Flash fiction by Joe Bielecki
Sitting and Waiting and Nothing Else
Sometimes he would sit and wait for it to go away. Sometimes it did go away quickly, and other times it would stay for days. And he would sit in his room and he would wait. He used to try to make it go away but then it only dug its claws into him deeper. He tried to ignore it but then it would only get louder. He resigned himself to just waiting for it to go away.
Sometimes people would come over and sit with him while he waited. But that stopped happening after a while. People didn’t like him as much when all he was doing was sitting and waiting for it to go away.
He got used to the sitting and the waiting. He got used to being alone. He started to think of it as another person when he got tired of being alone and feeling lonely.
Someone told him to get some help getting it to go away. But he was afraid of what would happen if it went away. He would be alone then. He had been with it so long that he was not sure if he could make it so that people would want to be with him. He could not remember what made people like him before.
If he did make it go away he could have to learn to live again. Like a baby. But he was an adult. He did not think that he could do that. He was not sure if he could live without it.
And Then Some More
Bits of soul were slurped out of the nothing of his body by a force unseen and identifiable only in a redundancy. Television eyes blinked out all over town winking sitcoms into carpet fibers. Die and die again screamed the heroes to the small creatures they found there. He did not have a television or eyes. He was truly truly truly an abstraction if that at all. On a good day.
Speak forth and moan lies into my mouth dear lover he creaked through hinges and mirrors. Thousands and trillions of atoms swirled and teleported again and again like searchlights and punishing nuns in a decaying wood boarding school. Only an entire world for a bruised knuckle little boy. Any movement at all was searing anguish locking in the flavor of his neuroses.
He looked out of the window into a world that was alien and completely different every moment. He had never known anything in his life. He had never been alive and would never die. Extraction points were made and the procedure began and began again.
Missteps were marked and duly noted and laughed off by what counted as voices or what counted as what counted as voices. He shredded and diced himself himself. He aided what he could aid with.
Sometimes he would sit and wait for it to go away. Sometimes it did go away quickly, and other times it would stay for days. And he would sit in his room and he would wait. He used to try to make it go away but then it only dug its claws into him deeper. He tried to ignore it but then it would only get louder. He resigned himself to just waiting for it to go away.
Sometimes people would come over and sit with him while he waited. But that stopped happening after a while. People didn’t like him as much when all he was doing was sitting and waiting for it to go away.
He got used to the sitting and the waiting. He got used to being alone. He started to think of it as another person when he got tired of being alone and feeling lonely.
Someone told him to get some help getting it to go away. But he was afraid of what would happen if it went away. He would be alone then. He had been with it so long that he was not sure if he could make it so that people would want to be with him. He could not remember what made people like him before.
If he did make it go away he could have to learn to live again. Like a baby. But he was an adult. He did not think that he could do that. He was not sure if he could live without it.
And Then Some More
Bits of soul were slurped out of the nothing of his body by a force unseen and identifiable only in a redundancy. Television eyes blinked out all over town winking sitcoms into carpet fibers. Die and die again screamed the heroes to the small creatures they found there. He did not have a television or eyes. He was truly truly truly an abstraction if that at all. On a good day.
Speak forth and moan lies into my mouth dear lover he creaked through hinges and mirrors. Thousands and trillions of atoms swirled and teleported again and again like searchlights and punishing nuns in a decaying wood boarding school. Only an entire world for a bruised knuckle little boy. Any movement at all was searing anguish locking in the flavor of his neuroses.
He looked out of the window into a world that was alien and completely different every moment. He had never known anything in his life. He had never been alive and would never die. Extraction points were made and the procedure began and began again.
Missteps were marked and duly noted and laughed off by what counted as voices or what counted as what counted as voices. He shredded and diced himself himself. He aided what he could aid with.
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Joe Bielecki is a writer from Michigan working in radio and television. He hosts a movie podcast called Sharing Everything with his wife Cady, and produces noise music under the name Ring of Roses. He has been published in Moonchild Magazine, Occulum, The Ginger Collect and more wonderful publications. His Twitter handle is @noisemakerjoe.
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