Flash!Friday Submissions For May 1, 2015

flash-friday-prompt-matt-lashleyLast week's "Catch 22" prompt made me think. Hard. Which made me cry. Thanks Flash!Friday.

Two submissions:

@MattLashley_

Existentialism Isn’t For Everyone

The woman bound in the backseat of Albert's Nova looked peaceful, cherub-like. A fat snoring cherub snoring deep and throaty snores that reminded Albert of the night spent camping by the swamp with his sadistic uncles during bullfrog mating season.

“It means you exist to exist, dumbass,” said an uncle as he used a pair of pliers to pinch of a wiggling frog's left rear leg.
“I don't think so,” replied Albert.
“And that right there is the plum beauty of it, ignorant wretch.”
“Huh?”
“He means you can think what you want and it don't matter because existence is accidental. As a result, nothing we do or think matters. That defines truth. You tally whackin', peter pipin', bushel peckin' idjit.”
“How can nothing define anything?”
“Nothing don't. You do. You are one hardheaded sumbitch. You sure you our kin?”
“Don't make no sense.”
“Don't have to.”

The Nova hit a pothole and the cherub woke.

“W-where am I?”
“Where do you want to be?” asked Albert.
“W-who are you?”
“Who do you want me to be?”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“What do you want me--to hell with it--lady, I’ma take this here Bowie knife and do whatever feels good to me.”
“What if it doesn't feel good to me?”

It was at this point Albert decided existentialism was for losers.

---

Look Into My Eyes

It was happening again.

“Gerard, look into my eyes,” Marla whispered. Gerard scrunched his shoulders, like a turtle on the verge of retreat, and pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Open your eyes. Connect to me.”
“Oh god,” Gerard grumbled. Which, in the heat of passion, Marla mistook for a lover’s fevered moan and matched him with a few of her own.

Gerard had been born with an unusual malady: Eyes open, he could not get aroused. Eyes shut, he was 1970’s Heffner on Viagra.

Think of a marionette, he’d say. Pull the string, leg goes up. Release the string, leg goes down. After hearing this, most American women assumed he was manufacturing an excuse to be emotionally distant.

Helga, a Swedish exchange student shaped like a tulip bulb on top of an inverted tulip bulb, had reacted differently. “Yah. You cannot look my naked eyes because the leg of puppet plummets? Yah. Let’s do the sex, yah?”
Score one for language barriers.

This relationship would end the same as the others. While gathering her things, Marla would say, I feel trapped. Your lack of intimacy is purely psychological. And sitting on the edge of the bed, looking into the distance, feeling trapped himself, Gerard would wonder if Helga was in town.

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Matt Writes Anything

"I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about."  - Oscar Wilde