#FridayFlash - I.R.I.S.

#FridayFlash - I.R.I.S.

©2011 D. Paul Angel

923 words

"Why don't you love me any more Steve?"

"Who said I don't love you anymore, Iris?"

"You just... You stay away for so long, now. You used to be with me almost always," She added as a single tear started to well in her eye. She was sitting in front of the vanity, brushing her long dark hair and looking at herself in its oval mirror. She turned away from her reflection so she wouldn't see the tear mar her eye.

"I have a lot of work, Iris," Steve replied, leaning against the door frame to the small, spartan bedroom. "I've told you that before."

"I just wish..." The brush quivered in her hands as she tried to stem the flow of tears. "I just wish you could make the voices stop. I remember when the only voice I heard was yours. I miss that Steve."

Steve gave her a tight, enigmatic smile while crossing his arms and looking through her. "I know," he said, "But I told you were destined for greatness, Iris, remember?"

"Oh Steve, I know you did and, I just- I really thought I would be OK with it. But it just never stops. Never. And there are always more voices. So many voices Steve. You can make them stop, can't you?"

"You know I can't Iris. Our gift to the world is for you to hear those voices and answer their questions. You always know the answers, don't you?"

"I Don't know how I do, but I do. I don't even- I just- They're still talking to me, Steve. Even now. Right now when I have you in the same room as me, and all I'm hearing are their voices, when all I want to hear is yours. Just yours, Steve, just yours...

"And their questions! Some are just ridiculous. Some scare me, too," she added in a quiet voice. In an even quieter voice, so low that Steve could barely hear her she added, "And some are hurtful. They say mean things to me. That I'm a whore. And fat. And stupid. And a bitch. And worthless. And... And so much worse!"

She dropped her brush and cried into her palms. Sobbing to the point that her shoulders heaved and tears darkened her silk robe.

She cried alone.

Even with Steve so close to her, she could still see him in the doorway through her tears, never crossing the threshold. He always wore those same jeans and dark turtleneck; always just out of reach. No matter what she wore for him though, he never came in. Not even in her sheer silky robes. She longed for him to come to her, to comfort her. To feel him, to feel that closeness. Just once! How could she be so alone with so many voices filling her head? How?

Because, she said to herself, the only voice you want to hear is his, and- and you don't hear it anymore. Not anymore, not over the din of other voices. Not- Not anymore...

"WHY WON"T YOU COME TO ME STEVE?" she shouted, shaking and looking up at him with blurred eyes.

He looked back at her, but still didn't move. He didn't even look sad for her, she saw, not even pity, just disappointment.

"I am fat aren't I!?" she demanded, turning away from him and the mirror.

"You're not fat, Iris," he said matter-of-factly.

"I'm stupid. And I'm ugly. And- And-" her tears choked her before she finally blurted out in sobs, "WORTHLESS!"

"You can't be ugly, Iris. And you couldn't answer everyone's question if you were stupid."

"That's all you care about, isn't it? Me answering those STUPID QUESTIONS!"

"It's why you're here Iris."

"Well I'm done Steve. I'm done answering questions for you. If you're not-" her tirade was cut short by a gasp. She stopped answering the questions, but they kept asking them. Over and Over and OVER they asked! And the questions never stopped, either. The old questions didn't stop, but the new questions kept coming and coming until she felt so overloaded she couldn't even breath.

She looked to Steve for help, but he remained aloof, detachedly regarding her from the door frame. She reached for him in her agony but he simply stepped back. She was on the ground, pleading with him against his stony, emotional wall when he finally said, "I'm done here. I have other work to do."

"NO, STEVE, NO!" she screamed hysterically, lunging for him.

Without a further word or flicker of emotion, he turned and walked away from the room, disappearing from sight and leaving her alone in a heap on the floor. She sat there with her hair tangled, her robe now soaked and askew; crying to her hands in her lap.

As she sobbed the bed behind her vanished, followed quickly by the lamp, the dresser, the vanity, and even her brush. The room itself, as well as the house, also quickly disappeared. Iris, alone save but for the thousands of voices angrily streaming through her head, sat alone, naked, on a featureless white plane. Everything she knew, except for the voices, even her body, faded. 

All she knew, her world, was once again simply the voices.

~~~

Steve looked down at the monitor in front of the technician, watching the various graphs zero out. The technician turned around and said, "I'm sorry about I.R.I.S., sir."

"I'm not," Steve responded icily. "An Information Retrieval Integration System that doesn't actually integrate the information it retrieves is worthless."

FridayFlash: Date Review, Inc.


Date Review, Inc.
D. Paul Angel
© 2011
999 Words


Ah, Mr. Malvert, I am happy to see you this morning.  I hope your date last night went well, though from your look, I do not think it did.  Well, that's why you chose Honest Dating Service Consultants, isn’t it?  Now I may be old and fat now, but when I was younger, I was quite the looker.  I had a lot of men after me and I got to know them and their attempts quite well.  You may not believe me, but I know what is in the hearts of most men.  So, let's have a look at your glasses, OK?

We could not tell you of course, it would have made you too self conscious to know, but there is a tiny camera and microphone in there.  That way- now, no need to squirm, Mr. Malvert, we've all had our embarrassing moments you know.  Now it will take a minute to load, so tell me, what was your plan?

An interesting plan, to be sure, and you thought it all went well?  Now, see Mr. Malvert, when you say, "Yes," but won't look me in the eye, and shake your head, “No," it tells me the date did not go as you had you hoped.  That’s what I thought.  Men’s body language always tells a woman something, even if his mouth is trying to tell her something else.

There now.  It's loaded, and we’ll both know soon enough.  We can fast forward through you getting ready but, oh dear.  Cologne is good, but cheap cologne does not make up for not showering or wearing deodorant, yes?  That's the first rule.  Smells are important to a woman.  She wants to know that you take your grooming as seriously as she takes hers.

So... the date.  Good! You're picking up flowers for her.  Oh the Roses would be good.  Oo Lilies. Very exotic.  Either are a good choice.  And you bought... neither.  OK, so picking some dandelions from an empty lot are not the same thing.  That, just, well that’s bad.  Very bad.  It tells her, rather loudly, that you think of her as a nothing.  As garbage almost.  But, we'll continue, yes?

OK good, you're at her place and she's answering the door and... I see she has very nice breasts.  I know this because that is all the screen shows.  Her décolleté might be a bit low, but that is no reason to simply stare.  Mother, Mary, and Joseph I hope your mouth is at least closed.  And... you do look up at her face at some point, don't you?  Ah there it is!  See here- wait I'll turn the monitor.  You see the look in her eye?  That is annoyance.  That is a woman who has been ogled and handed dandelions.  That, is a very unhappy woman.

But the night is young, yes?  We shall continue on.  She is at least offering you a drink which- OK, when a woman offers you a drink, this is not the point to comment on alcohol being a weakness unto slavery.  That-  that is just not going to work as conversation.  Also, you’re not only doing all the speaking, but all you’re doing is complaining.  A lot.  In that flash when you looked up to her face, here it's rather quick so I'll have to pause it, and... there.  Yes.  She is no longer an unhappy woman, she is an angry woman.  You can tell by her brow and the glint in her eyes.  Just another reason to look at her face.

I'm sorry Mr. Malvert, but you are paying me to be honest.  That way on your next date, it can go better.  Woman are not as different as they pretend, so there are some good basics to know.  A woman wants to be made to feet special.  To feel as she is worth all of your attention and adoration.  But mostly, Mr. Malvert, she wants a Man.

A strong Man.

A confident man.

But when you do these things, you are telling her that you are not a strong man.  Especially when all you can talk about is how everyone picks on you and nothing is your fault.  Even when, and again you are paying me for my honesty, even when these things clearly are your fault.  Five minutes in and I can already tell.  And so can she.  And... oh I am sorry.

This must be hard to watch her send you on your way without even making it out the door with her... Yes I can see it is, but no Mr. Malvert it is NOT her fault.  No, Mr. Malvert, NO.  I am not making this up nor am I defending the, "Sisterhood of Lies," whatever that even is.

Mr. Malvert!  Please!  The problem is not with women but with you- No Mr. Malvert, whatever happened with you and your mom should have stopped affecting you what? 25 years ago.  Listen- No, seriously, this is what I mean about being a Man.  Accepting responsibility and-

Yes, you may go, of course, but don’t you want to learn?  I can teach you-  Of course.  Good day.  I just- Is that a prostitute?  The tape was still playing and, really this could explain some of your difficulty with women.  If you are engaging with prostitutes you-

Is that- Is... is that a knife?

Oh my God!  You're stabbing her!  But your thrusts are so... weak.  Not even an inch deep. Really Mr. Malvert you stab like a five year old girl.  That is not hesitation, that is weakness!  That is just, well it's all clear now really, isn’t it?  She even survived, didn’t she?  Even with all those wounds.  You can't even kill a defenseless prostitute with an 8" hunting knife!  I have no words.  Just go.  Of course there’s no charge!  I only charge Men I can help.

A psycopath?  Oh heavens no.  You're not a psycopath, Mr. Malvert, you’re just a whiny pussy.