Showcase sunday: My Old Flash Fictions

I've just heard about @nonameslefttouse initiative #showcase-sunday. I liked the idea and think: "how about I share some of my flash fictions here?" I've written a lot of flash fiction on this platform. Heck, even my first @curie upvote was on my flash fiction :)

Do you remember the #twentyfourhourshortstory contest, hosted by @mctiller? Good times we have there. A lot of great flash fiction every week!

So yeah, let's do this. Here is my under-rewarded flash fiction, I try my best to re-edit it.

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1. May I Have Your Cigarette, Jack?

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This is a story about Jack. We don't know if Jack was his real name. We called him Jack because he called everyone as Jack. He didn't bother to ask my name. Never.

"Jack, where are you going?" He asked me.

"I'm going to Badminton, Jack. This is Wednesday!" I answered.

"Nice!" He gave his thumbs up and offered a big weird smile. His teeth were yellow and messy.

I remember the first day I met Jack. I was sitting near a Starling (an abbreviation for Starbucks Keliling---literal meaning: Wandering Starbucks---because they are selling coffee by bicycle). Suddenly this dude stood beside me. With messy hair and smelly odor.

"Hey, Jack, may I have your cigarette?" He asked.

I was like, wtf?! Who is this messed up dude? I was still amazed by that weird straightforward guy. "Hey, Jack, may I have your cigarette?" He asked another guy standing in front of him.

I remember no one gave him a cigarette.

The same things started to happen daily. Jack will stand there near the starling's basecamp, he will ask for a cigarette to every single Jack he met. And the existence of Jack started to seem normal.

I started to call all my friends with 'Jack' too. And so did my friends. We've been Jacked by Jack. We didn't want any names but Jack. We are Jack!

You can say that our mind was being hijacked by Jack. But who cares. We were happy being Jack.

Nothing lasts forever. And so did Jack. One day he was gone. Just like that. I never see him again. Nor that I want to see him again.

I was too lazy to write this story. Now I'm tired. I thank you, Jack, to keep reading this meaningless post until the very end.

Gosh. I need to smoke. Do you have any? May I have your cigarette, Jack?

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2. The Strangest Ad I’ve Ever Seen

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On a crowded pedestrian in Central Jakarta, I was sitting on a bench eating tuna sandwich, reading the newspaper. It was an ordinary sunny day until I saw the strangest ad I've ever read. It said: "If you have the credits, We have time travel."

What credits... time travel? Really?!

Tell you the truth, the ad was unconvincing at all. The image was crappy. The font style was cheap. I can tell that the designer was lazy. But the letter was bold. The moment I read it, there was a rumble in my head. As if I knew, the ad was meant for me.

Maybe you have the particular ad that you feel, it was meant for you. Beer ad, cola ad, cars, houses, pizza, snacks, anything. Sometimes you just feel it, and you’ll say “The ad was meant for me. That is the product I definitely will use.”

I did too. Sometimes I’ll catch myself staring at the ad because I like the models or the design. But this one was different. As I said, it was a badly designed ad. Unattractive at every aesthetic level. Even my grandma could do better with Microsoft paint. But I do feel the ad was meant to me. It’s weird.

“Have you see this ad?” I ask someone.

“Yeah?” She says. “What about it?”

“Do you know what ad is it?”

“I don't know. It’s a weird ad. Maybe they sell fraud tour packages?”

She was really cute. My type. Long hair, sharp eyes, with a thin smile.

“Pardon?” I asked. I was stunned by her looks.

“You know. That kind of packages which you should pay upfront, but turns out you’ll never get that until you die”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. Crazy, right.”

“But,” she says, “maybe it’s only a travel agent ad”

“Yeah. True.”

“Or, maybe they are selling time machine.”

She said that so lightly. As if the time machine is a really simple matter. What about the time paradox? What about the big bang?

She was gone before I started to question her stands in relativity theory or quantum leap.

Good for her. Because I wish I could talk to her. We will have an hour of meaningful conversation. Then we will talk about ourselves. I will know her hobbies, where is her favorite restaurant. Maybe I will ask her out, for dinner, or coffee, and then with any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

My head started to rumbling, harder than before. My heart beat faster. I know this ad was meant for me. It was. I should have said this to her. I wish I could make a lot of jokes about time, future, or past life, and then deliver the punchline that she was meant for me too. But, gosh, she already gone, drowned in the massive Jakarta’s traffic.

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3. The Rule of Thumb on Being a Dilettante

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This was a regular mini-recital. He held it every week. Even though his room was small, he invited five people to sat crammed on the mattress. He sat in a wooden chair, weakly hunched over his old guitar.

"Are you going to play some Jazz?" said one spectator.

"Oh, yes. A piece by Django Reinhardt, please!" said another one.

"I prefer blues song," the other responded.

Seems like the old guitarist did not care. He remained calm. The recital was about to begin. The five spectators stop all debates. There were no lights, no sounds.

And then it started. The sound of a guitar gently flowing in the air, bounced back on the thick wall, brought a nice natural echo and reverb to the ears.

On the rusty, rusty string, he spilled it all out. Stringing tones that hinted sadness. With the fingers on the rusty strings, he talked about many things beyond words.

He built the melody combining low and high tones spaced an octave simultaneously. That way, the sound of his guitar became so expressive. He strummed his guitar hard. It was the climax. He left the spectators in awe.

"Pardon, sir. This is maybe a rude question" One of the spectators asked the old man.

"Yes?" said the old man.

"Your thumbs, sir... What happens with your thumb's nail?"

All the spectators glanced at the guy. As if he just asked a terrible question. But they had the same question. They all seen it. The strange thumb of this old guitarist.

"Oh, yeah. I pulled my nail out" answered the old man.

"Why?"

"In the past, my late wife protested, she said my guitar was too loud."

"And...?"

"Without the nails on my thumb, my guitar picking technique sounds softer, is not it?"

"Yeah, your guitar technique is out of this world... But, man... Painful isn't it, pulling the nails from the thumb?"

"Of course it's painful!" the old man laughed hard. "Moreover, I pulled it with a plier. But as you see, I kinda like the results." The old man chuckled as he watched his unperfect thumb.

Once again, he left his loyal spectators in awe. This was the first time they'd ever seen a man so loved the sound of a guitar. They saw it tho. He plays his guitar with heart and soul. As if his fingers were trained to understand what is being voiced by the heart. He must be studied the mystery of sound for he knows the secrets of it. In his hand, even the basic chord guitar strumming sounded dazzling and full of meanings.

Fifteen songs had been played. The old man put his guitar in his case. Today's show is over.

"Thank you for this great show." The five spectators applauded.

"Yes, you are welcome. I'll see you next Sunday."

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4. The Printer Rebellion

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I’m a slave for the deadlines.

That night I was in that situation where the deadline is lurking. My client was waiting for my report to be presented by the next morning. And at 1 a.m, I was still struggling with missing numbers. There were just too many invoices and receipts missing. Evaporate as if the papers were made of water absorbed by Jakarta's heat, becoming clouds, becoming rain.

Ah, it was raining, the Jakarta sky has been grey since the night before. And the rain just fell at 1 a.m. Leaving incredible stuffiness all night long.

I searched sheet by sheet. There was big lightning struck, my computer screen flickered. Oh, please, don't turn off the lights! I begged for electricity.

For three hours I struggled with piles of files. The missing numbers have been adjusted, using my imagination. That was the best I can do. Ah, well, revisions can wait.

4 a.m. I have to print this report immediately. It was far from perfect. But hell, deadline...

I press the print button. The engine screeching sounded so painful. It ate the papers, swallowed them, but nothing came out. Jammed printer.

"Damn! Don’t do this to me! "I shouted at the machine. I hit its head. It squeaked again, trembled for a while, then spouted the paper out of the shelf.

"Shit!"

I unplugged the printer machine. I let it take a breath, the machine was warm. Maybe the printer was as exhausted as me.

I put the blank paperback on the printer rack. Plug the electricity back.

"Please, don't make my life miserable," I said, stroking the power button.

Again I press the print button.

It seems like the machine heard me. It didn't squeak, the sound was smooth, the vibration was soft. Looks like everything went fine.

"Good," I said, watching the printed sheets.

The ninth sheet, I saw something went wrong. The black ink was too thick. The next sheet, the black ink seeps everywhere. My report looks like a black metal band logo.

In the next sheet, the whole paper turns black. The printer is acting up again. It didn't print anything I typed. It spits all the black ink into each remaining sheet.

"Hey!" I shouted again. I hit its head again. I pull the electricity and it immediately stopped vomiting ink.

I lazily lift the paper again from the shelf. I opened up the useless printer. The black ink is dying. I tried removing the ink container, replacing it with a new one.

But the container is acting up too. It didn't want to be released. With a little extra power, I managed to pull it out. And unfortunately, with the remains of ink in it, it spouted the ink at me. First to my shirt, then to my face, then to my eyes.

"Fuck!" I slammed that damned ink onto the floor. My shirt and face were covered in black ink.

I was very tired that morning. The client waited for my report at 7. While I was still struggling with this damned printer by dawn.

From the office window, I could see that the rain had stopped. The sky was still cloudy. I could see my shadow faintly. I look so messed up.

From my two eyes, slowly dripping, yes, I cried, not tears, but inks...

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Photo by: Annie Spratt on Unsplash