Flash Fiction: Friday Night Frustrations

           Andy walked into Mark’s apartment as a waterlogged fisherman who caught a school of disappointment. Mark paused his game of bus simulator still on the first level.

           

           “Did you find it,” He asked, taking a sip of his green tea.

           

            Andy sighed, “The rental store’s been gone for years now.”

           

           “Yeah,” Mark agreed, grinning. “But what about that Redbox?”

            Something clicked inside Andy’s brain and the door slammed behind him. Mark shrugged and returned to his game where he navigated through intersections. Every bus stop had Mark biting his lower lip, sweating.

            He muttered to himself, “C’mon. C’mon.”

            All he had to do was brake and turn precisely in short taps and flicks. Then victory would be achieved with his passengers disembarking for the mall. It was just within his reach and…

            “Found it,” Andy said.

            Mark jumped in shock, his game docking him some points for slamming into the bus stop.  He got up and walked towards Andy in a stride of stomping.

            “What was that for,” He asked, snatching the DVD case from Andy. “I almost had it.”

            “What do you mean almost,” Andy said, pointing at the case. “You have it now, thief.”

            Mark growled and gestured Andy to follow. They sat at the sofa where the TV screen blinked, “Game Over”.

            Mark lifted his palm towards the screen, “You do not know how frustrating it is to drive a bus. Took me about 15 tries before now just to get near the end of the level! Had to break out the instruction manual just to get the hang of driving it and now you ruined everything!”

            Andy looked at the screen, baffled. He could not understand the importance of the video game that made Mark sulk from reality into the television.

            “Does George Clooney drive buses now,” He asked.

            Mark just shrugged back to reality, “Maybe People magazine knows something about it.”

            He continued on into the kitchen and took out the lasagna from the oven. They ate and discussed Andy’s discovery of online shopping and the countless speedo swimsuits he ordered. He then took out the Redbox’s latest bounty, battered and bruised from the laptop bag.

            “Great thing about my laptop,” Andy said, booting it up. “Takes on DVDs and plays them.”

            Mark exhaled in relief. This time he would be able to see Ocean’s Eleven in its full glory. Even when Andy inserted the DVD into the optical disk drive, Mark was starring at the computer screen ready for the movie to begin.

            “It’s a shame about the graphics card,” Andy said.

            Mark jerked his head from the monitor, “Huh?”

            “I mean, it can do YouTube and play high-res games,” Andy said. “But it has this strange…thing going on.”

            Mark frowned. The same situation with his TV played through his mind on repeat. He took out a frying pan, and prepared his throwing hand.

            “Relax, Mark,” Andy shouted. “It can read the disc, but…ah! There’s the problem!”

            They spent the rest of the evening watching Oceans Eleven with the Rat Pack in all their glory. Andy spent the following morning calling the computer shop trying to find a specialist in optical temporal disk drives.

              

For Flash Fiction Project prompt #44.

Flash Fiction: Serviced Comsumers

           The priest gestured for his following to be seated. He took out a cooking pot and placed it on a nearby column; a small one painted black from top to bottom. He squatted down and fiddled around with the column.

            The audience was looking at him, baffled. The priest kept lifting the pot up and down, looking down at the column when the former happened. It was all there, the red rings of the burner operating as usual. He placed the pot back on the column and addressed a confused mass.

            “Seems that Sir is out of range,” He said. “Let’s try the prayers again. Reach out and pull Sir back in.”

            The prayers were like any other in the Order of Serviced Consumers. Starting with “O’ great Sir”, then something about domestic goods and being blessed to use them, and ending it with “Have a nice day”. The church prayed, their sound amplified throughout the architecture of large spaces.

            The pot remained silent. No boiling and certainly no mobile phones were going to pop out at this rate. Out of range was definitely the problem.

            “Manager McGuffin,” a girl called out. “Maybe Sir prefers landline.”

            McGuffin walked forward and leaned out, searching. Then succeeding after trying to squint through forests of six-foot one, “What do you mean, lady?”

            “Well, you remember back to the Founding,” the girl said. “When everyone was hooked on smartphones.”

                The early days of Serviced Consumers mostly consisted of crowdsourcing through social networking and flyers on café bulletin boards. Some of the founders used smartphones to ease the tedious booting up business they were annoyed with. Easy and portable, they worked for the Founders.

            Problem was their early followers. Some of them had a fondness for playing with computers.

            Manager McGuffin smiled, “Most landlines are immune to the dark arts. Good mind, lady.”

            He then walked from the nearby pews to an ambry. He looked through the self with the Etch-a-Sketchs, beta max tapes and a Dreamcast until he found a landline. It was just a standard one from the late 20^th century with the phone cord, receiver, and square buttons.

            He took it out and plugged it into the column, opening a small hatch for the phone cord. The prayers happened again while McGuffin dialed some numbers. Moments later, his face became pale.

            “Employees of Sir,” He asked. “Any idea where the nearest phone company is?” 

For Flash Fiction Project: Prompt 40.

Flash Fiction: Of Prose and Lectures

This is for an assignment for Literary+ where each assigned pair wrote 100 word bios. Then we wrote a flash fiction, up to 300 words, based on each other's bios. Unfortunately, the bio I based this piece on no longer exists, but the narrative alone should alleviate this issue.

            Rehearsal time, and the director paced the stage, sweating bullets. The cast sat behind him, some on their mobiles and others trying to memorize their lines. The script was one giant poem, a convenient mnemonic aid from a poetic scriptwriter. The problem was the performance itself. Those action cues could not cue themselves.

            The director turned to the cast. One inhale, one exhale.

            “Remember this is only a play,” He said. “Acting is all part of the show.”

            “But sir,” An actress said. “What’s a play?”

            He usually forgot about that bit. The cast arrived out of nowhere, like a poof and there they were. Grown-up, but with very little knowledge of the arts. Everything else was fair game.

            So the director once again explained the concept of plays, actors, actresses, and scripts. The cast acknowledged every little detail, even the history of Shakespeare.

            “Alright,” The director said. “Are you all ready now?”

            One big, “Yes”, from the cast and it began again.

            The execution of the early cues and lines went smoothly. The director relaxed his shoulders and calves standing in a corner.  It was further near the end when…

            “Sir, what does this all mean,” One of the actors said.

            He showed the director a page of the script. The verses combined the English of centuries past with some twenty-first century jargon. He then got up and addressed the cast yet again.

            He lectured on about the English language, bringing up the Shakespeare bits again alongside other dialects, mostly colonial nineteenth-century. The cast nodded through all this and continued the rehearsal.

            It was over by evening and the cast took off for dinner, drinks, and five-hour naps. The director remained at the venue, contemplating on becoming a professor instead.

From the Fishtank: Always Listen to Town Hall

This first originally appeared on my musings blog for a writing challenge by Rachael Harrie.

Shadows crept across the wall, prompting Lacey to wake up from her daily slumber. 

“Another day,” She muttered. She got up and stumbled towards the kitchen. She fixed herself a cup of macaroni and cheese and orange soda, the true breakfast of champions. As the meal cooled down, she checked her e-mail and found a message from Town Hall; reminding people to keep their shirts on when going outside, summer or winter. Lacey yawned and continued to eat. Shortly after, she prepared herself for the big day, ready to take on the local Skip-Bo champion, Fischer, and take his title. Then she swiftly opened the front door, ready to take on the world, until she saw her neighbor. 

He was mowing the grass, no shirt, no shoes, and not even pants. His chest was sweaty with greasy black hairs disorganized by the power of balding and lack of grooming. The only thing he wore was a pair of boxers with bulldogs scattered about. 

“Evenin’ Lacey,” He said, taking his eyes off the grass. Lacey went pale, chills running up and down her entire body, and eyelids heavy. She passed out on the pavement, and for the evening, everything faded.

From the Fishtank: Triumphs and Falls

This first originally appeared on my musings blog for Flash Fiction Project's Broken TV prompt.

Mark was softly weeping. His television sat on the curb, its screen shattered and frame broken. A DVD jutted out from the built-in player on the bottom of the frame. It was one of those movies that George Clooney stared in; Ocean’s Eleven.

Mark remembered the moment of triumph at the CVS’s Redbox, when the film was finally available for rent. He had been going on for weeks at the local university, talking about nothing but Clooney. It was as if George Clooney was a language all to himself. Then last night, the triumph was something to be celebrated.

Mark rushed back to his apartment, ran to the living room, and prepared himself for the sacred ritual. TV input set to built-in DVD, he proceeded to take Ocean’s Eleven from its makeshift case. Fingers on the edges, he carefully inserted the DVD into the slot, as if it were glass.

He grinned, beaming from side to side, then came a loud ‘woo’ from his mouth. He waited as the player made its small squawking noises. Few minutes later, the squawking was still going and the screen was a generic blue.

Then his worst fears came true: “Unable to read disk.”   

From the Fishtank: Simplicity

This first originally appeared on my musings blog for Flash Fiction Project's Travel prompt. I'm transferring over the three pieces I wrote there to here to be covered under this blog's Creative Commons License. 

Laurie watched the 1 o’clock train pull into the station with little fascination. She had gotten used to waiting for trains since her new job required quite a bit of train hopping. All across New England, and sometimes New York City, she would wander the train stations and the streets of many cities to sell her wares; packed into a backpack and suitcase. Some days would bring fruitful profits from antique seekers while others brought the speculators embracing the corporate cloth.

Regardless of the uncertain gains and losses, she held her head high; being one of the few traveling vendors left.

Passengers began to exit the train and scurry to the nearby taxis or into the station itself. Laurie prepared her stall. She hoped that today would be a good business day and knowing many of the locals was a benefit.

Unfortunately, business that day was the same as any other; very few antiques were sold. She closed shop and proceeded to a nearby hotel overlooking the nearby river. She stared at the light on her bedroom ceiling, contemplating life. 

Regardless of the lack of profits, her job allowed her to be free from her past. Obsessive boyfriends, they will keep running. Boring neighborhoods will never be a twinkle in her eye. The countless hassle and bills caused by small parking lots, paid for and left behind.

No need for hot-tubs or high-definition televisions, Laurie embraced the simple life of the salesperson.

Flash Fiction: Birthday after Birthday...

 

           Summer solstice brought with it the loudest royal celebration of all time. Princess Rae would have essentially aged by a minuscule amount and what a birthday it was. The servants of the Gemi Royal Family had set up an elaborate affair of food, boating competitions, drinking games, and folk songs, with amplifiers bursting many eardrums. She would be spoiled rotten with all that and the gifts from the other empires.

            The press had nothing to say but positive things that were said every year, only adding a sentence if something notable happened. Nothing usually did. Same thing with the speakers at the Royal Banquet, the same ones booked every year.

            And this has been occurring for almost 5 years. The royal planning committee never got together after the first meeting with anything regarding the Princess. That was until a few months after this year’s celebrations.

            They had found their inboxes flooded with complaints from the royal family. They also were tired of the repetition, all except for the Princess who did not write a complaint. So the committee appointed a subcommittee who specialize in event planning. They in return, also appointed advisors who were to seek out alternatives to the country music and motor-boat racing.

            The efforts of both committees amounted to very little. A comedian was added to the speaker line-up and a DJ was hired for a late night dance section. The year that they played, the Princess was not even in the empire’s borders. Not even the Royal Family itself.

            Instead, the following day, a news report was broadcast and the Gemis got to learn all about some tropical resort, at least for thirty minutes.

For Flash Fiction Project: Prompt 30. Happy Summer Solstice!