Flash Fiction Month: Entry 13 (LUCKY 13 BABY!)
I don’t have a lot of time because wedding things are moving very quickly all around me, so, here’s my prompt, which I was GIDDY upon reading:
Flash Fiction Month - July 13, 2012
Today is another double challenge. In addition to incorporating two theme, like you have for the previous two challenges, you’ll have to incorporate a specific character archetype. If you need help, don’t be afraid to head on over to the official Flash Fiction Month Chat Room, where one of our volunteers will help you as best they can.
Write a story that includes the themes of failure and conformity, and where one of the characters is a Cloudcuckoolander.
Failure refers to the state or condition of not meeting a desirable or intended objective, and may be viewed as the opposite of success.
Conformity is the act of matching attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors to group norms.
A Cloudcuckoolander is someone with there head in the clouds. They are strangely oblivious to things that everyone else takes for granted, such as social conventions, like wearing clothing, being polite, or obeying the law. However, cloudcuckoolanders are very rarely malicious.
Shoot for the moon. That was the easy part, I had told myself. All I had to do was dream big, think big, and then boom, magically before my eyes, the world would present to me what I was dreaming. All I had to do was just be completely honest, and so I was. Every time I took a dump, I recorded it and uploaded it. Every time I decided I was feeling a little ornery and wanted to rub one out, I filmed it and hosted it with absolutely no censorship, start to finish. People were going to love this, I kept telling myself. I know I love it.
Gaining some popularity, albeit slowly and not with the crowd you’d necessarily think (think older men between the ages of forty five and sixty five; not the twenty something females we all secretly wish for), I decide it was time to up things a notch, and post the world’s first twenty-four/seven cam access where users and followers were able to interact and view me at all times of the day. It was brilliant. Putting on some flip flops, a tank top with a mustard stain, which was weird because I didn’t even like mustard, to go with a pair of neon green shorts and I was ready to hit the streets. Luckily technology was so advanced that most people couldn’t even tell I was filming myself, even though there was an object attached to my hat, filming the whole thing. I sparked up the joint I was hiding behind my ear and stepped into a particular eating establishment I wanted to try. Immediately, a line of ten people turned to look at me as I stepped into the lobby. Furrowing my brows, and looking concerned, I stepped back outside, wiped my sandals off on the doormat, and then stepped back into the lobby, taking a nice slow drag off the joint resting between my lips.
“There, is that better?” I half-mumbled, half-inquired as the smoke filled the space in front of me, and a few people nearby fanned the air around their faces, and darted past me on their way out the door.
“Geeze, what was their problem,” I asked a couple standing at the back of the line that gave me a somewhat confused, somewhat angry look in response, “And hey, what’s good here?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see someone behind the counter pointing at me, and then a couple of men in uniforms and boots fast approached me and escorted me out of the building, one of them grabbing the joint out of my mouth, tossing it to the ground, and extinguishing it with his boot heel before the other one through me into the back of their tiny, mall security truck..
What had I done now, I wondered. And how do they both fit in here? This truck is tiny.
The proceedings were pretty nasty. They said I was breaking some strange civil or penal law that I still refuse to acknowledge. And because I refuse to acknowledge what I had done, the state had decided to shut down my site, take all my cameras, and force me to pee in a cup every few days for some odd reason. Maybe they want to make sure there’s nothing wrong with my blood.
Now, I get to work a wonderful job, where I stand around all day, pretending I am making a difference or living out my dream, like the universe once whispered to me while I lay sleeping at nights, dreaming of possibilities and realities where I did everything I wanted to and everyone loved me for being exactly who I was. And then my boss yelled at me for not paying attention. So, I got back to work. I’m sure you know the rest of the story. All I had to do was shoot for the moon. That part was easy.
The falling face first on my way back down to earth was not. Oh well. At least they pay me to stand around and act bored now. I shrugged and told my boss I’d do whatever he wanted, so long as he got his fat gut out of my face. He didn’t like that but, I didn’t really care. I was just another man in a uniform doing a job he wasn’t suited for; failure was a feeling I would soon not forget. But for now, I scrubbed as hard as my back would let me.