Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #14: PepWay

You know the meme “If it exists, there is porn of it—no exceptions”? Well, I found an exception after half a minute of Googling: Peppercorn Way, that family show that had run for maybe eight episodes when I was eight, during the summer of ’75. I had watched that show religiously; its countrified sappiness had distracted me from the slow-motion collapse of my parents’ marriage. I’m almost tempted to write dirty PepWay fanfic and post it somewhere, even though probably no one but me remembers that show; true artistes march to their own drummers (though I prefer drum machines).

Copyright © 2017 by David V. Matthews

Advertisements

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #13: Sustainable Farming

Five minutes into my supervisor’s PowerPoint presentation, I wanted to beat the living crap out of him, meaning I’d grown more tolerant in my old age, ha ha, but not too tolerant.

God, what a liberal jackass—no one outside of wine-and-cheese parties cares about sustainable farming.  I can’t wait for President Trump to stamp out this PC bullshit.  If we didn’t alter the environment to raise crops, millions of people would starve.  I dunno if Trump the real-estate guy knows anything about agriculture, but someone in his administration probably does.  You can’t run the government with a narrow mindset.

*

Written on the spot

 

Copyright © 2017 by David V. Matthews

January 20, 2017

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #12: Highly Sivilized

A year into pursuing her MFA in creative writing, she quit graduate school because she thought her instructors had turned her into a New Yorker-style author, one who, as she put it on her blog, “poops out polished turds about the white upper-middle-class, with at least one big ol’ fuckin’ epiphany per story.  To paraphrase Huck Finn, I don’t want the cultural gatekeepers to ‘sivilize’ me.”  (She had leafed through Twain’s novel once.)  Today, she works at a gourmet cupcake shop in the upper-middle-class bohemian part of town but considers herself highly sivilized because she doesn’t spit into the batter.

*

Written on the spot

Copyright © 2017 by David V. Matthews

 

Rationality

In a glass of whiskey, a shark chomps off a swimmer’s head.  Chocolate icing sports a vulva.  Everything contains numerous SEXes and FUCKs and KILLs.  For four decades, as one of Madison Avenue’s top artists, he secretly embedded subliminal words and images into print advertisements, winning eight or nine industry awards in the process.  Now, as he lies dying of stage-four pancreatic cancer in his hospice bed, he does not regret keeping the economy healthy via tapping into (some would say exploiting) consumers’ subconscious fears and desires.  Rather, he regrets not flying to Mexico with his girlfriend, the love of his life (he now realizes), on vacation in 1981.  Neither of them had previously gone there; he watched her choose that country when she tossed a dart at a map of the world she had taped to his apartment wall.  He worried they would risk their lives in what he called that Third-World hellhole.  She called him racist.  He called himself rational.  After uttering FUCK followed by YOU, she tore down the map, crumpled it up, hurled it down at the floor, and left his apartment.  They never spoke to each other again.  She traveled to Mexico a few months later and ended up moving there; the last he heard, she had married some left-wing labor activist and started working at a non-governmental organization.  Maybe Mexico did have something.  Maybe it has subliminals.  Of course it does; they circle the globe, from the Third World to the First.

Oh, shit, the pain.  He thinks his morphine drip has broken.

Copyright © 2016 by David V. Matthews

 

A Full-body Chill

Rapidly approaching the sidewalk after hurling herself from the roof of the financial company where she’s worked since graduating from college, her final memory involves a blind date she had nineteen years earlier at age nineteen with a twenty-six-year-old man; he took her to a trendy restaurant, where, after they’d ordered dinner, he said he worked as a systems analyst for the Pentagon. “I do research to make sure our bombs’ll go ‘boom’ when we drop them on the Middle East or wherever,” he said with a chuckle. She considered him a callous jerk and never dated him again; in fact, she had forgotten about him until now, near the end of her six-story fall. Maybe the subconscious connection involving death from the skies had caused her to remember that jerk, she would have thought if her depressive thoughts hadn’t predominated. Not even the probability of receiving yet another glowing performance review from her company could improve her mental and emotional state.

Meanwhile, six hundred miles away, her older sister, who had set up that blind date, and who works as an assistant district attorney for a county that prides itself on its high percentage of drug-related asset-forfeiture cases, experiences “a full-body chill,” or so the older sister will call it anonymously on a psychic-phenomena chatroom that night. Soon after flying back from the funeral, the older sister will purchase a jasmine-scented, eight-inch-long, herbal “healing candle” from a local strip-mall store that sells paraphernalia related to spirituality, mysticism, and magick-with-a-K; she will keep the candle, unused, in her dresser drawer for a week before thinking Well, might as well, you sucker, then taking out the candle and inserting it inside the crystal candle holder that a boyfriend gave her eight years ago as a present after she’d won her biggest trial to date, sending the county’s biggest marijuana cultivator to prison for life without parole.

 

Copyright © 2016 by David V. Matthews