Thursday, February 27, 2014
daddy, she said. what happens to my social networking presence when i die?
Monday, February 24, 2014
The elevator stopped at his floor and James stepped out. There were a lot of voices, but nothing to be heard, people present, yet no one to be seen, and plenty of work to be done with no room left to think about it all. Even the air in the building smelled different. The secretary smiled at James as he walked by, but he forced something back, something that made her wince, something that made his insides hurt. He opened the door to his office and dropped his briefcase on the floor. He saw the picture on his desk that stopped him in place. James walked out of his office and headed for the restroom. A coworker came up behind him.
“I think Leandra wants it already, man. She’s been asking about you. You should probably say something to her, Mary wouldn’t even-”
“Mary died last night” James said, looking straight ahead the whole time, his pace unchanged.
The coworker had stopped following James after a few more steps and watched him turn the corner, out of sight. The floors of the restroom were pristine; they were always pristine. James remembered bringing her in there once, but who was going to catch them? No one ever used these. The other workers often left the building to use the restroom. He looked around a moment, wondering again why it was he found himself there. He washed his hands, looking only at them the whole time. Someone forgot to resupply the unit with the hand towels. James left the restroom, hands dripping, and headed back to his office. A few people watched him now, people who hadn’t watched him when he arrived, people who whispered to one another. James entered his room, closing the door behind him, catching glimpse of the secretary and the coworker from earlier talking to one another. He sat down, turning his chair to the view of outside. There were trees, and birds, and plenty of people down below, but there was nothing to be seen. There was a knock at the door. It was his supervisor.
“Look, James, I could only imagine what this is doing to you. You should take the week off, go to the kids-”
James only looked at the man who had been saying something he couldn’t hear. He saw the man’s mouth move, but there was nothing to be registered. He took the man’s advice though, and picked up his briefcase, and left his office. The secretary was waiting for him by the elevator.
“James, if you need help with the boys again-”, but James couldn’t hear her. He entered the elevator, and let it close behind him.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
She’s going to nail me.
A snort of laughter escapes my throat. Probably not the best response when you have a deranged soon to be ex-wife sitting on top of you with a nail gun pressed to your forehead.
Well, at the moment it’s either laugh or cry. I’m a man, so crying isn’t an option.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
I open my mouth, wondering what I can say that will delay the inevitable. Knowing this woman the way I do, I know the truth will set her off – she never had a very good sense of humor. A lie? Well, that’s an option, but none are coming to me at the moment. I think silence might just be the best option. She won’t pull the trigger until she knows if I’m laughing at her or not.
At least, that’s my theory.
I clamp my mouth shut and grit my teeth.
You may wonder how I got to be in this particular situation. Well, I’m not sure myself. One minute, I’m asleep, alone in my bed, a cast-iron court order protecting me from the Psycho Bitch from Hell. Or so I thought.
The next minute I’m awake with Bob Villa’s wet dream sitting on my crotch. I’m as surprised as you are.
As far as the back-story is concerned, well, I don’t really have the time to get into that at the moment, I have more pressing matters on my mind; namely a Black and Decker KX418E. Run out and rent the Julia Robert’s movie with the crazy hubby obsessed with organizing Campbell’s Soup cans. Only Julia’s the crazy one. You’ll get the general idea.
Or better yet, pick up tomorrow’s paper. This isn’t going to end well.
“Nice nail gun,” I say.
I’m never buying another fucking gadget as long as I live.
“Thank you,” she replies, he lip curling into a sneer. “Any last words before I nail you one last time?”
Maybe she does have a sense of humor after all.
“Only this. It’s not going to work.”
“I’d say everything is working out just as I planned.”
“Oh, your plan worked beautifully. But, the nail gun? That isn’t going to work.”
Unless she figured out how to use it. God knows I never did.
Her doubt, the slight hesitation and movement of her hand are all I need. I push her off of me and throw her onto the floor. The nail gun flies out of her hand and into the wall, leaving a large gouge in the plaster. I pounce on her and grab the gun before she has time to react.
Fear floods her eyes as I straddle her and press the nail gun to her head. I can tell you one thing, I like the view from this side of the gun a helluva lot better.
Okay, maybe one more gadget.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Because it is not simply to explore that copper-colored body, the firm large ass and well-hanging breasts, the nipples dark and large, but it is her moans and whispers, and then she moans more loudly and begins to whisper these words to you, one after the other, as a kind of code: mi amor, mi corazón, mi cielo, mi vida, and then you smile down at her and she calls you mi negro feo, a name of highest endearment. Then more moaning, her body sweaty and arching, looking up at you with those almond shaped eyes, set just so far apart as to make you crazy looking into them, and she pulls you deeper inside her, grabbing your ass and pulling you in not letting you out, not even to pull back to thrust, your bodies crushed together sweatily. Then you struggle away and turn her around to have that big ass from behind and she on her hands and knees and slap-slapping into her, her groaning increases and harder and si papi Si Papi SI and it leaves you, you having spent it all, it all gone now, something empty and peaceful, long grassy Wisconsin field in the spring, the tall pines moving slightly in the high wind and the dew drops on the grasses. Mi amor, you hear. Mi corazón. Mi cielo. Mi negro feo. And you are coming back now from far away, and she is there again, stroking the head of your cock in a motel room in Bogotá.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Walk down to the boat landing near your house, park your car and wade into the water as you hike up your dress. Sit on the sandy ground as it rains and then begin to cry without provocation. Start feeling lonely again. A full month is actually a year. Try to remember happy memories. Drive to the park where you and your significant other first kissed, hunched together close on the cold park bench on a humid night in August. Try to remember the feeling of excitement, the feeling of getting to know someone so personally without getting tired of them. Drive to a bookstore an hour away. Choose to stay outside, leaning against the tired building as you chain-smoke twelve cigarettes and then dry heave into a bush because your mouth is so dry. A strange man will ask you if you are alright and you will barely look up. You are no longer alone.
Monday, February 10, 2014
No, I won’t open my eyes. I’ll roll over, settle back in, and get comfortable again. I won’t be delivered; I’ll try to go back to sleep. But I probably won’t be able to go back to sleep, now that I’m this awake.
Let the eyelids lay; keep ‘em forced shut—seeing the orange, the red of the sunlight through the curtains—there isn’t any reason to be right now, despite daylight. There’s no point in turning over, either, only to have to settle back in again. Still, this now: thoughts I can’t help but see, unavoidably—
Always, from this morning on, whenever I walk out into the streets, I’ll grab any interesting face I find by the nose and pull the features forward with my left hand. Then, when the skin begins to separate from the sinews and the web of muscles behind the face, with my right hand I’ll raise my hatchet high and slice downward from the forehead, pulling the face away from the skull by its nose, taking the startled expression up into the air and stuffing it into my burlap sack.
In the evenings, when I return home, I’ll paste them—trimmed around the edges so that they resemble masks—in rows upon the white walls of my kitchen.
My mother, being afraid of strangers, doesn’t approve of my collection of faces. She throws her head back, her nose into the air, and says, “Must you bring those things into the apartment?”
My collection remains incomplete, though, without mother, so I’ve reserved a space above the stove for her disapproving face. Someday she too will stare out over the pots and pans, her dried skin coated in the ever-falling dust that’s glued to her features by the greasy fumes from the frying pan below, labeling my life a failure with her unshutting eyes.
These days she asks me over and over, “When will you ever grow up?” And is afraid—being always afraid of death—that someday I really will.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Margot Anderson is sitting alone at her kitchen table, striking matches against the rough strip on the package and blowing them out immediately. She becomes increasingly anxious as she continues to glance at the clock. She adjusts her lace dress impatiently, tugging at the
edges where the kitchen oven’s heat has worn away the seams, leaving black burn marks and fingerprints on the delicate white fabric. She pulls a cigarette out of a rusty tin can sitting on the table, and dusts off the filter before sticking it in her mouth and lighting it. Margot walks to the sink and uses the edge of her dress to wipe dirt off of the rim of a cracked coffee mug, turning the faucet on by pressing the handle forcefully. The water sputters and makes loud groaning noises as it dispenses murky brown water into her mug. With a frustrated push, she manages to reduce the stream of dirty water to a series of drips. She cradles the mug and the book of matches in her arms as she walks to the sliding screen door. Margot is sitting on a rocking chair propped against the balcony wall as she balances the cracked coffee mug between her knees. She strikes the matches more furiously, now, barely blowing one out before lighting the next. Hints of the sun can be seen in the distance, illuminating the trees with a pinkish glow as daylight begins. As she lights the last match, she allows herself a few solitary seconds to stare into the cherry-red, incandescent light before extinguishing the flame in the mug’s murky brown water.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Yesterday I got an update from a friend that a mutual friend had died. I don’t know how he found out. There was nothing on the dude’s timeline.
He still managed to tag him, though. Tagged him just like he was still alive. You could hover over the name and see the same stuff.
I thought maybe Facebook would know. They probably do. But if they did, surely they’d say something. Maybe they’d change the tense like Wikipedia does. He doesn’t work “at Self-Employed” any more. He “worked” there. Or whatever.
Couple of months ago a “friend” died and his dying words included his Facebook password so that his son could alert his friends and “friends” and family. I wouldn’t have known if his son didn’t post it to the guy’s wall. Wouldn’t have had a clue.
“Roll up, roll up, motherfuckers. Here’s my product: The Ultimate Social Media Notification App”! For a one-time download fee of only $2.99 you’ll be covered in case of death of any sort. With a host of easily customized settings we will collate available information to decide whether or not you’ve died and post on your behalf to your selected social media. Have the courtesy to let your loved ones know that you’re dead in the most convenient means possible, and even write your own obituary! In-App purchases also allow for you to sign up posthumously to forms of social media that didn’t even exist at the time of your death!”
Yes, people, I will be rich in life and in death I will be nothing if not popular.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Ladies and Gentleman,
After losing this domain, the site is now recovered and stable, and we are looking for more submissions. Once again, we will be publishing flash fiction every Monday and Thursday.
Hopefully this year we can continue to grow as a community. We will be attempting to publish more work by familiar faces, rather than accepting submissions by people who simply find my e-mail address and cold call. There’s nothing wrong with that except that these people don’t bother reading the site. They only care that their flash fiction is accepted somewhere. I want people who care. I want people who will read and comment upon the work of their peers, as well as contributing their own flash fiction.
So let’s roll.
David S. Wills
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Towards the end of last year this website sadly disappeared and was replaced – amusingly – with a porno placeholder. I received many concerned and even angry e-mails as to why I’d sold the domain to a porno company.
Alas, I didn’t. I probably would’ve made a bit of cash off a deal like that. Instead, the problem was that my credit card had recently expired and I had not updated the new information into our hosting service. Rather than alerting me that an automatic renewal was impending, they simply attempted to charge the card… which naturally failed, and then resold the site.
The result: for the past month and a half I have been attempting to get Fuck Fiction back online. Now we’re back I will be concentrating on compiling the anthology for publication. We will begin accepting new online stories for Fuck Fiction #2 shortly.
David S. Wills