Monday, April 27, 2020

Flash Fiction: I Hope You Understand


It happens every night. Every. God. Damn. Night. It happens. 
Dammit. 
Four cans and an extra, just for luck.
Five glasses and the rest of the bottle when you’re feeling fancy. 
I hate it and I accept it, but there is just too much that needs to be said. It is all too tiring to just grin and bear it. 
But now is the time where I at least try to stop it. 
I finally feel confident enough to set down some rules and boundaries. 
So here goes. 
The whole process starts innocently enough. By this point, you’ve had your fill and all of the drinks really start to settle in. 
Your movements get looser, less restrained as each minute passes. Your eyes get a lot droopier. Then, all of a sudden, you start to feel good. I mean, really good. 
All that drink fulfills its purpose and you are just straight chilling on Cloud Nine. 
It becomes the best hour of your day. That is why you do it every day.
But then you start to get weird. 
You notice that everyone around you is trying their hardest to avoid your path. They are not exactly as welcoming or open as they were earlier before the first drink. 
You attempt to rationalize the situation but, considering your previous activity, you are unable to actually think straight. The line of reasoning becomes weak and blurry. 
Irritability sets in, and you quickly search for an outlet. 
You start to think everything has a problem and you are the only one who can fix it, either through force or through a couple of strong words. 
‘I face problems head-on in more lucid states of consciousness so obviously the upfront approach will still work,’ you probably think to yourself.
You loudly explain your issues to your companions. How they should smile some more or get into a better mood. 
‘Maybe they just need more of what I had,’ you think. So, you get some more drinks and push us into drinking as much as you. The problem, you’ve finally realized, is that everyone needs to get just like you. Cheerful and numb. 
But the thing is, we do not want to get like you most of the time.
You don’t like the answer to that, so you just push harder and harder. 
You get too close. Way too close. 
To the point where it gets uncomfortable, but any protest against you is just an excuse to get in even closer, even tighter. 
You take it to the point where it is just suffocating. 
Then you yell. You always yell, whether it is for something happy or something sad. You try to yell us into accepting your offerings, but it never works the way you want it. 
Getting like you is honestly just too much trouble. But you still yell. 
No matter what happened, you are always going to yell. 
It is honestly way too much. 
Then you go to sleep. Nor further drama. No theatrics. You just crash into the deepest sleep a man can have. 
In the morning, you awake right on time, all detoxed, mentally balanced and ready to face the day. I still do not know how you do that. 
You act like the night before never happened. You look at us as if we are the weird ones for bringing up what you did and why it made us feel bad. Our bad feelings are on us to deal with, not you. That’s your reasoning for every night before.  
You go to work. The day goes along. You come back home, bring us a smile and good cheer. 
Then the same cycle repeats as the night comes. As soon as the sun sets, as soon as the moon rises over the horizon, you crack open that first can and let the revelry begin again. 
You feel just as good, and we feel just as terrible. 
Out of some strange fascination, I started collecting the aluminum tabs you tear off the can and throw on the floor. I have about three glass jars filled with them at this point. Like having piggy banks, where each tab represents another night with an unbearable you. 
I know you are never going to stop. I have accepted that. 
So please. Just please. Understand. 
I would really like for you to at least try to stop. Even you trying to do it less would be enough. 
Show me you can at least try to be better. 
No one here has a bad attitude. 
You are just drunk. 
You are an alcoholic. 
I hope you don’t think that is something to celebrate.

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Short Story: Missing Moon


The two of you first met at your darkest moments. 


Two different people from two different worlds. Together, your own perfect sanctuary, even though you could only meet for a few brief moments at a time. You cherished each other, and held onto that love during your days apart. 


Your name is Terrence Solet. Hers is Lunomi.


On the way to your monthly meeting place, you think back to when you first met, all those years ago when you were both young and afraid. 


The grief of losing your mother, the last of your family, inspired an escape from the modern world and all suffocating grip it had on your life. Man isn’t meant to live in a filthy metropolitan, you thought to yourself as you drove out to nowhere. You managed to convince yourself a return to nature was the best cure for the pain in your heart. The Solet family you so cherished often brought you on their excursions to snow-capped mountains or thick coniferous forests every other month or so. You would collect leaves and pinecones or search for the signs of woodland creature, fancying yourself some kind of tracker or ranger. 


Each journey there served as a reminder of the beauty of the world, apart from the rabble, bustle and hustle. You should have taken your parents on such a journey during their twilight years, but there was never time after your graduation. It was a new stage of life where one must establish oneself in the adult world or be left in the dust. Not wanting to disappoint your parents or family, you dedicated yourself to your work at the cost of all else. Good parents deserve an even better son, you reasoned, but what has all that effort brought you? 


As your mother’s coffin was lowered into the earth, you could see Terrence Solet as just another empty suit, missing a heart and a purpose. You needed change. At the edge of a newer stage of life, you needed another reminder of nature and what it meant, hopefully finding a better way forward at the end. 


As you entered the forest, you had nothing but the clothes on your back, but that was all you could need. A jacket, denim jeans, hiking shoes, and a backpack filled with nuts, water and supplies. A few days to think and meditate on loss and acceptance. Enough time away from the desk job and absurd responsibilities. As the last Solet, this was your escape. 


Lunomi wanted to escape too, but her circumstances were more different and much more dangerous than Terrence could imagine. 


Since she was born, she held control of some kind of dark fire. From her hands, it ignited, but it never burned her. The fire glowed with a purplish hue and an intense luminous white shined from its center. 


She never knew what this fire was or why she could manipulate it so skillfully. She did know that she was kept in a large white temple because of it, but whether that was caretaking or imprisonment she would find out on her own. 


In that temple, all Lunomi ever knew was black and white. White rooms. Black knights. A great white-rock landscape. A black sky. Men and women in robes of pure white. An endless ebony void with white lights dotted across it. The days spent in endless meditation and practice with her dark fire, at the watch and instruction of figures of white robes. Black knights followed her every step, which kept the robed ones at ease but constantly left Lunomi on edge, feeling as if they’d point their silver blades at her in any moment. 


As a child, she accepted such things as permanent fixtures of her life, but as she grew older, a great curiosity took hold of her heart and mind. The black knights and people in white robes told her to be afraid of it, but Lunomi sought to follow it and know more.


Like her dark fire, her curiosity grew and grew. No one but her could control it, and it felt exhilarating. 


One day she escaped the temple, using her fire to launch herself and fly across the white land she and her people called home. Lunomi travelled a great distance, not knowing where she’d go and what she’d find but still exhilarated by the wildness of freedom within the unknown. 


She spent days outside, avoiding patrols and capture. Her fire turned out to be a wonderful deterrent for black knights instead of something the temple authorities fawned over. Then, on a day unlike anything else, she made her greatest discovery. A sphere of brilliant blue and verdant green. Fluffy white spirals and blankets floating along the surface of it, moving inch by inch. Lunomi fell to her knees in awe of such a glorious world. Closing her eyes and tightly clasping her hands together, she prayed, and then wished she could go there. 


And then she did. 


You were sleeping in your poorly made tent when she made landfall and shook the earth. No one else came with you to the forest. You made sure to situate yourself in an isolated area too. So the obvious conclusion when you woke with such a startle was some kind of beast or explosion or exploding beast. Outside of the tent, you see a moonbeam shining down on a small mountain just a mile away. 


As a Solet, you came out here to find some way to change. What better way to do so then going out to where the ground shakes. The best decision is to run towards it. 


Out of breath, you make it to the top of the hill. You find a girl lying in a crater. Her hair and skin is white as snow, and her body glows with a faint white light. She’s dressed in a shimmering silver coat with patterns that shift and transform with her every movement. Small purple flames sputter out at the crater’s edge.

She lifts her head and your eyes meet. She’s beautiful. 


You introduce yourself as Terrence Solet. She says her name is Lunomi.  


The both of you start talking. You share your life and she shares her. In the span of a night, the two of you fall in love. The sun starts to rise and Lunomi starts to fade away. She explains she must return to the moon, but she wants to see you again. You want the same thing. On this hill in the middle of a forest, a man from earth and a woman from the moon make a promise. From there, a tradition is set. 


Years pass. You present is better than your past. The work you do is more fulfilling, and you have all the time you need to write and paint. Lunomi traverses the moon, flying without a care as the temple authorities chase after her. With love and a little support, your lives are better and more fulfilled. Anything is impossible. 


Every month that love is rekindled as the two of you meet again on full moon days. Life becomes even greater. 


Today, you trek up the hill, and there she is, radiant and full. Like you, she waits for these days, and she’s so relieved when you get another day together. You both smile and take each other’s hand for this brief moment of romance, white morning-glories in full bloom surround you. 


Walking down the hill, you catch one another up of the goings-on in your respective worlds. You tell her stories about the city, where she wishes she could be. While your mundane stories somehow make her envious, her stories about the moon never fail to amaze you. She tells you memories of her new life. The shadow of a coming conflict seems to darken her thoughts, but you let her know their is nothing to fear. With two people so peculiar, a forest walk at night can be the most romantic thing of all. 


You love her. She loves you. 


You looked for clarity in a world gone dark. She searched for meaning cause her world lost its own. 


Instead you found each other. Thankfully, it was more than enough. 


She is so different from you and you are likewise for her, yet somehow that love remains the same, even when time and distance tests its resolve. 


She tells you more stories. You tell a joke. You share a laugh. One of you cries. One shares their fear but the other responds with hope. Both of you, happy in the end. 


However, like all of these days, it must end. The sun starts to peek out. You must leave one another. She rises into the chill dawn sky and you walk all the way home. In such a small time, the two of you know when to share goodbyes. This day however, you share them through a kiss, one that lingers until the next day you meet. 


All that walking wears your hiking shoes out, but you don’t care. The earth and the city beneath seeks to drag you down but the possibility of another moment with her drives you. An inner strength is constantly rediscovered. Damn the weaknesses that the others treated like your shackles. 


Glorious moonbeams reaching across that significant distance. She is carried by the light, in betrayal of the rules she refuses to follow. A devotion to something more feeds her defiance. Her superiors had their own designs for her, but she wanted no part of it. To love is more rewarding than to fight. 


You both go a long way to see each other, and it is worth every pain, every scolding, to get there. One love connected by a shared heaven forever at risk of becoming another battlefield. The two of them pray that a fight will not come to pass. They hope no barrier can be built to keep them apart. 


A new month comes. The next day to meet arrives. 


Now, here you are. Alone, wondering where she is, afraid for where she went. The flowers remain as mere buds. Nothing glows on this hilltop. Smog and ash blanket the heavens. The sky is not clear anymore. 


There’s now an emptiness where your love would be. There’s a darkness where the moon should be.


You were Terrence Solet. She was Lunomi. 

Friday, April 10, 2020

Flash Fiction: Hollywood Flash


It’s hard to focus on walking straight when walking down Hollywood Boulevard. Lights, crowds, and screaming, or at least what feels like screaming. Anguish upon laughter upon cries of happiness and dreams come true, amplified to the nth degree. Noise. Noise. Noise.

It’s also so very, very hot.

I’ve run myself ragged, bringing myself here.

“You need to put yourself out there, to the public,” I said to myself. “You’ll never truly know how to act unless you drag yourself out of your room and force yourself into the herd.” I might have imagined that last part.

Now, at the busiest street in Los Angeles, it seems that I have forgotten what I was going to do in the first place. I did not bring my camera or a book to read while sitting in the shade. There is no productivity to be found in this moment. Am I meant to just start conversations with any of the strangers here? There’s no way I can do that. Most of them are not my age and they do not seem to be the kind sort of people. The rest are just tourists, foreign tourists at that.

I could attend an attraction, like the wax museum, but tickets for that can disrupt anyone’s stable income. Not to mention that the only thing creepier than a wax museum is a guy spending time alone in a wax museum. No one normal would think taking a selfie with Marilyn Monroe is an activity worth seeking out.

Maybe I could do some homework at one of the cafes. But then I would need to buy something and suffer through exchanges with needling waitresses, when I would rather be left alone. I also forgot to bring my laptop, so that idea is already caput.

I have truly abandoned myself here, getting pushed around by tides of local wannabes. They say that the only one who can overcome my shyness, my introverted tendencies, is myself, but through constant trial and error, it is proven that I am the least equipped to overcome anything.


It was a trial walking to the train station and riding it all the way to here, and the error was forcing myself outside in the first place. It’s like throwing myself out to the sharks, and it seems I am stuck.

No matter how uncomfortable I am, or how much I want to return home, I will remain on Hollywood Boulevard for the entire day, walking back and forth until sunset and bedtime. I am already tired of it all.

The worst part?

It’s only been ten minutes since I’ve arrived.

Days spent outside are so very, very long.

Maybe I should buy a souvenir. Like a fake award to reward myself for at least trying.

It will shine a false gold, arms folded into itself, just standing up for being itself.

Flash Fiction: This Statue Goes To




I’ve never liked award shows, which is why it’s weird that I’ve done good enough to be nominated for one.

Screenwriting was the category, the most important, yet least appreciated, part of the filmmaking process, at least from my experience. I wrote a screenplay, an original, thank god, that an old friend of mine liked. He passed it on to one of his other old friends, who then went to another old friend. Then that old friend gave it to a director who convinced one of the big time producers to make a movie out of it. There were some edits to the script and a lot of improvisation during the actual movie, but it was still my name on the paper. A good enough name to be projected onto a big screen in front of the most prestigious and connected in Hollywood.

Now I’m here. At least I got some credit for my work, for once. Everyone I know just goes for directing.

Whether they are acting, editing, catering, or playing with their own, cheap, camcorder cameras, people want to be the big man in the chair. Never the guy in front of the computer, or the typewriter if you are just that old.

I don’t blame them, really. That is just how life goes, but it does get lonely when you have nobody to talk to about the craft of clacking keyed letters into something profound or facetious, depending on the kind of script you’re writing.

For the winner comes some recognition for the work they put in so far, as well as the pathway for future jobs from those who want a writer for a guide to artistic acclaim. For the losers, it is back to the writing salt mines. Back to the obscurity and the endless networking and emails, just for the chance of getting nominated again.

I hope it will be me, if only because I don’t think it will be me.


Will the judges, the voters, the academy, the universe, defy my expectations?
That script did take five years to complete, after all. One of my first stories. The one I felt the most passion for when I first started my career in writing. It would be nice.

My shelves have also been feeling very empty these past few weeks. They could use a golden statue to brighten things up.

The two presenters share a joke I can’t laugh at. One of them breaks the wax seal and holds the letter up for the other to read. There is a moment of suspense, a smile on the presenter’s lips as she rises up to declare the winner.

And the award... Does not go to me.

Better luck next time, I guess.

This was fun.

Hours pass. I walk home, after congratulating the other winners of course, thinking about what I should write next.

Ideas are already bubbling up from my mind. For the first time tonight, this is the best I’ve ever felt.

Flash Fiction: Goldfish


Guys! Guys! Ladies and gentlemen and the technicolor rainbow in between!

Have I got the movie for you.

The next big thing!

It’s got action, romance, and explosions with the very best actors and actresses working in Hollywood today. You know that one handsome devil? The sexy actress you dream of every night? This film has them and more acting ‘till they’re sore.

How did we get them? We pitched the script to them. It would boost their careers. Offered them a huge paycheck. We did it all! And my how it paid off.

For those more auteur-driven types, the man leading this astounding cast, directing each cog and machine in perfect harmony to bring you this spectacle is the man. He’s an award winner and a heart stealer! Tarantino, Waititi, Spielberg, Kubrick, Hitchcock, Scorsese, Coppola. They have nothing on this guy.

He’ll be your new favorite director if you haven’t heard of him, and your film god if you have!

And the genre? Oh boy the genre is a doozy.

Imagine the wildest story you are capable of, anchored by the most human of humanist storytelling and the most funny/ tragic/heroic/villainous characters to ever be funny/tragic/ heroic/villainous. It is an epic fiction of fantasy that not even science can properly replicate, a drama to end all previous dramas and all future dramas.

It is a story filled with heartbreak and love, beginnings humble and historic, endings both happy and bad.

It is escapist! It reflects the modern struggles of the times!


It brings the issues of history back to the forefront! It is life- changing! It is entertainment! It is whatever you want it to be!

No matter taste or preference, believe me when I say that this film has it. It will have every “it” you can possibly imagine.

Kids will shriek with laughter. The elderly will cry in despair. Teens will talk about it over sports games and car rides. Adults will write essays and think pieces about how wonderful it is.

This is not just a movie, it is a call to action! It is THE movie. Seeing it is a task everyone must complete. It will be irresponsible to not see it. See it or remain a disappointment to your loved ones for the rest of your life.

You’ll condemn its violence, you’ll celebrate its empathy! You’ll decry its message, you’ll celebrate its meaning!

This movie is everything. It will have everything! Toys, comics, tie-in novels, podcasts, songs, candy! There will be White House screenings no matter the party or politics! I bet it will have themed Happy Meals in every restaurant, from fast food to Mexican!

It will be the next big thing, and I challenge any one of you to prove me otherwise.

Now, to tell you what this movie is about— Wait...

Out there in the distance...

Is that...

Holy shit! A new thing! Guys! Guys!

Would you look at that!?


Oh wow! It is!


Flash Fiction: The Fighting Tides


I think it’s really cool to see people fight. In movies, TV shows, books, comics and the like. All the martial arts and weapons throughout history. All the techniques and skills and backstories and so many different fighting styles. 
Very cool. Very fast. 
I love it.  
Fighting is not as much in real life though, unless it’s funny. Lots of funny stuff on the Internet. Wrestling is alright too. Watching all of the fighting behind the screen makes things feel all awesome and warm on the inside, especially in the brain.
All the adrenaline that keeps me pumped for future battles like homework and chores within the safety of my own home. 
I’ve never had to raise up my fists. I’ve never had to yell or even raise my voice. 
But right now, I don’t know. Something weird is going on out here. 
People are out on the streets, the radio and the news. I see them ever so often. They yell and they fight through fists and insults to get what they want. 
Some of these fighters want what they are due as citizens of this world. Some are not. Some fight without even knowing what they want or what’s in front of them. Few fighting styles are elegant and precise in their delivery and target. Most are just a sprawling mass of fists, yelling and force. 
It feels so uncomfortable, watching them. 
Like standing at the edge of a raging ocean. Unrelentless tides. So close to dragging me out into it. So close to immersing in all that anger, that fighting. 
The waves screaming at me until anger seethes 24/7. 
Deeper and deeper until the pressure crushes me.  
Fight or die. Fight or die. 
So much fighting and so much strife. All too close for comfort. All too much. 
I don’t like being angry. It makes me feel terrible. 
I don’t want to fight if that means I have to fight all the time. 
They fight for their lives. What can I fight for?
I can’t fight like them. 
But still I ask myself the question. Shouldn’t I fight a little bit?
I sat and thought. Struggled and toiled over the right choice to make, the right way to act. 
Ultimately searching for the right way to fight.
The decision I came to created a sort of peace within me. 
My fighting style is speaking, not loudly but kindly. With all the words in my arsenal. 
I speak about myself, for anyone willing to listen. 
Sometimes I can even write! I do it for those willing to read. 
What do I fight for? I fight for myself.
Some understand. Some don’t. Some understand, but really don’t understand. 
When all is said and done, I think I will be the only one who truly can truly know me. 
But that shouldn’t mean my own self is not worth fighting for.
I can fight for myself at the very least.