A Snippet of Fiction

Here's a small piece I came up with moments ago. It's heavily inspired by the irreverent and sarcastic style of British author Robert Rankin. Not on purpose, however. I sort of absorb the style and voice of authors I've been reading and/or listening to on books on CD. I recently re-listened to The Witches of Chiswick, Nostradamus Ate My Hamster, and Fandom of the Operator.

Here it goes:

What if, when you look in the mirror, you don’t like the person you see looking back at you? What if, on top of that, it’s always a different person looking back at you? And you don’t particularly care for any of them?
Aside from the fact that you’ve got a problem, I’d also say, “Hell, at least you’re not alone!” For I, too, have that problem.

Today, when I gazed upon the dreaded mirror (at a local pub, as I have removed all of the mirrors from my apartment), I saw a stone-cold bitch. She looked like she’d just as soon take a shit on my face as look at me. But she was looking at me. Which made me very uncomfortable.

The thing that was most unnerving about this bitch wasn’t just her look of absolute loathing that made me wish I’d never been born. No, it wasn’t that, though that look would put you in a right frightful mood all by itself. No, it was the fact that I’d seen her before!

Never before had I seen a repeated countenance gaze back at me. My first thought, well, second thought, right after, “Oh my good god, what the hell?!”, was this: “Maybe this is the real me.” If it was the real me, it would explain a hell of a lot of things. Things like, “Why don’t I have any friends?” and “Why does everyone I know think I’m pissed off all of the time?”

This was a bit of a conundrum for me. You see, I’ve never particularly cared for myself or my looks, even though I couldn’t really trust what my face actually looks like. It even changes in each picture that I’ve had taken of me (which I avoid just as much as I avoid mirrors).

Still, I could see my body, which I sort of trusted my eyes’ perception of, as I can feel it as well. Thick in the thighs, hips, and buttocks. Sort of narrow in the waist, but not as much as I’d like. No breasts to speak of really. On my good days I can fill an A cup, I suppose. And I didn’t like this at all.

But back to the damned mirror. I must’ve stood there like a stooge staring at it for quite some time. Finally another woman had to rudely nudge me to get my attention off of the ice queen that was staring daggers at me from the mirror.

“You look fine,” she whined plaintively as she bumped me with her bony hip. “Please move over and let me wash my hands. I’ll help you with your makeup if you’re worried about impressing someone. Just let me wash my damned hands!”

“Oh,” said I to her, stupidly. “But I don’t wear makeup.”

“You think I can’t see that for myself?” she sniped, walloping me with her hip again, albeit more forcefully.

If I weren’t so inebriated, I probably would’ve noticed that she was more messed up with the spirits than I was. She smelled faintly of vomit, and I recalled hearing some unsavory noises before she appeared at my side. However, my liquor addled brain didn’t put these things together to paint a bigger picture.

Flash Fiction

When I mention flash fiction, most people don't know what I'm talking about. It's basically really short prose pieces. Some definitions state that the word limit is under 1000, while other definitions don't specify a word count. It's also sometimes called short-short fiction.

Anyway, I've written lots of flash fiction. I haven't written much lately, but in the past I really churned out "story snippets" as I then called them. I was happy to find out that I was far from alone in enjoying this writing format.

Below are a couple of flash fiction pieces that I've written.

"So, here we are."

"Yeah. I never would've thought that we'd be together like this again."

"Especially not here of all places."

We stood outside the little cafe where we'd had our first date over thirty years ago.

He had a little less hair and a little more gut. I was a little saggier and had gray roots. All in all we weren't too bad looking though.

"So, you want to come back to my place?" he asked.

"On a first date? What kind of girl do you take me for?"

Of course we both knew I was joking. Hell, we'd been married for ten years, then not for the next twenty.

"I'll follow you in my car."

Once we were back to his place we had a few drinks, reminisced, then went to bed. We had the kind of sex you'd expect from two slightly tipsy, middle-aged, exes: mediocre.

As I went to the bathroom afterward, I noticed stubble in the sink, dirty laundry overflowing from the hamper, and that the toilet seat was up.

I remembered then all the reasons it didn't work the first time and I added yet another relationship to our collection. Once friends, once husband and wife, once enemies, and now once, we were a one night stand.

written 4/17/08


Too Late

It’s too late. I’ve been philosophizing the merits and pitfalls of death. There are fears and hopes. Fears of leaving behind everything familiar, of the unknown, of passing the point of no return. Hopes of leaving all earthly concerns, of not having to worry about this mortal realm.

My thoughts are cut short by the pain though. I can barely breathe. My throat hurts, and my neck is raw and burning.

Somewhere between the thoughts of carrying my plan through and hearing the chair hit the floor, I realize it’s too late for second thoughts. I curse my braveness of acting in solitude. There would be no accidental intruders for some time yet. I wonder what they would think when they saw me, but again, my thoughts turn back to my pain. As I dangle from my noose, I realize it’s too late to wonder.

written in 2005