weren’t the girl next door where we grew up or the little sister of my big brother’s best friend.

“No, I wasn’t. So what? We’ve met here at this meeting. I’ve seen you four or five times now and I think we might have a chance.”

“Yes, but we wouldn’t be starting out under the best circumstances. We both know before going any farther that the other has considerable emotional baggage to drag around.”

“So you regret how we met?”

“Not really. If we hadn’t ended up here we might have walked by one another on the sidewalk without looking. What then?”

“Yeah, what then?”

“How should I know what then? We probably wouldn’t have met at all.”

“Well, we still wouldn’t have met except that you ‘shushed’ me in there. Something you had no right to do.”

“No right? You shouldn’t have made fun of that guy while he poured his heart out. That was cold—really harsh for a woman.”

“So, you think that takes courage—to tell a bunch of strangers about your poor damaged soul, the mistakes you’ve made, and how bad and guilty you feel about all the crappy things you’ve done to people who didn’t deserve it?”

“For me, yes, it would take courage. I can’t do it yet and I doubt you can either.”

“So where do we end up tonight?”

“I’m not sure yet. Just drink your coffee and shut up while I think about it.”

A Country Kid, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

21/9/2017

 
As we began to climb the steep hill, a gentle breeze embraced us softly. The trees around us danced delicately. I wished they could belly dance. But alas! they were all congenitally disabled to do that. We stopped at the village school. I met the children and made them laugh. I asked them what they wanted to be. A teacher, an engineer, a lawyer, a cricketer, a farmer, or a doctor? Only one, someone from the last row, answered, “I wanna be a doctor.” His friends giggled. I waved my hand to call him, but he didn’t get up. “He is a spastic child, sir,” interrupted the teacher. “Oh! But he is not a tree. He will walk. I know how to mend his legs, surgically. He will sure be a doctor like me, one day.”

I left the school but not the kid.

Bollywood, The Peace-Maker, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/9/2017

 
Mr. Manoj Mishra, an Indian expatriate in US was planning a visit to his motherland, after a long period of absence. While arranging the trip, he would decide to break his journey in Israel for a visit to the ancient city of Jerusalem, a holy place to the followers of Jewish, Islamic and Christian faiths. He also planned to visit nearby Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus Christ. Mr. Mishra, however, was well aware of the ongoing conflict in that part of the world between the followers of the first two faiths.

On his arrival at Tel Aviv airport, he was picked up by Mr. Moshe Rabin, a prearranged tour guide. While driving towards Jerusalem, they started to familiarize. Mr. Rabin mentioned that he was about eighty years old (though he appeared to be fifty years old). He was a member of the early batch of immigrants to the country, after its creation at the end of World War II. While building a new nation, their main form of entertainment was enjoying the black and white Hindi films coming out of Bombay (now called Mumbai), India, especially the ones starring famous Late Raj Kapoor and Late Geetabali. Then to Mr. Mishra’s surprise, Mr. Rabin hummed a complete Hindi song “Ichik dana, bichik dana, danar upaor dana...”, a classic one from Raj Kapoor-era. Mr. Mishra, in turn, informed Mr. Rabin that in recent years the Bombay movie industry grew bigger and due to recent phenomenon of globalization, has assumed a new identity of “Bollywood”, competing with Hollywood in US.

Over next few days, Mr. Rabin accompanied Mr. Mishra to various places of interests in Jerusalem. Then he broke a bad news: “As an Israeli Jew, by law I am barred to enter Bethlehem, controlled by the Palestinian Authority.” However, he assured that he already had a solution to Mr. Mishra’s visit there.

Next morning, Mr. Rabin drove Mr. Mishra to the city-boundary of Bethlehem, parked his car and made a phone-call. Soon, a green Toyota appeared on the other side and two young Palestinian youths came out of the car. They introduced themselves as Saif and Salman, exchanged pleasantries and instructed Mr. Mishra to board their car for a visit to the city.

Soon, the youths turned on the car-radio blaring Hindi music from a recent Bollywood blockbuster. Mr. Mishra remembered that the actress in the movie was none other than current heartthrob glamorous Karina Kapoor, the granddaughter of Late Raj Kapoor. Like a little child with curiosity, Salman even asked Mr. Mishra whether he had ever met Ms. Kapoor in person. Then, over next few hours, the youths led Mr. Mishra visiting the Church of Naivety and the Manger Square, subsequently bringing him back to Mr. Rabin.

That night, Mr. Mishra dreamed of a film festival taking place at the border of Bethlehem showing all the classics of Raj Kapoor along with the recent blockbusters of Ms. Karina Kapoor, while Mr. Rabin, Saif and Salman taking the front row seats

The Pinball Machine of My Mind, by Bruce Levine

16/9/2017

 
I never thought I was very smart. When it came to gray matter I always felt that I was rather deficient. In addition to that sense of deficiency, I believed that there’s the ratio of diminishing returns.

Intelligence is like energy. I once knew someone who believed that we’re all given a certain amount of energy at birth. How we apportion that energy is up to us. If we squander it during our youth, running around and doing all sorts of energy-consuming things, then, by the time we reach old age, we have none left to do anything but sit and stare into space – which may be tied into intelligence, but more shortly. On the other hand, if we apportion our energy, spreading it out over our lifetime, then we should have enough to last.

Maybe intelligence is like energy – we’re born with a certain amount and, as previously stated, there’s the ratio of diminishing returns. Perhaps if we squander our gray matter early on in advanced courses and theoretical thinking in our youth, then, by the end of our life, we can barely balance our checkbook.

And then there’s the mush factor. Once again, when we’re born, we’re born with a certain consistency to our brain. As we age, the brain gradually gets mushier and mushier and thereby the natural effects of thinking get harder and harder, like walking through deeper and deeper pools of mud until, finally, it’s like trying to walk through quick-sand.

And once our brains get mushy enough they start to leak. This is when sleeping becomes important because when the brain gets mushy enough; all that mush has to go somewhere so it starts leaking out of our ear – usually only one. That’s where sleeping counts. If you sleep with the leaky ear up from the pillow gravity plays its role and stops the mush from leaking out. On the other hand, if you sleep with the leaky ear on the pillow the mush seeps out throughout the night and, in the morning, you’ve got that much less gray matter and less intelligence, in direct proportion to the amount of leaking during the night. It’s much like a car engine that leaks oil, eventually the engine simply stops working.

I’m old now and I guess I didn’t apportion my gray matter well enough and didn’t sleep on the correct side because I feel like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz who thought – “If I only had a brain.”
​
So as I listen to the hollowness of my skull, I hear the few remaining thoughts bouncing around like the pinball machine of my mind.

Cat In A Box, by Maria DePaul

16/9/2017

 
Having exhausted himself playing with a string, a cat crawled into the cardboard box that it had previously tied up. The cat kneaded the bottom on the box with his claws, curled himself into a fetal position, wrapped his tail around his paws and fell asleep.

“Look, mommy, cat in a box,” his little boy said. The boy brought his mother over to gaze at the dozing cat, who had changed to a long stretch, paws against the edge of the box.

“Yes, honey, the cat is sleeping. Let’s not disturb him,” she told the boy. Blissfully unware of Schrodinger, the boy left the sixth wall of the box wide open. He stared at the cat for a few seconds, then moved on to his toys.

The cat never used his pet bed, preferring the box despite its lack of padding because he could use it to sharpen his claws. He took a nap in the box every afternoon for a week or so until its base was shredded thin.
​

When his mother recycled the box, the boy gave the cat a new one. The boy gleefully put the cat into the new box, watching the cat sniff and rub against it until it was his. The cycle continues.

Murphy's Famous Clam Chowder, by Bruce Levine

15/9/2017

 
“Who’s Murphy?” I asked the waiter.

“Who?” he responded.

“Murphy,” I answered. “It says Murphy’s Famous Clam Chowder on the menu. I just wondered who Murphy is.”

“I have no idea,” he answered, “but I’ll try to find out. Are you ready to order?”

I gave the waiter our order, including the corned beef sandwich and Murphy’s Famous Clam Chowder for me and clam chowder and a nova platter for my wife.

A few minutes later the manager, who we’d gotten to know from previous times at the restaurant, came over to greet us and tell us that he had no idea who Murphy is. I told him that I was very upset about not knowing who Murphy is and he promised to try to find out for us.

Shortly after he left the waiter came back with two cups of Murphy’s Famous Clam Chowder and the information that he’d asked everyone in the entire restaurant who Murphy is, but that nobody knew.

“I’ll keep asking,” he told us.

The clam chowder absolutely lived up to the reputation for being famous because it was wonderful and that only made me more anxious to know who Murphy is.

As we continued with our meal the manager returned and we chatted about a variety of things, but all he could tell us about the clam chowder was that they only had it in March for St. Patrick’s Day and that he didn’t understand that any more than we did.

On our next couple of visits to the restaurant the question about who Murphy is was the first topic of conversation and usually became a part of the greeting when we arrived. It seemed that now that the query was set in motion it had become pervasive and was being passed around the wait-staff and management, but no one was able to find out the answer.

As March continued we had a cup of Murphy’s Famous Clam Chowder each time we ate there, but once March was over so was the existence of this wonderful soup on the menu.

We still continued eating there, but meals were never the same without the prelude of clam chowder, even as we switched to the tomato soup which, while wonderful, could never match the perfection of Murphy’s Famous Clam Chowder.

Across Worlds, by Laila Kasuri

12/9/2017

 
He was sitting at the bar. One of those small, dingy hole-in-the-wall ones where you could conceal yourself from the world. We were the only ones there. Not even a bartender. Was he the bartender?

I realized I was heavily inebriated. Fear rushed through my body. I anxiously scanned the place for signs of others. But there was only him. And then, our eyes crossed. It seemed almost magical, and somehow, he put me at ease.

Relax. I won’t hurt you.

He smiled and tapped the high stool next to him, summoning me to join him. I obeyed, as if in a trance. I moved closer towards him, my heart beating louder with every step. At an arm’s length, I admired his deep blue eyes. His short hair was greased back to reveal a widow’s peak.

“J.A. Pleased to meet you. What’s yours?”

J.A.? As in the letters?

“Uh, hi. I’m Natasha.”

What followed was dancing and some words strung together. I’m not sure what we talked about but we hit it off. And we kept going until it was dawn, our feet hurt and we found ourselves asleep. After that first night, we met up a couple of times. But then, J.A. began to go off on longer travels, until I lost track of where he was, and he became a distant memory.

Fast forward two years later, it was Christmas Eve and he showed up at my apartment door. I was alone.

Don’t be lonely.

He felt my loneliness. I let him inside and he pressed me to the wall, caressing my neck. He gazed at me, seeking consent. I smiled. He kissed me, slowly unbuttoning my shirt until I remember him inside myself.

A storm swirled up later that night, and we curled up under the blanket, staring into one another’s eyes, our naked bodies caressing one another.

Where had you gone?

He smiled, and slipped his hand into mine.

Nowhere. In another world, we’ll be free of these limits of time.

I paused. And then it hit me. That J.A. had been there beside me. He’d spent an entire life with me. But where? Perhaps, the future? Perhaps another universe?

We stayed up in bed, warming one another, without speaking but knowing of the truth, thinking no more of where and when we would meet again. And somewhere in the night, we fell asleep in one another’s arms.

When I woke up, J.A. was gone. I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Let him still be here. I searched the apartment, hoping he’d come out from the corner of the room and kiss me. But there was no sign of him. Was last night real or a dream?

Damn you, J.A. Stop fucking with me.

And then, I remembered something.

I walked back to the bed and saw it. The heart-shaped photo necklace of us. And below it, in italicized writing, was an inscription.
​
2390.

Exactly, by Doug Hoekstra

12/9/2017

 
At the diner, she always ordered the same thing - eggs benedict. She tried them for the first time the first time they had breakfast together, after the first night they slept together. They always sat on swivel stools, backs to the door, because she didn’t want to be seen in public. Social anxiety. He always brought the paper along, because something always happened. Sure enough, just as their plates arrived, she excused herself, and went outside for a smoke, sitting down on an iron bench, cigarette dangling, thumbs moving. He read the headlines.

Soon, she was back, sliding in behind the counter and whispering, “Sorry I had to run out. Got a lead on some DMT.” He nodded, stoic.

“I wish you’d do it with me at least one time,” she said, blue eyes flashing as she dabbed at her eggs with a fork. “The sex would be soooo great.”

The sex was already great, he thought. But, he didn’t say anything because they’d had this conversation before. LSD. DMT. MDMA. He wasn’t into drugs, never had been, it was just the way he was wired…or not. Every moment was a moment, just the way it was, and yeah, you could change it, but you could also accept it.

“You’re judging me with your silence,” she finally added.

“No, I’m not,” he replied quickly, making haste of his coffee, “you can do what you want on your own time, it’s just not my thing.” The check came and he paid.

“Exactly,” she said, sliding off the stool and walking ahead of him, with a nice rear view. “People are always afraid of something, I guess,” she muttered to the wind, just loud enough for him to hear.

Exactly, he thought.

Exactly.

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    Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.


    However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

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    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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