Sometimes aloneness spawns strange ideas. Some flash fiction, or maybe some prose with a dash of poetry usually helps.
Faux Companion
by Odin Roark
Tossing and turning. Turning and tossing.
A friend once told me how willing imagination appears
when aloneness asks for companionship. Been workin’ for me.
Hi there, again. Can’t sleep. And they say being manqué isn’t special. Oh, that. Heavy word, eh?
Yeah, well, words have been known to keep a frustrated poet company, you know?
The weightier, the better.
So, here I am, staring at the ceiling, hoping my other manqué friends will pay me a visit.
Sure I have friends.
There’s the worm out back. I’ve learned to think there’s just one, you know.
Keeps the sadness of their martyrdom in check. Of course my brain’s weird. Why you think I’m talkin’ to you?
Oh, c’mon. How do you know? Worms all look alike, don’t they? You’re Imagination. Just be nice. You know how this alone thing works.
Have I told you about the pigeon? Loves to just bob and spin on my air conditioner. You’d think he’d
go somewhere else for vittles, but no… he just does his prancin’ over and over, usually just at dawn.
Window’s caulked shut, so can’t throw him crumbs.
Crazy fucker, he is. But, yeah. He’s a bud.
Looney Tunes! Me? You of all people know better. Just a case of defending quiescence,
when there’s no one else around.
Made you grin, did I?
Knew that quiescence word would open you up.
Hey, ever wonder how all ants survive being lost?
They don’t get lost. I mean, ever notice? They might look like they’re stumbling around like drunkards,
but they got somethin’ going for themselves. Maybe they let words keep’em on track, like me. Could be, you know. We know zip about their language, ‘cept that vibratory stuff.
Anyway…
Well, I’ll be… There he is. That roach comes out every night. Hangs from the ceiling like a frickin’ short order cook in an empty hash house café. And yours truly knows it well. God, those were miserable days. Standin’ around. Just waitin’ and waitin’, minimum wage, now less.
So, look. I’m headin’ down to the basement. Check on that mouse. Yeah, just one, I think. Been drivin’ me crazy for years. Likes to just hang around, climb around and then end up in the wall behind my pillow. One noisy varmint, you know? Been tryin’ to figure out what the hell he does right behind my pillow, every night.
A girlfriend? Him. Naw. Never seen but one mouse.
Yeah…you got a point. Suppose they all look alike too.
Move the bed? Why? It’s company, fool.
So, like I said, goin’ down and check things out; see if he was stupid enough to get into the pesticides I keep down there. Did I tell ya, the worm loves that shit.
So, look, you hear him scratchin’ behind my bed, give a holler, or how ever way you make yourself known, you know? This mute business gotta stop one day. Three years imaginin’ two sided conversations is gettin’ kinda old.
No offense. Okay?
Later.
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The word "manqué" is foreign to me. It does appear to be French and Richard, with his extensive vocabulary, of course, knew the meaning. I like his explanation of the difference between "would-be" and "wannabe".
The loneliness and poverty of being penniless in the expensive city is obvious. I'm not fond of the term, "flash fiction," because it reminds me of our need for "instant gratification" these days, where everything is speeded up in the no time for contemplation. I think of your story as a short, but complete and thoughtful, short story. Enjoyed for its angst.
Ron