Archives For flash fiction fridays

flash fiction friday #60

June 25, 2015 — 1 Comment

I hate myself for wanting to please them. I should be past that. I am the most powerful CEO in the world and by extension, because we’re nation-corporations now, the most powerful person on the planet but still I find myself sniveling and seeking for their approval.

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It is difficult for me to concentrate while I’m working without any music. That was one of the primary reasons I liked working alone. I could crank my music up and work as many hours as I needed to get it right. But on a project this big, everyone got alone time until you had a functional prototype and then everyone else that didn’t hit the mark became part of your team.

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what is it about coffee? the feel of beans in your hand, the aroma. no matter where you are on the planet, the universality of brewing a cup of coffee. even the nation state of starbucks can’t change the pure joy of sitting down, watching the sun come up with a cup of coffee in your hand, the aroma wafting into the air.

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i had been dealing with memory, verbal and temporal lapses, weird loops of time and thoughts, muddled sentences. i did not understand the cause of these errors. i did not understand because i was looking at it from a human perspective. i needed to think about my problems logically. i need to track down the root cause of my errors.

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it was the smell of cinnamon that woke me that morning. usually i’m out of bed first but on this particular morning i’d managed to sleep through not only her getting out of bed, but the usual noises of breakfast preparation. this was highly unusual, the other thing that was equally unusual was i dressed. i very rarely sleep in clothes, much less be so exhausted that i would wake up fully dressed under the covers.

the height of the bed and the cold tile floor added to my bewilderment. i hadn’t been drinking but i suddenly had the worst case of rum belly. i opened the first door i saw and prayed it was a bathroom. thankfully my prayers were answered.

as i planted my bum on the throne, i tried to figure where i was and how i ended up there. the bathroom looked fairly generic, right down to the dumb his and hers towels on the rack and the cutely shaped hand soaps that were a staple for guest rooms. they could never get that right, there would always be that odd edge from the mold that would take months of constant washing to go away but never happened because they always changed it after every guest.

i stood and washed my hands and face, rubbing my thumb absentmidnedly on the rough edge of the soap looking at my reflection. i looked like a bum, actually i looked like i felt – like i’d been ridden hard and put up wet. i was in a rumpled  tshirt with a r. crumb illustration and faded blue jeans, i sniffed my shirt and caught the pungent odour of smoke and hard drinking and wondered for the millionth time, what i’d been up to the night before.

as i stood there lost in my own thoughts, the scent that woke me snapped me from my reverie, time to face the piper whoever it might be. i exited the bathroom through the bedroom and onto a small carpeted landing. did i navigate stairs in my state last night? curiouser and curiouser. i made my gingerly down the stairs following my nose to the kitchen.

have you ever imagined what you’d look like as a member of the opposite sex? i didn’t have to, there i was, standing in the kitchen. i looked up or my doppleganger looked up and smiled at me. my freakishly large hands reached out towards the towels, wiped them and gestured for me to take a seat. with my heart racing i sat at the table and wondered yet again, what the hell was going on.