An Inhuman Condition

These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

Like Adults

“That’s the thing I just don’t get,” Walter paused to light up another cigarette. “When do we just accept that we are adults?”

It was March, and spring was creeping in. The night would have been great if not for the shrill cold of the wind. It had a way of sneaking around one’s jacket chilling the neck and arms. It was winter’s last stand, a covert frost-op meant as propaganda that snow might rise again to cover the streets, cars and yards of unsuspecting American citizens, another reminder that terror could strike at home.
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These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

The Put Option

“It’s a stupid bet,” Martin said.

“I don’t think so. We both agreed the only way to find out was to ask.”

“Well yeah, but who doesn’t have regrets about their choices?”

“You said it was just a matter of perspective, right? You said I couldn’t know whether or not they were happy living the family life because I wasn’t in that position. So we have to ask to settle the bet.”
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These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

Wayfaring

The taste was copper in the back of his throat. The winter rain uncovered smells long buried under snow; the thwishing sound of cars like mouthwash for the world. The cigarette felt fragile under thick gloves, and all he could see was the crisp night. Bundled under his jacket with lament, the two grew quite intimate. Times like these he felt like the worst man in the world.

He looked back on all the horrible things he’d said. There were no boundaries left to cross, no new territory, and no sacred things. He was bitter, hurt and projecting onto everything he touched. The stains piled upon expanding scars until it was time to leave. His world had grown too small. There wasn’t anything opaque in front of him. He could see through and knew it had to be cut away. Slash and burn; start again.
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These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

Predictable

It’s just too much, you know? That’s what did it: the stress and pressure of everything. How was I supposed to keep things together? I’m not sure what it finally was that pushed me away – the catalyst of it all, but that doesn’t really matter because I’m here now. And, well, you know.

I guess I always felt like I was on the outside of things. I remember the way people used to talk to me like I was invincible. I wasn’t. I mean, of course I cared – everyone cares about what other people think and say about them. It was as if they thought they were being funny or something. They never really got it, you know? I mean, sure, I was pessimistic. Have you taken a good look at the world lately? I just don’t know how you can expect someone to change like that.  It’s not like they really helped or tried to understand me. I guess they just assumed I was one way and gave up looking for anything else. It’s like the way you can just judge someone when you meet for the first time. It’s making an impression and stuff.
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These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

Blog Post

I’m in public trying to remember why I associate with people. I catch myself like this every now and again, and realize too late that it’s a mistake. This doesn’t do anything for me. It doesn’t challenge me at all. I don’t grow. I don’t do anything worthwhile around other people. I just pass the time and play my own little games to keep it interesting. They all seem to like it when I’m around, but it’s so close to masturbation that I might as well have my cock out arm-wrestling the shame.

It’s not just the drivel posing as conversation that bothers me; it’s the constant interruption to stare at a phone. What did people do before they could be accessible to everyone in the world simultaneously? Trying to say anything to a person that pulls out a phone is meaningless. They are zombies. They might tell you to go on talking, that they are expert multitaskers, but that’s all bullshit. The human brain was never wired to speak and listen at the same time. They are mutually exclusive activities. That’s why we take turns talking.

It seems to me that the more we do this, the worse it all gets. The content in our media has been watered down for easy consumption. It’s a clip, a sound byte, 140 characters or less. If you want people to see it, it has to fight our waning attention. “Did you get the email?” “Text it to me.” “I found this video.” “Did you see the pic?” It’s become this in-the-moment thing that is always changing, requiring more of our attention to keep up with it all.
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These are a few pieces of flash fiction from the Blue Valentines lot that were off subject or unrelated.

City

The place is just a pit. Nothing important seems to happen there, but nobody seems to realize it. People have this romantic view of the city, and it doesn’t make any sense. Sure, businesses and art, commerce and culture – whatever. Those things exist in the minds of people, and that’s the only spot where they have meaning. The only thing the city has is a lot of people – it’s the sum of all the parts. So nothing is special about the place per se. I don’t think there’s anything about the geographic area that inspires. I’ve been there; it was a very intense hue of “meh.”

The people are cold – and they would have to be to survive there. The temperature drops, snow falls by the foot and it still finds the time to have monsoonesque rain. I think there must have ben a border mix-up somewhere because all my calculations show a place so miserable should rightfully belong to Indiana. Don’t get me started on Indiana.
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VII: Got Love?  completes my day’s work on the Blue Valentines page. Happy VD.

VI: Get Real

Beautiful women are like a drug. They make you feel good, and it’s fine every now and then but they can really ruin your life if you get addicted. You ever hear the phrase “I’m a sucker for a pretty face?” It’s a problem with men; we’re all suckers staring at the pretty girls begging to be fleeced. Like camouflaged predators, they wait to lure you in before pouncing.

It starts with dinner – you always pay for the dinner. Then you have to keep coming up with the endless series of trinkets, spending money to get her things or spending time doing things for her. You even “spend” time together. I know you’ve seen the clingy types who latch on and leech away all the other parts of your life until you turn into that guy who needs to ask permission to play a game of cards or go to the car show.

Sure they have guilt and other forms of manipulation to keep reeling you in. Even plain girls can use their tricks to keep a guy in line, but the most dangerous ones are always beautiful. If you find yourself with one of those, you keep asking how you got so lucky. It seems like a small sacrifice to be available for all her needy whims. I mean, you got a pretty one. You should be ecstatic. Don’t fuck that up, and you’ll be happy, right?

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V: Don’t Tell

She’s avoiding me. I can’t bear the thought of it, but that’s exactly what she’s doing. It’s so hard to communicate with other people that I don’t know why I give a damn half the time. This seems pretty serious; it’s not the usual doghouse, I-fucked-up, kiss-and-make-up kind of problem. I know her well enough to see that some serious shit is going on in those pretty, green eyes. It scares the hell out of me because I want this to work out. The way she looks at me has changed. There’s this deadness in her eyes where there used to be bounding excitement. They were bright, moist and magnificent before and now they’re dry and heavy and pale.

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IV: Good Bye

Twelve years later the song sounds so contrived. It was probably always that way, but nostalgia has a way of making the past better. Over the years, the details of a story change slightly – they become alienated from the event and mold into a version of things like a well-worn cushion or forged steel. With every retelling, a memory becomes a new thing like a game of telephone. We are revisionists changing our history into something more meaningful than it was.

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