~C4Chaos

Flash Fiction: The Drinking Hole

The murky water of the Chicago River turns into a perfect Irish green. At first glance it looks like an algae outbreak or a boomeritis ego-spill. But no, it's a handiwork of city crews inpired by pollutions, leprechauns, and an Irish saint named Patrick.

I sometimes wish I could partake with the festive enthusiasm but I'm neither Irish nor American. I'm just an impartial observer of the wonderful parades, riverdances, flood of alcohols, and the irritating laughter of Conan O'Brien. I understand that this day is special, even holy for some, but for me I will always associate St. Patrick's Day with strip bars and taxi drivers.

You see, the first time I ever saw a St. Patrick's Day parade my head was still pounding from lack of sleep because I were in a strip bar the night before. It was my first time to witness totally nude and gorgeous dancers only inches away from my gross pulsating body. But whenever I try to recall the scene I only get garbled images of headless dancers, shaved bodies, faint smell of Victoria's Secret lotions, and pain in the groin. The weird thing is, it's easier for me to recall the taxi ride home. It's hard to forget a ride when the taxi driver kept bitchin' about the inequality of wealth distribution, corruption in politics, terrorism, emptiness in pop culture, and the overall insane state of the nation.

"I see no solution to all this bullshit," the taxi driver with gray Einstein-like hair continued to mumble. "People nowadays are just born lazy, crazy, and whiny. I think it's better off to blow this stupid planet with fucking nuclear and electromagnetic pulse weapons and start civilization from scratch." His methods maybe sick but his concerns and frustrations seemed sincere. I wanted to get home safely that night so I just nodded and faked a smile.

I woke up early the next morning and walked with anticipation along Dearborn Ave. I watched the marching bands, decorated floats, dancing cheerleaders, children with leprechaun masks, family get-togethers, avid drinkers, and men with beads. I had no idea what they were celebrating then, but it was fun to watch people having a good time -- inebriated or otherwise. Then I walked along the Chicago River and noticed the bright green hue of the water. The sight was awesome. But for a brief moment, I wondered if it was a sign of Armageddon.

Flash Fiction: Myth of Ten

(01/30/02)

“Ever wonder why people use the Decimal system,” your Math professor addresses everyone in the room while straightening his thick glasses as it slips down his oversized nose, “instead of, let’s say, Octal, or maybe Binary?”

There’s a momentary lull, as blank stares register on the faces of your classmates.

“C’mon kids, use your imagination. Why ten, when eight or two can do the same job?”

You then start to wonder and imagine a world without numbers. In your mind you erase the things that were created with the help of numbers.

First to disappear are computers, televisions, video games, microwaves, and the toaster. Then you realize that electricity cannot be tamed without the advanced science of numbers, so you take electricity out of your world, along with all its gifts to civilized humanity. The atomic and industrial ages vanish in a blink of your mind’s eye.

You find yourself back in the Middle Ages. You look around and can only see wooden houses, barns, domesticated animals, and tilled lands for farming. You comprehend that agriculture will not be possible without a concept of numbers, and so you go deeper into the past once more.

You find yourself living in a tribe of primitive people dancing and wailing around a campfire, celebrating a successful hunt. You see the chieftain counting and dividing their catch of the day among women and children, exchanging the excess for grains and raw materials for their clothing and weaponry. Even without a spoken language, you know they already have a concept of numbers. Still not satisfied with what you see, you again go deeper into the past.

You find yourself inside the body of a caveman. Looking through his eyes, you see him picking up twigs for his evening bonfire. He goes near the opening of his cave, lays the twig on the ground in a circular fashion, one by one, one for each finger on his hands.

Trembling with excitement, you raise both hands; fingers spread into the air as you try to get your professor’s attention.

Flash Fiction: To Err is Human…

(01/14/02)

He awakes with an irritating, rustling sound inside his left ear. He has no idea what kind of creature is crazy enough to go on a spelunking adventure in his skull; could it be a ladybug, an ant, a fly, or perhaps a cricket? He doesn’t really care; all he wants is to get rid of the little bugger that trespassed in his head.

Still sleepy and hair sticking out in every direction, he forces himself out of his mattress. He almost stepped on the open box of leftover pizza from last night as he makes his way to the shower. He figures that an early morning shower would take care of the nuisance in his ear. He would flush out Mr. Jiminy, as he nicknamed the unknown intruder, and teach him a lesson in privacy.

He steps out of the shower, all fresh and squeaky-clean, but still, the creature continues to make annoying, rustling sound in his ear. The little shit is tougher than he thought, but he hasn’t ran out of ideas just yet. He opens his medicine cabinet, takes a single q-tip, inserts it in his left ear and starts scooping like a mad man. He scoops and scoops but all he gets is a bunch of golden waxy stuff—no sign of Mr. Jiminy. He takes another q-tip, then another, and another, then he starts to worry that he might injure himself and make the situation worse, so he stops scooping and decides to leave his ear alone, at least for now. He thinks that the creature would suffocate in a matter of minutes anyway, so he would just ignore it and deal with it later.

In the meantime, he decides to start working on his story, which is due by tomorrow afternoon, as his editor is getting very impatient with him already.

After putting on his boxer shorts and white t-shirt, he sits in front of his antiquated typewriter and starts to feed it with a blank sheet of paper. He then takes a cigarette from his pack, lights it up with a stainless metallic lighter, and starts huffing and puffing. Smoking has been his habit since high school. This habit extended to his writing ritual; he would consume pack after pack of cigarettes until he finishes a story—good for him he doesn’t write novels.

Cigarette in his mouth and fingers on the typewriter, he starts typing away his story idea. The crackling sound in his ear continues to annoy him but he tries to ignore it and keeps his focus on his writing. But halfway along the page, not able to bear the irritating sound any longer, he comes up with a crazy idea. He quickly takes the cigarette from his mouth, jams the butt inside his ear—die sucker, die!—while pounding away on his typewriter. Within few moments he hears a loud scrambling noise, as if a platoon of soldiers are marching out of his ear. He shudders, pulls the cigarette out of his left ear and puts it back in his mouth. Then suddenly a tiny red ant starts crawling out of his ear, and down to his cheek.

At first he wanted to squash the little rascal, but then he picks it up gently between his thumb and ring finger, puts it on top of his desk, all the while looking at the tiny creature with an amusing thought in his head—…to forgive is divine, applies to bugs too.

After finishing his story, he puts out his cigarette, tosses the pack of remaining ones along with the ashtray and his precious lighter in the trash can.

/FF-coolmel

Flash Fiction: Fire in the sky

(01/16/02)

People at the beach were frozen as they stared in awe at the myriad of red and yellow orb-like flames falling down from the sky. From where they stood, the balls of flames looked harmless, adorable even. Then some people started murmuring, expressing a mixture of delights and fears on the phenomenon they were witnessing. But then, a few moments later, people started shouting as they pointed to the biggest ball of fire about to hit the ocean surface.

There was a deafening explosion as a gigantic dark-gray splash spurted skyward like lava from a volcano. The chain reaction painted the sky with an ominous blanket of smoke, similar to a mushroom cloud during a nuclear blast, as an enormous tidal wave started rumbling towards the shoreline.

Like ants scrambling when their hills get disturbed, the mob of half-naked people scurried in terror; some even fainted, while others just stood there, motionless—their bones petrified. Some of those religious ones fell on their knees, arms extended, while addressing their personal gods. Some lucky ones who were with their families started to hold hands, embracing each other, as tears rolled down their lifeless eyes. And there were those who just dropped to the ground, curling up like porcupines in the sand, as if bidding farewell to their sorry asses.

Those who had the presence of mind started running to the nearest shelter—some even climbed the lifeguard’s wooden tower. And the others, well, the others started picking up circular floaters—those colorful, black, blue, yellow, green, air-stuffed lifesavers people use to stay afloat—thinking that those toys could protect them. Yep, they were toys alright.

/FF-coolmel

Flash Fiction: Axe of Compassion

(07/29/2003)

B.B. King calls his, “Lucille”. He has many women but is faithful to only one mistress. I have three mistresses. And I am faithful to all of them.

The first is “Phoebe” (the True). My wife brought her home for my birthday. She looks American but she is actually a senyorita from Mejico. Her solid stance, firm slender body, and soft Caucasian neck oozes with sex appeal. She has dark moles all over her neck that make her sexier by the minute. She was wearing fake tattoos when I met her, trying to make herself look cool. My gaydar detected she was a closet lesbian. I was up for the challenge. But I failed miserably. So I decided to teach her some rough lovin’ and took her to the experienced guys next to a biker bar. They taught her how to become a woman there. When she came back home, she was ready for me. And I was more than willing to take her for a rough ride. Unlike before, her soft platinum-blonde hair was flowing with femininity. I turned her knobs and cranked her skinny arm to make her shrill. She responded to my every move while screaming like a banshee and purring like a kitty. She now sleeps with us in our bedroom and likes to watch our nightly activity.

The second is “Ebony” (the Good). My wife met her during her trip to Oregon. My wife befriended her, asked her to tag along, and brought her home one evening. The first time I met her I was mesmerized. Her black complexion, dark brown neck, long brunette hair extending past her waist, curvaceous body, and humongous booty would give a male cadaver a boner. Her initial is tattooed with white gothic font on her left side, just above her hip. We became close that same day so I decided to try my mojo on her. At first she was shy and didn’t like to make loud noises. So I kept caressing her below her waist, above her chest, and around her opening. And when I discovered her G-spot, she just can’t stop screamin’ from morning until evening. I knew I was her first. And I was honored to break her in.

The third is “Turiya” (the Beautiful), a dazzling feline from cyberspace. My wife met her online being cuddled by Steven Tyler. She knocked on our front door one afternoon, dressed-to-kill. I was wearing only a boxer brief, hauling my heavy ass across the living room when I opened the door. I couldn’t believe what I witnessed before me. Attached to her was a note signed by my wife: “Happy Anniversary! She’s here to keep you busy while I’m out of the country. Treat her well.” I was trembling with excitement while I checked out her package. Then I started to undress her without saying a word… holding my breath for every piece of clothing I tore away. I felt I was exploding as I got close to revealing her skin. When I finally removed her black leather lingerie, she revealed her body piercings covered by tattoos on both her left and right breasts—they were minuscule sculptures of autumn leaves but they looked like flames from volcanic debris. And she also had moles—tiny spots hidden on the side of her neck. We soon found ourselves locked in a passionate kiss. I laid her down the sofa, and gently stroked her copper-colored hair. When I thought she was ready, I penetrated her opening and we made love on the couch, on the floor, for seven hours or more … We filled the entire afternoon with noises, sweat, and tears. I think I’ll be making love to her more often in the coming years.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t make all of them happy at the same time. I’m not that skilled, and I’m too young for Viagra. So they have to take turns. I don’t have a schedule but they get my unwavering attention depending on my mood. Whenever I feel frisky I would always grab Ebony, stroke her hair, and caress her big booty. Whenever I feel sleazy I would embrace Phoebe. I would yank her hair real hard and make her scream in passion until we fall asleep. And whenever I feel creative I would take Turiya by her waist, fondle her neck to lubricate her before interfacing... Then after a short while of foreplay, we’ll immerse ourselves in a Tantric embrace that would last for hours and an eternity… Until no one is left but the primordial sounds of “Ah”, “Om”, and “Eeh.”

My wife gets jealous from time to time. Who wouldn’t? But more often than not, me, my wife, and my three mistresses get along very well. I am so proud of them I even let our close friends watch us get down and do our thing. We’re like a hardcore reality TV show with no plot or script: just a home full of lovin’, humpin’, screamin’, fightin’, and cryin’. And I couldn’t help but smile on the irony of it all—thinking that my wife was the one who brought all three of them home… to keep me company… Now THAT is kinda kinky.

/FF-coolmel

Flash Fiction: Turiya Chronicles - Meet Turiya

(04/01/2003)

Honk!

Her awareness expanded as the great oceans flow through her veins. The world vanishes and reappears in every single heartbeat while the stars and galaxies dance inside her like drifting dust. A radiant sun shines between her breasts where her heart once was. The billions of cells in her body cry out a painful joy as she bursts into an uncontrollable laughter and explodes into countless pieces scattering in every direction. She is everywhere and nowhere.

She is the robin that sings in springtime,
The melody that travels through time,
She is the listener that resonates,
With every overtones' passing states,

She is the perpetrator of every transgression,
The victim of her own aggression,
She is the tyrant in every kingdom,
As is the valiant that fights for freedom,

She gazes in awe like an eye of a storm,
For every life-force assuming a form,
She wallows in sadness and sheds her tears,
For every death of passing peers,

She is everything and no-thing.
She is the Kosmos, the One without a second.

Honk!

In a blink she drifts from her exalted state as quickly as she was catapulted there a second ago. She finds herself sitting inside a booth on I-90 in the middle of winter. A car is stalling in front of her as the driver hands her a crumpled dollar. She trembles while she hands back the change and presses the button that raises the yellow lever.

Still speechless, she zips her jacket, leaves her post, and walks on the shoulder on her way to nowhere--smiling.

/FF-coolmel

Flash Fiction: Turiya Chronicles - A Tea with Turiya

(01/24/02)

My name is Turiya. I have always been here, but he became aware of me just recently.

One night, alone in his office, he made a desperate cry for help by writing a poem about his sincere longing:

Oh my daemon where art thou?
Rescue me from this prison cell
of botched dreams and cubic hells,
That I may labor with inspiration,
not with blind desperation,
That I may feel pleasure in spite of pain,
never again to toil in vain,
That I may find my lasting passion…
and long for purpose no more.

His words filled me with compassion, I had no choice but to ascend from where I was, and offer myself to him. He didn’t recognize me right away, but I know he felt my presence. He went home that night with a smirk on his face.

Since then, he had opened up a little. Right now he can only hear my voice in his head--he’s not that open yet to perceive me fully, but the important thing is, I now have access to him, in his dreams or whenever he’s daydreaming. He even acknowledges my unseen presence from time to time, even though he thinks he’s just making a fool of himself. There are times when he questions his sanity, but his belief in me is stronger, and that’s what I like about him.

He likes to think of me as his ’muse’, though not the typical one. He pictures me as a tall, tanned, sturdy, clean-shaven, bald-headed, intellectual guy, who’s fond of wearing white t-shirts on khaki pants, and enjoys driving a Jeep. He looks to me as someone who inspires him in his writing, who encourages him when he’s about to give up, who slaps him in the face when he’s idle--a mentor he never had.

Sometimes he imagines me hanging around, drinking booze, puffing cigars and doing shoptalk with Stephen King and Michael Crichton at some local bar in limbo. This makes me laugh, so I just let him. I don’t want to stifle his creative imagination, no matter how absurd it gets.

I’ve grown to like the kind of music he plays when he’s writing--the blues, alternative rock, pop rock, Aerosmith--but sometimes they can be so annoying I throw tantrums until he plays a CD by Enya, or better yet, until he stops them altogether. I can reach him better if his mind is less distracted. The lesser the ripples in his pond, the clearer he sees through the water--from both sides.

Most of the time he’s very impatient, grumpy, and too obsessed with time--wants to finish everything in one sitting. He needs to work on this attitude if he aspires to become a competent writer someday. He has to learn how to recognize the ‘flow’ and be consistent, but know when to pause when confronted by silence. He’s just entered the province of writers, a realm where he has to take the time to listen, observe, imagine, and read the works of masters. I can help him with all of these, but only in time will he develop his own unique style of writing.

His dream is to write a book someday--a book that will embody his ideas and imagination, inspire a lot of people, immortalize his unique individuality, and affirm his sanity. This is his passion--his sense of mission. Whether he achieves this or not is beyond me. I’m just a catalyst in his every endeavor. Everything must come to fruition by his own efforts.

But I will tell you one secret. He thinks he just recently found me. That’s not entirely true. Although he has no recollection, ever since he was born, whenever he goes to sleep, when the outside world loses its form, I carry him to my abode; we sit at the balcony; look and laugh at eternity, while sipping a cup of tea.

/FF-coolmel