Double-Click Flash Fic

by Maya Sokolovski

  “Efforts redouble on the ‘Asian contagion’”;

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  “The desert dictator’s acting oafish”;

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  The Philosopher

  Le philosophe is pacing the hallway again. We call him that because that’s what he does. Or what it looks like he’s doing: walking up and down the hall, silent, gaze a few feet ahead. Thinking about humanity’s greatest conundrums. “Hey, Balzac!” we yell but he doesn’t reply. Lost in thought. Like a philosopher or something. But when he speaks, which is rarely, he sounds just like us. No lofty thoughts in that great big head of his. But the nickname persists.

  Janelle is in my room again. It’s evening, and she’s standing by the window. The grey light filters in through the rain drops and her figure is in silhouette. I wonder what she’s filched from me this time, if she’s filched anything this time. I don’t say anything to her. I’m feeling generous with the few belongings I brought with me. And she doesn’t talk anyway – like, at all – so what do you say to someone like that? I keep the lights off and go about my business as if she weren’t there. With a chirp, she’s out of my room like a shot. It’s not by accident that I don’t impose. Plumed wonders like her are easily spooked, and it’s my belief that you should always give people their space.

  The next morning, I line up for breakfast and see Janelle in the blue sweater my best friend gave me years ago. Eh, whatever. Live and let live.

  Bertrand is slurring again. It’s not because he’s not right in the head – no one in here has his head right. It’s because he doesn’t open his mouth all the way when he speaks. And he doesn’t open his mouth all the way when he speaks because he has bad teeth. Like, they’re white, but crooked and jagged and weird. It might also be because he’s a real ladies’ man, and his slow, languorous way of speaking is part of his natural appeal. He’s so chill. That, and you can tell he works out. My first morning here, I saw him sitting across from some girl. When I introduced myself and reached out to shake hands with her, then with him, he took my hand between his two hands and turned on the charm. “Hello my dear, and how are you today?” Or as I heard it, “Hellooo maa derrr, aaand howrrryuuu toodaay?” It’s a relief that everyone here is about the same age as me. If Bertrand were older I don’t know what I’d do.

  Now that I think of it, Bertrand might not sound right because he’s bilingual. The Quebecois part of him might be warring with the English part of him, and with the parts of him that visited different countries and slept with beautiful women speaking foreign tongues. He has two girlfriends, he tells me, in two different countries. Typical.

  Seen through a Window

  It’s summer and she’s sitting in an air-conditioned coffee shop, trying to find the words. Today’s newspaper is in front of her on the table, she’s sipping on a mochaccino, and the words aren’t coming. She braces herself for the meeting that’s slowly closing in on her, and gazes out of the window looking for him but knowing he won’t be there yet. Outside, the sun bathes everything in a cold light – the cars driving past, the people walking by, the young trees gently waving in the wind. There is so much happening out in the world that she feels ashamed that the only thing going for her is the slim hope that the nothingness of her life will abate soon. She was never an optimist, but not a pessimist either. The mute neutrality that defines her so well does not see its counterpoint in the world buzzing around her. Through the window, she sees an attractive couple linger for a few moments on the sidewalk. The young woman slips off her sunglasses and looks up at the young man. He’s saying something, a smirk on his face. The young woman scrunches up her face in what must be confusion, then erupts into a laugh. Interesting how she could hear a laugh even when there was no sound. Soon they walk off, towards some kind of future, a future she, inside the coffee shop, feels she has already lost. The words, the words, she thinks, if only I had the right words. He’ll be coming in, she knows, and he’ll have all the words. How can she keep up when she’s so empty? What is she going to say? Perhaps it would be best to say nothing, she thinks, and turns her face away from the window.

  And How Was Your Day?

  “And how was your day?”

  Sandy looked at Shelly. She didn’t want to answer her sister’s question the way she usually does: candidly, with a recited list of what she had eaten, whom she had seen, and what she had written from early this morning to the present moment. She didn’t want to say anything, least of all what was weighing on her mind. So instead she turned the question around on her sister.

  “Pretty good, pretty good, thank you.” Sandy smiled weakly. “And how was yours?”

  Shelly seemed surprised by the response, so unlike her older sister, but then she knew Sandy had her moody days, so she didn’t press her for more information.

  They were sitting on the couch and sipping White Zinfandel from shot glasses, the only glassware they had for alcohol. The apartment seemed too small suddenly and Sandy felt an urge to escape. Instead, she listened to Shelly talk about her day.

  “Well, over lunch, Samantha from Marketing talked my ear off about the new boots she bought and what a steal they were – hey, are you okay?”

  Shelly had her Concerned look, Concerned with a capital C. Something about Sandy’s facial expression must have given her away. Sandy rearranged her features and said in a voice slightly more strident than she intended, “Yeah, I’m fine. The Zin is going to my head, that’s all.”

  Shelly smiled. “You were always a lightweight.” She went on, sharing office gossip, bemoaning the death of her plant, and plotting their plans for the weekend – her vision was of them, two spinster sisters of modest means, taking the air in a park, maybe popping into a Tim Hortons for coffee and bagels and a chat with some strangers united by their love of cheap fare.

  But the only thing on Sandy’s mind was the automatic pencil and legal pad she had “borrowed indefinitely” from the office earlier that same day. Sandy was a doodler and a hack writer, and she needed this. Still, it was company property. The dilemma of her sudden act weighed heavily on her. Was it breaking the law if she used the pencil and pad to write with the goal of contributing to the company outside of work hours? She had a lot of good, edgy ideas, she did.

  Bodacious

  The sunlight glints off of Tasha’s knockoff Ray-Ban sunglasses and Teddy wonders if it was such a good idea to come here. The water’s good, the DJ passable, the crowd not even swarming, and the sun – it shines, which is the most it can be expected to do in the middle of May. But already Tasha’s chewed Teddy out for looking around and resting his gaze a millisecond too long on a babe with a bodacious beach bod. Except those aren’t quite the terms he would use. They’re terms Tasha would use, except about other men, except when she had had her fourth drink. She’s holding steady now with one beer already in her and a cosmo in hand, sip sip, she goes, staring at him over the glass and getting ready for what he now sees as inevitable. She draws herself up to her full 5’4” height, chin up, shoulders down, ignoring the masses milling around, and launches into a monologue.

  “Teddy, baby, you know I love you sooo much, right? There’s no one I’d rather be with, and even though we’ve been together for only seven months, I feel like you and I really have history, like prehistory, like soulmates in another life. Like, in this life, too – you know what I mean!” She laughs.

  Teddy opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, she barrels on.

  “And since we’re so close, you know we can say anything to each other, like anything.”

  Teddy doesn’t like the sound of that. He tenses and prepares for the worst.

  �
�And you know I’m a very honest person, like I can’t keep any secrets from you or anyone really close and important to me.” Her voice grows more strident with every word. Teddy sighs.

  “Well, there’s something I’ve been really meaning to tell you, really soon …” She pauses significantly.

  Teddy waits. Finally, she blurts it out.

  “——!”

  It’s a good thing she’s got a bodacious beach body herself, or else Teddy wouldn’t be putting up with this nonsense.

  I Want to Be Your Galatea, Or, The Amazing Dissolving Girl

  I want to be your Galatea

  A great big block of ivory

  Standing 5‘8”

  White and cool to the touch

  Unassuming, raw material

  Only you can see the figure hidden inside

  Under your rough hands

  With only a carving tool

  And the image in your mind

  You can chip away

  Piece by piece

  Slowly, the material crumbling

  Falling apart at the edges

  Outside in

  The shape of the statue pressing gently

  Inside out

  As the hard outlines soften into feminine curves

  You can touch the statue that is your vision made

  manifest

  The ivory will seem to quiver when you run your

  fingers over it

  Here is her head, here are her arms

  Here is the length of her torso

  There is a shapely leg, there another

  You can stand back from your creation

  The better to admire it

  But your hands will itch to touch

  To glide, trembling, over the still unyielding surface

  Galatea, you will name her

  Milky-skinned one

  That you can dress in fine clothes

  According to your tastes

  She is yours, your very own creation.

  I Don’t Want to Be Your Galatea, Or, To a Man Who Cares for Fashion

  Tell me what colour clothes match my hair

  Tell me, oh, tell me what to wear

  Shall I put on this jacket of yours so we can ski

  Does this lipstick make mine lips plum or cherry

  My family’s rich but I’m a poor working stiff

  Advise me on raises, and work, I won’t be miffed

  Scathe me with criticism, fill me with pain

  I know you will never see me again

  But God, I adore you and your smooth-talkin’ ways

  I’ll remember and pine for the rest of my days

  The way you put your hand right there

  And the way you tended my wound with care

  How you told me what happened was not my fault

  That being young and foolish is fine even for adults

  That my body is beautiful just the way it is

  Sealed it with a kiss, like this, and like this

  In Canada, you said, people understand

  Of course you would, you play in a band

  And music’s emotion courses through your soul

  Respect and trust, your mottos through all

  You’re so wise and smart but such a child

  You said it yourself, you’re the one who’s wild.

  Red Hipster Propaganda DIY

  In the apartment of a millennial power couple

  He, an investment banker

  She, a professional artist

  Hang and sit pictures and curios

  Celebrating their shared heritage ironically

  He, born in the former USSR

  She, in China

  Propaganda postcards here and there

  With Russian characters and traditional Chinese ideograms

  With red-cheeked pioneers of the bright republics, smiling

  Miniature flags, refrigerator magnets

  Each juxtaposed and so very congruent

  Hilarious and apt

  You’d get the joke if you’d been there

  A history they have in common, though miles had been between them

  The lingering collective unconscious still felt despite the laughter

  (Or maybe because of it)

  Of hardship, punishment, gulags, massacres

  Mind-numbing conformity and hysterical secrecy

  A sharp knock on the door in the middle of the night

  And the dream, the yearning for the West

  The mythical land paved with gold and blooming with

  ‘American Beauty’ roses

  Where struggle still exists

  But it’s not the same

  And given a choice – here, they have it – they’d never go back

  Despite traces of nostalgia, fond memories of pain.

  A framed picture of a bird, hand-painted, hangs on the living room wall.

  They are free in the home of the brave.

  Bad Scrape: A Story about Cars, Okay?

  A few cars drive past with barely a pause in the rhythm of their traffic, but I stop walking some feet away and contemplate the scene unfolding on the road. A grey BMW Sedan has steered sideways into a white Honda Accord, buckling the driver-side door of the BMW and the shotgun door of the Honda.

  A soft snow falls. It is the beginning of December, and the roads are clean, clear, and perfectly drivable, and yet this accident blocks part of the way along this street. No one stops; a handful of drivers peek out of their windows for a moment, then are on their way. The driver of the BMW rolls down his window and gestures from it; the driver of the Honda cranes her neck as much as she can to hear him better, then nods. BMW switches lanes and turns into the parking lot of a nearby plaza; Honda follows suit until they are parked side by side. BMW’s car door is mangled so badly he can’t get out of it.

  He could get out through the shotgun seat, which is unoccupied, but he chooses, for some reason, to remain where he is and conduct his conversation through a crack in the window. Honda steps out of her car and walks around so that she is on the other side of BMW’s window. She’s not injured, and neither is he, by the looks of it. They talk, then each pulls out their cell phone and makes a call. Some minutes pass. Honda hangs up her phone and waits for BMW to finish. BMW talks for a long time. Then he makes another phone call which is equally long. Finally, he too hangs up and resumes conversation with Honda.

  It’s hard to make out, but he is pudgy, with pink puffy cheeks and a small forehead. He wears Coke-bottle glasses, and his eyes are set deep in his face. She is slim to the point of nonexistence, with a pinched look on her otherwise pretty face.

  After more talking, Honda goes back to her car and retrieves a notebook and a pen. She goes back over, then stands there, shivering in the cold while he watches her jot down her information. Her writing arm trembles. The snow continues to fall. She hands the notebook and pen over to him, and he takes his time writing down his information. She continues to stand. Continues to shiver. He tries to suppress a smirk, but she doesn’t notice the suppression nor the beginnings of his self-satisfied grin.

  It’s unbearable to look at this, to tolerate this. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the ramifications; any driver can tell you that if you’ve been in an accident, you stay put. Moving the vehicles away from the original scene and not flagging down witnesses means that anything could have happened. He said, she said. At best, both of them will be found guilty for the accident. At worst, she may be found to be at fault for something she did not do, was only subjected to by forces beyond her control. The damage could have been inflicted by either car, judging by the state of the car doors. And judging by the crafty look on the man’s face, he knows how things stand. She, on the other hand, looks shell-shocked. She’s never been in a car accident before. She must be no older than 20. He must be in his late 40s.

  I walk over as they’re talking and gently tap her on the shoulder. “Bad scrape you got into.” She turns around, astonished. BMW’s face deflates
.

  Defence and Expert Testimony on the Murder of an Arab

  I would be indebted to you, gentlemen of the jury, if you excused my client’s absence from these proceedings; he has been struck with a brain fever, an affliction which visits him occasionally, and which speaks to a deeply rooted infirmity that has plagued him for the larger part of his life. Oblige, if you would be so kind, to hear my testimony, for I speak not only as an advocate, but as a medical practitioner who had the responsibility and privilege to serve as caretaker of and confidant to M. Meursault in his most trying moment. I intend to prove that his crime was committed from a position of deep disease, and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions, gruesome though they may be.

  My client stands accused of murdering by gunshot a man of Arabic descent whose name, by request of the slain victim’s family, shall be omitted from my testimony. Meursault and the murdered individual had no prior relationship before the alleged murder; in fact, the date of the murder was the first – and last – time either had seen the other. They were perfect strangers. The gun was fired once, then four more times, and according to a witness, the accused appeared neither angry nor glad before, during, or after the event; he appeared, in fact, emotionless and, as this witness put it earlier, “eerily detached from his actions, as if some unholy spirit were guiding his hand.”

  Meursault has always been an outsider, a stranger to the society he lives in. And as my clinical report states – please turn to page 14 of the document in front of you – Meursault “suffers from the pathological inability to feel or express empathy … Grief and happiness alike are foreign to him, and he lives isolated from and out of touch with the real world.” It is my professional opinion that Meursault suffers from a heretofore undiagnosed case of psychopathy, and that far from being a calculating killer with evil motives, he is the victim of a mental illness which, though incurable, can be treated and controlled within the safe confines of an asylum.