The Story Garden 5.0
Flash Fiction
Think Piece
I was tired, OK? Probably losing my lane a little. Not enough to cause harm if they watched what they were doing. Suddenly he's ahead of me, this kid with an impossible war vehicle making a quick macho turn and he gestures with his finger pointing at his head. It means think. He doesn't even turn back to look at me while he's doing it. Last time I worked there was a kid used to do this, tap on the brow, think, think. First of course he blares his horn the size of a fire drill, the one in the jeep thing I mean, whatever you call those pointless things.
Well this time instead of just going on forget about it I followed him. I parked right next to him at Safeway. I got out, hit the lock button like I was just going in to shop the way he was. Then I told him – he was already headed for the automatic door with all the other idiots – "You'll die," I said. Not loud enough, I guess. He never turned but just went on. Maybe if I said it louder. Even yelled. I wanted to but I'm that civilized.
We all die. Right. We know that. But we don't really. We think we're smart. This kid now in the overpowered car thing. He's immortal. Everything he does is cool. Life never corrects him even. He just goes on, saying Think.
He's going to die. I will make him die just by thinking it. I've done it before many, many times in my life. I just thought it and people died. Maybe not right away but a year later. No longer, though. Any longer, I'm not responsible.
When my brother told me I was what caused Mom's death I had to deny it. You know, right there at the memorial. She had cancer, decaying slowly over time. I wasn't even mad at her when that started. Only once I said in my mind You'll die, Mom, but that was way, way too long ago for it to be of any use.
Yeah. I can hear all the psychology. Bullshit.
Some people can kill, though. All do. They kill each other at work. At home, even. Home especially. They speak up, though. Hit each other. Use knives. I can just think it. That's better.
Or I talk fantasy across the table over dinner with my wife. (I make dinner. Always, and they're good. I think they're good. She says so, too.) I tell her You should take your boss outside and drive your car against him several times. I think you should at least spit on him. Or tell your boss he doesn't exist the way I did Moran. You should just throw whatever's in your lunch at him from clear across the room. You should go to that meeting tomorrow morning and tell on your boss, how he licks you. Then tell them it is because of all their little cowardly acts that he is still the boss and not some real person. Just once I'd like to see it happen that you just kick him in the balls. He's prancing along just so happy to be ME when you completely disable him, all his dreams, all his stupid power. He collapses on the boring beige carpeting among all the dumb plants and art you can't see any more because it was never there to begin with. And he tries not to howl like the dog he really is but he does. He howls like a dog while all the rest of you stand around with your coffees, talking about other things.
I say all this hoping to relieve my wife of the burden somehow. To make her laugh, too. But she is not amused by fantasies of violence. She says that's a guy thing. I say it's just human. To get partial revenge, at least in your own mind. You know, think. Think.
--Brent Powers
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