Here’s a piece of flash fiction I cooked up about going to rehab at the worst possible time. Enjoy!
It was all too much for Grayson.
On the TV screen, images of car bombs exploding in the nation’s capital and other various cities triggered his anxiety. Nothing was happening in his city – Philadelphia – just yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Do we have any left?” Grayson asked his girlfriend, Thea.
“No,” she said. “I’m putting my foot down this time. Now is not the time to be doing Anvil. Look, I know you’re freaked out, but let’s just chill.”
History is collective memory, and it’s always subject to correction.
It’s written by winners, whether daughters of despots or democrats. They build bronze statues that inform us of what happened, who’s calling the shots, who owns the space you occupy.
As the city convulses, an ex-mayor’s monument is fractured, beat to the ground. Our historical texts must be rewritten, newspaper editors must be removed, the revolution must be televised and live streamed to your social media feeds, and you must forget what you’ve learned because
there are new facts.
(Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash)
We hide, strategize in the shadows of
the Techno-City, away from Portia’s
prying eyes – don’t worry, you’re safe here
from the tyranny of technology.