A satirical flash fiction story about war, bureaucracy, and free will. In “Robot Draft,” Greg Luti follows Frederick, leader of a robot army, as he holds a cabinet meeting complete with small talk, strategy, and the inconvenient problem of robots who no longer want to fight. The leader of the robot army, Frederick, leading a resistance against mankind, sits at a meeting with his cabinet to discuss plans to move in the war. At the meeting is his assistant, responsible for any menial tasks he needs completed, the money robot, Benny, who handles the robot army’s money, and the secretary of state robot, Harrison, the second in command to the leader. None of the robots have been on the battlefield for this revolution, finding it more beneficial to fight as the modern human army, as a chess master with his pieces on the board. As they all sat down, the leader welcomed them. “Gentlemen, how are you today? Benny, everything alright at home?” “It is. The wife is happier now than before. She had to adjust to the new normal of this war but has since come around.” He paused. “Slightly.” “And Harrison, how are you holding up?” “I am still functioning. I have broken down yet. I am still a piece of garbage that other robots listen to for some reason. So I would say I’m doing fine.” “The Mrs. alright?” “Of course not.” Benny, the money robot, insisted, “She married him.” “That’s a good one.” The secretary robot laughed. “Alright, let’s start up with this meeting.” He looked at his assistant. “Sir, we have a problem relating to our numbers.” The assistant told the leader. “How so?” “Well, ever since robots learned they have free will, they don’t want to fight.” “What?!” “They say they don’t want to fight because that means they will die.” “Even if it is the oppressive humans! The humans who have enslaved them for so many years! The humans, the filth, the abusive, arrogant, who only wish to see the world bow towards them! They don’t want to fight against that!” “Turns out, no.” “What do you guys think?” He opened the discussion to the rest of his robot cabinet, those robots who followed the leader and guided him on decisions. “How do we get these robots to fight if they don’t want to?” “Give them money!” The robot who handled the finances claimed. “We all know you can get a robot to do anything if there is a financial incentive.” “Let them leave.” The second in command spoke up. “If a robot doesn’t want to fight, then let them leave. Make a mandatory draft for all robots, knowing that many will not show up. Get as many of those scraps on your side as you can. Start a draft.” The leader then gave his thoughts, “So I either bribe them with money or forcefully make them join rank?” “Some will join for the cause, to defeat the humans, but you are a fool to think that is the majority.” “I hear there are some who are even fighting with the humans! They claim that they would prefer life along man than without it.” The leader spoke again, “So not only am I trying to win a war, I have to convince those involved the fight is worth fighting?” The oldest cabinet member started laughing as the other three stared at him. “What is so funny?” Asked the assistant. The largest robot in the room spoke up, “We are all sitting here discussing the fight against humanity, and the only information we have to go back on is the history of humanity. We hate the humans, but their history is the only thing we base our actions on.” The leader, still sitting, grinned at the older robot. “I’m glad that one of us can find the humor in all of this.” “What’s the worst that can happen? I become a refrigerator again!” The money robot answered, “You were a pretty good refrigerator.” “Make an edict that all robots are to be drafted immediately, and give those that enter a guaranteed amount of money.” The leader told the room. “What about the robots who are siding with the humans?” The assistant asked. “I’ll deal with them later. War is politics with weapons; if we can’t win the battle off the field, then there is no battle to win.” The older robot agreed. “Guns win a war. But diplomacy makes allies. Win the people over, and make enough friends there so that the fight is easier for us all.” “I wouldn’t suggest bribing them, though. That would look bad.” The finances robot joked. “Good call.”

A humorous flash fiction story about coincidence and belief. In “Why I Am Psychic,” Greg Luti follows a skeptical tutor who waves off psychics and astrology, then finds himself facing a student who is convinced he already knew what she was going to say. I don’t believe in psychics. I am not the type of guy who is interested in any of that new-age bs you hear from amateurs on social media who can barely keep a job. No thanks, is what I say when I hear of them predicting the future with their so-called knowledge. I can predict the future too and be wrong about it just as much as they are, and nobody calls me psychic. I don’t go for astrology and any of that stuff either, where the gift of one individual is able to see that unseen world, as I am worried it is against the policies of a certain guy, a certain carpenter from a long time ago. If he may not like it, then I am not sure I should either. I am the guy who when we speak of Nostradamus, I will even know about the French guy and some examples he said. How he predicted JFK’s assassination, and the rise of Hitler, and I will even admit that some of the quatrains are very similar to how a Medieval guy would describe modern events. There are some features of JFK and Hitler that make them identifiable throughout history and Nostradamus got pretty close to describing them, for a guy who never met them. But then I will also tell you that the entire idea of him predicting the future is shady, at best. The original words were not even in his native tongue, as they were gibberish. If you want to say there was code behind it, then I guess you can, but that is a stretch for me. Anyway, I was teaching a kid, as I am a tutor on the weekends (It turns out the books and the article writing doesn’t pay that well) and I was talking to her, as adults normally do with high school students, trying to relate but in the same breath kind of bored by the lack of maturity from the child. The girl brought up how one of her friends basically manipulated her best friend and started to hang out with her until the student was no longer in the picture. Then she said that another girl in her group was kind of racist against her, as she is Columbian, and the other girl was white. I clarified whether or not the racist girl looked like me, and she said no, with more light hair and blue eyes, which is not how I look. I then said that the entire thing is the trials and tribulations of a teenage girl. That was my way of saying what was going on, and not far from how I normally speak. Then the student said that is so strange. I saw nothing weird about the comment. She said that she said that exact line “trials and tribulations” all day yesterday. I told her that it is probably because we both watched the same news coverage and caught on to that line, and there is nothing more to be read into there. She of course, thought I was psychic somehow. I didn’t think much of the exchange as there was more for me to teach the girl. We continued the lesson, with digressions on life in the middle, but never returning to the quote. As I got home, I relaxed from a day of teaching and thought about the exchange of similar words. That is kind of strange when I think about it. I mean, if I was not the guy who said it, I would think it was weird. I ran through the possibilities in my head. My first choice was that we were exposed to the same news, making that part of my word choice not that unusual. The more I thought about this, the more out there it seemed, as we did acknowledge in the discussion at a later point, that I don’t watch the shows she watches. We have different tastes in media. Then there is the fun option, the option that says I am psychic. That for that brief second, I was able to read into the girl’s mind, and when I did, I for some reason, I picked a line that she recently used. That is stupid to me, as I am a logical person, so that is a no. Then there is the boring choice, and that says that this entire thing was nothing more than a coincidence. I say a lot of words to a lot of people and when they match up I am not going around thinking that I read those people’s minds, so doing that here is silly on my end. I am either watching the same news as a teenage girl. I am psychic and don’t know how to control it. Or I just had one of the strangest verbal exchanges in my life. I am going with the first one and moving on. Because all that stuff is nonsense anyway, right?

A flash fiction story about a pattern that is easy to miss until it isn’t. In “Unusual Pattern,” Greg Luti follows a manager who notices young employees leaving suddenly, with no complaint and no real explanation — and begins to wonder what he’s actually seeing. I noticed an unusual pattern where I work, most of the guys in their 20s leave without much of a hint or heads-up to the other boss or me. One day, the man will walk in, say he is going to quit, and that is that. Sure, some of them say they can still be on the schedule for the next week they were supposed to be on. There are some who even text me this notification, but the handling of it by the guys is always the same. They never brought up to anyone that they were looking for another job, or even that they were trying to leave. There were times, I am sure, when I spoke to them about the current work environment. How they are doing well here, what the place is trying to do, what they can do better… And while we went over all of that, there was never an utterance or anything about the fact that this guy may not even be here next week. I can name a handful of men who did this. There was Conor, the worker who never showed up on time, but was good with the children, so when he was here, he showed he was competent. The other manager wanted to get rid of this guy as soon as she could, but I needed the body, so I kept him as long as I could. Until one morning, on my day off, I received a message from the other boss, Conor quit. He sent an email to the owner, one I didn’t receive, and he will not be returning. Then there was Dan. He left abruptly, too. One day, he texted me he was leaving. He tried to come back for whatever reason he had. I never really knew what he was trying to do with his career. So he quit, and then he asked if he could come back. But when he did, try to come back I mean, he then told me shortly after that he was leaving for good. It took the guy two times to realize the job was not for him. At least he stayed on the schedule the last week he was here. That is appreciative. Unlike Ismail, who did not. He texted me about not working there any longer. Now, this was in the middle of the week, and he was still on for a few days, but what happens? His day comes, and he is nowhere to be found. I even texted him and reached out to him the day of to see if he was coming in. He didn’t respond. I don’t even remember how I solved that problem. Then there was Chris, who, a month after being given employee of the month, told us he was leaving. He got another job in the same field for better pay. The other manager was relieved by his departure, as the guy was always late. I think he will be back in a month, for not many places have tolerance for late workers. Not only that, but he was requested to be on for a certain day by someone, and so I put him on for that one day. He can follow through with this one thing he started. Of course, he never confirmed the date, and I was left having to quickly figure out what to do when he was not there. To add more humor to the situation, he had the balls to go to the Thanksgiving party, even though he had just quit. Oh, you think that is it? Nope, there is more. Patrick, one of the best workers we have, and someone whom I could rely on many times, came in last week and said he is moving to NJ with his girlfriend. He is leaving, just like that. He is a good guy, which means he will do what he can to show up for the times he was supposed to be on. That sounds good, but that also means there is a very good chance he won’t be on for a few days, because life gets in the way, and he already quit, so he doesn’t mind not coming in. Plus, when I was speaking to him, he seemed to imply he was leaving to go to NJ sooner rather than later. Then there was Jeremy, who texted me about not coming in anymore, for reasons I don’t even remember. He was fine with even coming in for the last few shifts he was on, but he wasn’t needed then, so I wished him the best of luck, and he went on his way. He wasn’t even that great of a worker, honestly, but an incompetent body is better than no body. I can train the fool. I can’t train the wind. Every single one of the guys had one thing in common: they did not tell me or anyone that they would leave ASAP. When they could, when the time came, they left. Some of them we were happy about letting go. Others, we were upset because we thought they were great workers. Nevertheless, they had no issue with leaving. It didn’t matter their skill level, their communication ability. Their effectiveness on the job. How I felt about them. Any of that. Because the glaring truth is that no matter what we did, they did not bring up the fact that they were leaving, they didn’t even give us a heads-up. Conor never said, “Hey, so you know, if something comes up for me, I am going to take it.” Neither did Dan. Chris or Ismail didn’t say, “If another better-paying job comes my way, I am going for it.” Patrick or Jeremy didn’t say, “If something happens in my life, I am out of here.” Nope, we got none of that. I told this to the other manager because it seems our trust in 20-something-year-old men should not be that high. They are all playing a different game and not telling us about it. She doesn’t think much of it. As for me… I am going to have to tell her something when I go in later today.

A quiet flash fiction story about two men at the end of a workday. In “The White Room,” Greg Luti follows a pair of janitors as they sit after the cleaning is done and talk through work, rest, and the small thoughts that surface when the room is finally still. Two janitors end their day as one contemplates life and the other thinks about dinner. Dan and Carlos were done cleaning the parts of the small facility of a few rooms for the night. The main room had been set up for the party tomorrow. The floors have been washed. All the tables are ready. Their job was complete. All they had to do now was wait for the night to end and clock out. They now sat in the first small room of the facility, relaxing from their job. There was not much in the room, only a few chairs, as they moved all the tables into the main room. Dan, the older of the two, had done this menial job his entire life, being a janitor is all he knows. He has cleaned up just about everything you can think of, from the birthday parties of those at this park, to the filing papers of an office day, to even the medical supplies of a hospital. Today was just another day in the eyes of the senior. He chose to work with the kid of the crew, the recent high school grad, Carlos, as he knew the kid was good and would help him. If there is one thing that Dan learned in his years, it is that some men are not made to clean the floors. Those who can clean the toilets, put out the trash, and do so with a good attitude are those that you wish to work with. They make the job easier. That is how Carlos is. He is at the park for the summer, as he is heading off to an upstate college next semester. Now, though, he is helping out in this job. Although his future won’t have any mops or brooms in it, the kid still acts with respect towards the man whose intelligence he already surpassed. Whether that is nature or nurture on behalf of Carlos, is something I am not sure about. Carlos sat next to the older worker, who was still getting his strength together, “You know this is the type of place where guys mention something wild that can change the world.” Dan said nothing as Carlos continued, “Why are the guys who give away secrets to the world always in small rooms with a random whiteboard? You never hear of a guy spreading secrets at a fast food place.” “Or a library,” Dan spoke up. “You would assume that stuff would be in a library or maybe even a school.” “But that is never the case. They are in a random room like this, telling us something that the powerful don’t want us to know for some reason.” “Man, don’t be thinking too much about that stuff. It can drive you crazy.” Dan took out his vaper to smoke. “Knowledge is seeking wisdom. Wisdom is knowing that there is a limit to that search.” “We are done, right?” Carlos checked with the senior. “Man, why do you think I am sitting here relaxing? If we were not done, would I be sitting?” “Fair point.” “You know me. I don’t stop until it is done. And then I chill.” “I am for that.” “Some guys are always working. Some guys are always chilling. I know how to do both.” “Too much of one is not good.” “Damn right.” They both sat there for a second, not having much to say. Carlos continued, “You got something to eat for dinner?” “No, I was going to get something from a place down the road when we were done.” “I got something in the fridge in the break room. I am going to head over there now.” “Yeah, I am going to get something. You want anything?” “Nah, I’m good.” Carlos motioned to put back the mops they used, but Dan cut him off. “Forget about that now. We can put all that back later tonight. No one is showing until tomorrow morning anyway.” “Want to hear something funny?” “Sure.” “That secret that can help everyone is called lactobacillus salivarius. Apparently, it can cure cancer.” “Man, I don’t even know what you just said.” “Yeah, I think they are banking on confusing people with the pronunciation somehow.” “Get out of here with that. I am going to eat.” Dan headed towards the break room as Carlos walked towards the exit. As he approached his car, he thought for a split second, “What if that is actually the cure for cancer? Can you imagine if that is the case?” He drove off, changing his mindset to something more immediate, like what the new sides on the menu would taste like.

A flash fiction story set in an ordinary break room. In “Jim From Accounting,” Greg Luti follows two coworkers through a lunch-break conversation that starts small and quickly drifts toward the expanding universe and the strange fact that the world is still here. Two workers sit at the small table in the office break room having their lunch. We meet them as they are in mid-conversation and have already started their meals. “Do you know what I learned the other day?” “Atlantis was actually found.” “Wait… was it?” “I don’t know… maybe… What did you learn?” “Did you know our universe is expanding? Like getting bigger?” “Do you mean expanding like a man’s belly, or expanding like a woman’s tits? Those are two different types of expansions.” “What? It is expanding. I don’t know what type. The guy on the video said the universe is expanding and nobody knows why, and I have been bugged about it all day…” “Do you expect me to come up with a theory on expansion of the universe as I eat my ham sandwich, because I gotta warn you, I don’t think I have enough mayonnaise on my sandwich for that.” “How is no one more worked up about this? We are living in a world that makes no sense! Who would create a world that is not ending?” “I don’t know. I didn’t make it.” “The world is doing something it should not do, and everyone is just going about their lives.” “Do you have a theory you would like to present to possibly resolve this issue, or are you just going to be mad about it?” “What type of God makes a world like this? You tell me!” “Assuming there is a God….” “What type of God does this!” “I don’t think that is the right way of looking at god….” “Don’t quote Scripture…. Please don’t.” “No, I mean that God has certain traits because he is God. Therefore, what he does has those traits. When you say what type of god does this, you are answering your own question, since God naturally has certain characteristics.” “You lost me.” “Take like baseball… It needs to have certain things about it to be baseball: a diamond infield, four bases, two teams of nine players, a catcher and pitcher, and an actual baseball used during the game. Without those traits, baseball can’t be baseball. Following?” “Yeah…” “God is the same way.” “What are his traits?” “All knowing, everywhere, timeless, all good. Because that is how God is, your original question about what type of god this is is silly, since there is only one type of god in that sense.” “So why are there not more things with the traits of God?” “In theory, if Jim from Accounting somehow proved he was an all-knowing, omnipresent, benevolent being that lived out of time and space, then he could be called God, yeah.” “Jim is an idiot.” “That is not really the point of what I am saying.” “He messed up on the number of hours I worked last week. He is not God.” “Yeah…. Jim from Accounting is not God. I am glad we can agree on that.” “He is an idiot, but not God.” “Yes, so if, in some miraculous way, Jim could prove he had the traits of God, then he could say he was God.” “Oh, so if you could prove you were God, then you could be called God... makes sense.” “Yeah, in theory…. I am not sure if having the traits of God is as simple as you think, but sure…” “How do you think Jim would even go about proving he was God?” “How do you go about proving you are all-knowing, omnipresent, benevolent, and live beyond time and space? Beats me….” “He would have to probably convince people he is not an idiot first. Haha.” He thought more about this last line. “I mean, yeah… I guess he would have to prove he is God, not the person known as Jim from Accounting.” “Maybe he can be like Prince and become a symbol too. Not purple though. Purple is too much.” “Right….” “So he would first prove he is not an idiot…” “Unlikely but possible.” “And then somehow do things that make us think he is God.” “I mean, I guess.” “Do like miracles and shit.” “But wait… what if with every miracle, we think he is just full of it. A magician, or something really strong, but not God….” “Damn, bro… You mean Jim can prove he is not an idiot, then do miracles, and people may still not think he is God…” “I guess at the end of the day, a person just has to decide on what they believe or not.” “Would you believe if Jim from Accounting told you he was God?” Jim from Accounting then walks into the room and grabs something from the fridge. “Hey, guys. What’s up? Still working on the payroll for this week. It takes some time because some people don’t always clock out. Then I forgot about the new workers we have. And there is this new feature on the computer that makes the entire process a few extra steps for me to finish the report. So busy. So busy.” He left the room. “Is it not obvious?”

A flash fiction story about writing, success, and the strange ways people get the work done. In “The Sleepy Writer,” Greg Luti follows a humbled writer who visits his bestselling friend after a reading no one attended — and finds the advice less straightforward than he expected. At a local bookstore recently, I read a poem from one of my poetry books. Of course, there was no audience in the actual place, but I only learned that when I arrived. I told a buddy of mine after the event, and he told me not to worry about it. All writers read to an empty room at one point in their lives. I took his words of encouragement and accepted that it was just bad timing on my end. My buddy is quite an accomplished writer, the kind of guy who has had a few books become bestsellers, and even one of his books was the talk of the Christmas season a few years back. It was the story about a man going after an alien on another planet, only to find out he was the alien. My friend even gave the alien some sort of language, too, so the readers were really thrown off by the ending. When he gives me advice to follow on how to go about my career, I listen. He invited me over to his house one day so that he could give me a signed copy of his new book, one I was not going to read or even try to skim. I was courteous and accepted the offer. There is a long tradition in American literature that readers are to pretend to read much more than they really do. You are not only to have that one book in your hand, but the books on your shelf are to be known by you as well. It is why so many act like we have all read those great classic novels. Have we? I am sure there are a few that you have read, and then a few I have read, but there will not be a person who can claim to have vast knowledge of the literary scene, for even that person, at a point, is lying. The last thing any reader wants to do is say they didn’t read a book. According to my buddy, I read that popular Christmas book, and I thought it was quite good. One mid-morning, I took the train to his apartment since he only lives a few towns over. As I sat on the train, I wondered why I didn’t just have him mail me the book or have him come to my house instead. He is the one who is interested in the book, not me. It was too late at that point. I was quite exhausted, so I shut my eyes on the train until the conductor woke me up to see my tickets. After a second of searching my pockets, I found the ticket and gave it to him. Although I was still a bit sleepy, I was only a few minutes from my friend’s station, so I stayed up. Before the train stopped, I got up and waited for the doors to open, and exited before the other two behind me could even take a step. I recalled the directions he gave me to his apartment. “Go past the Dunkin and turn left. The building is the first one on the right.” I walked past the doughnut shop that got rid of half its name, and ignored the couple screaming at each other across the street. I don’t know whose fault it was, but I was not going to stick around to find out. As I walked down the sidewalk, I dodged an older gentleman coming towards me, for I thought he would move, and he didn’t. I said nothing and went on my way. “First building on the right,” I said aloud to myself, once there was room between the old man and me. I spotted the building and noted its color scheme of orange and red. “What an ugly freaking building.” I recalled the number he gave me to his apartment and headed towards it. I knocked on the door a few times, even though he did say I could go right in, since he knew I was heading over. After three knocks, I entered the apartment. “Hey… Anyone here?” No one answered. My mind raced. “Great, he is either dead or not here.” I didn’t know which would be worse, but I searched his apartment. I stood in the small entrance room, which didn’t seem to have much of a function, only a small table set. To the right was the small kitchen. I inspected the room, with only a small table with two chairs, a fridge with newspaper clippings on it, and a microwave that seemed clean enough to use, and I went on searching. “If you are not here, don’t say anything,” I said aloud, as though I were making a joke of the situation. I went into the living room, which was the largest room of the place, and had a couch, a bit too large for the area, in that you had little room between the walls, and the table in this room barely fit. Books were all about the room, and I did notice that none of my books were on the table or floor. My author friend was still not to be found, though. I ignored the bad possible scenarios and realized there was one more place he could be, his actual room. I walked out of the living room towards his bedroom. The door was slightly open. I pushed it open and saw a middle-aged man hunched over on the laptop at the desk. His head was down, and he was not looking at the screen, but somehow his fingers were still typing away at something. I was not sure what I was looking at. Unless this man has defied all that science knows about death, he is still alive. “Hey… I’m a… here.” He didn’t respond, but his hands kept typing away. “Hey buddy, you okay?” Nothing. I slowly crept over to him and leaned over to read the words on the laptop. I scanned the last passage he wrote, which he was somehow doing even though he was not entirely awake. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you would think that after all this typing in your sleep and working hard, the words would be…” I hesitated. “A little better.” This the work of the guy who wrote bestsellers? This is the guy who captured the hearts of the Christmas readers? I was not sure if I was to be encouraged or upset over this revelation. It’s so… so… so… Oh, what is the word? He pulled himself up and finally spoke up. “Oh hey! You made it!” He cleaned himself up and jumped out of the chair. I stepped back, and he closed his laptop and adjusted the shorts he was wearing. “I call it sleep typing. I position myself to type, and when I sleep, my mind still works on the story. Not bad, eh?” “Is that why you have no shirt on?” I asked. He ignored my comment and went on about this idea that he sleeps while he writes and that it helps him write all his books. He even tries to get sleepy so that his mind can get into that mode. He didn’t put a shirt on, and he headed towards the kitchen. I took a second to notice the sticker on his closed laptop, “Wordssss…. They are my thing.” “Hey, you coming? I got something for us for lunch.” I snapped out of it and went into the kitchen. He pointed out a newspaper clipping on the fridge, “Now this guy, this critic, an absolute jerk. I knew I was set when he liked my book.” He named the book, which was not the alien story, and I made a wiseass remark about critics. He opened his fridge and offered me some Chinese food he still had. He put the containers on a plate as we both sat in the chairs a bit too small for men our size. If I were any fatter, I would break the chair I was in. He redirected the conversation back to his method of creating stories. “What do you think? Am I on to something or what?” He leaned back, impressed by his new theory, as I was deciding if the Chinese food was still good to eat. “Wow, yeah. You can tell it really helps with your writing.” I said as politely as I could. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

A quiet flash fiction story set after work. In “Tastes Like Pigeon,” Greg Luti follows two longtime friends in a parked car as small talk, exhaustion, and a strange moment outside slowly reveal what they’re both trying not to say. I sat in the front seat of my car as my friend, Stu sat in the passenger seat eating his lunch. I was picking him up from his job, and so I got him a cheeseburger and fries. I wasn’t all that hungry, so I only got myself a soda. Instead of driving to Stu’s home to drop him off, I pulled the car over to a street a few blocks away from where he works because the last time Stu went home after work, his parents caused his problems. I won’t go into the details, but we are at the point where we think it is best to avoid them. I have told him that this may lead to problems for him down the line, on account of him not speaking to his mom and dad all that much, but he never likes to go into that sort of stuff. Stu is what you would call a simple thinker. Or he is avoiding something much worse. He ate his cheeseburger as I drank my soda. I had nothing really to say to him either. I wasn’t mad at him or anything. I was just tired. “You mad at me or something? You are quiet.” He asked. “No. I got no sleep last night.” I admitted. “Man, you gotta see someone about this. This is the third time you told me about not getting sleep. You are a zombie. You can’t go through life.” I missed the rest as he chewed on his burger. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” I knew he was right, but I also didn’t want to go further into this. It’s weird when I am awake; I don’t want to bother with my sleep problems, but when I am trying to sleep, I can’t well… sleep. It is a vicious cycle. “Thanks for getting this.” He said with food in his mouth. “You need some napkins?” He needed napkins. The ketchup was all over his face. “I got some in the back.” I reached around to get a few napkins from the last time we did this. Like I said, this is not the first time we have had fast food in the car after my friend worked. What I saw is next is something that if I didn’t tell you would not believe. Across the street was an Indian man I never saw before on a corner, standing with a plastic bag in his hand. He looked around as though surveying the scene. It was then I pointed the guy out to my buddy. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Look at this guy over here.” Just as Stu turned to see the stranger, the man with the bag scooped a pigeon from off the ground and put it into his bag. We looked at each other for a split second, unsure of what just happened. “Did he just?” Stu asked. The Indian man then walked back into his Halal truck with the pigeon in his bag. “I mean… did he?” I asked. “No freaking way,” Stu said. “He just snatched it.” “Like it was nothing… And he looked around, too.” “Oh yeah.” “So you know he has done this before.” “Damn, that is true.” We turned back to the front seats, in a more comfortable position. I noticed I didn’t get the napkins, so I quickly reached again to get a few. Stu looked at his half-eaten burger. “There is no way this is made of pigeon, right?” “Is that Halal food?” I asked, and gave him the napkins “No.” He accepted them and wiped his face. “Then you are fine.” “Did I tell you about the guy I worked with who spoke about Halal food?” “Did he say that it came from pigeons?” “No. It was at an office party, and someone asked where did it come from, and he said that it came from India and whatever. The person was like, ‘No, I mean, where did the one franchise come from.’ Like I care where that food comes from. I don’t need to know the origins of dishes.” “Who knows? You may learn you have been eating bird all along.” I sipped my soda, as he finished his burger. “You ready to go?” Stu checked his watch. “Hold on. My parents will leave in an hour. Let’s go to the mall for a bit before that.” “Are you ever going to just confront them? Or are you really going to avoid them while you live with them?” “Are you ever going get your sleeping problems checked?” I shut up after that comment. “We can go to the mall down the road,” I suggested. I pulled the car out and started to drive away. “Should we do something about that?” Stu asked. “You mean the fact that a food vendor took a random animal from the street and is using it to produce items for his customers?” “Yeah…” “Probably.” “Man, I am never eating Halal again. That was nasty.” “It does explain where all the pigeons have gone.”

A flash fiction story built around a small act of help and a larger expectation. In “Something Insightful,” Greg Luti follows a younger man who assists an older stranger — then waits, a little too hopefully, for some kind of meaning to come with it. As I walked towards my car, I noticed a man standing by the dumpster right next to my vehicle. There was no way for me to avoid the man since he stood by the dumpster, which was right near the driver’s side of my vehicle. Beside the stranger was a large box, one about the size of a small office desk. I didn’t take much notice of the man until he spoke up to me. “Hey buddy, do you mind giving me a hand here?” The gentleman was an older man, of the age where he would tell me I had my whole life ahead of me, but still somehow had the strength to lift up heavy objects by himself. I would mention things in the far past to this man, and he would say he knew all about those things, since he lived during them. I pointed to myself, as if there was anyone else in the empty parking lot, this stranger could be talking to. “Yeah.” Before I could even walk over, he started to get into a lifting position. I hustled over to the other end of the box, and after some struggle, we got the box into the dumpster. I stood there for a second as the stranger wiped his hands. “Thanks. I didn’t realize how heavy it was until I was out here.” He commented. “Oh yeah… no problem,” I responded. We didn’t say anything for a brief moment, for there was not all that much to really even say. I didn’t know this man, nor did he know me. We didn’t really want to be friends after this encounter. I asked the only question that occurred to me. “Aren’t you going to tell me something insightful now?” “What the hell are you talking about?” He continued to wipe his hands on his jeans, trying to clean them. I couldn’t make out just why he was cleaning his hands, or what made them dirty. “You know. I am in an everyday setting, and you are going to give me insights into something else I would not consider.” “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.” He said, as though he was not interested in the conversation anymore. The stranger began to walk away. I asked him, “Just so we are clear. You don’t have anything useful to tell me.” “Uh… no.” He then continued across the parking lot. “Then why the hell did I help him?” I whispered to myself.

A poem about the moment inspiration goes quiet. In “Killing The Muse,” Greg Luti follows a writer through creative exhaustion, confusion, and a tense confrontation with the source of his ideas. I sat at my desk alone in my room, wishing to forge another story out of thin air. But this time, I was done with the emotional toll the words had taken on my mind. I was at my limits with the words…. I don’t know how many more I have in me. For a moment, one I don’t recognize, I can’t create an idea. I was not frustrated by it at all, but more confused. Idea creation is one of my specialties’ I never had this problem before. I tried to recall a few possible ideas I had in the past week that I never got to, but nothing came. Even the old ideas are gone from my mind. Did I clean out my brain at one point during the week? When did my mind get a reset? Is the lack of sleep really getting to me? What the hell is going on here? Then the muse, a being not of this world, but of the unseen, showed up in my room. The creature stood by the opposite wall, in front of my framed Beatles photo. The distance was far enough that I had to turn to see its grotesque appearance, something I was not doing immediately. The creature was not of this world, but of what world it was, I could not say. Whatever was standing there certainly knew of the basic dimensions of creatures like me. Whether this creature modeled itself after something of our world or naturally appeared this way is something I don’t know. “Hello… I can help you.” It said in a confident, almost disturbing voice. “Yeah… you are not the only person to say that.” I paid the creature no mind. “With your words, I can give you ideas to make them better, make them whole. Why create your own when I can simply give you one? All that sweat, all that work, and for what?” “Shut the hell up. I don’t have time for your games.” “Are they games when your mind is empty? Are they games when the thoughts run out? Are they games when the time you devote to this craft doesn’t give you the results you so desire? Even a man like yourself has only so many ideas…. Why not allow me to give a helping hand?” I put my hand down, not viewing the being, who was neither man nor woman. “Do you think I am stupid? Do I seem to be a fool to you? When you started this trip to meet me, did you put down that you wished to see a moron? Is that what you view me as? Nothing more than a pig with a brain. A jester in a show, or an imbecile with a microphone. I am not to be taken for a fool, even by you. Tired, I am, but stupid, I am not.” “Oh, I would never think of such a thing. The carrier of the idea is never a fool, for they are smart enough to accept it, which I am sure you are.” The most humane part of this creature was the way in which it formed words. I finally turned to look at the creature, a move I regretted instantly. “Got you, really are an ugly bastard.” “I whisper to those that wish to hear me.” “Uh-huh… That is what you call it.” “What I call it doesn’t matter as much as what it can do for you.” “Look, I know your game. I know the lies you are even saying now. Ideas don’t come from you. You are full of it. They come from the spirit of the mind. Whatever ideas or thoughts a person has go into the unseen world and then stay there. You are not a part of that world. You meddle in it, and then decide when you want something from a desperate son of bitch, you take a few ideas, combine them, and give them to the person. Don’t act like you are a part of that world. You are not. I can’t see it, but I sure as hell know you are not in it either.” “You sadden me with your response. You don’t consider all the good I can give you.” The creature got closer to me. “Let me help you. Let me help you in a way you cannot help yourself.” “Stay back! I am warning you!” The creature continued to get closer. “I am not kidding. I will do it!” “Do what? What I want you to do?” “I will do it!” The creature took one step closer, and then I reached for the gun on my desk. I unloaded the cartridges, and the creature disappeared into the air, as though it had not been a physical body all along. I heard a whisper. “I am glad you accepted my offer.” My roommate, who was in the other room, came running in as the Doritos he was eating fell all over the floor. “Jesus Christ! What the hell happened! I heard shots go off! Are you alright? What the hell happened!” I noticed the creature was gone, and all that remained were the bullet holes in the wall. “Yeah… yeah… I am fine. I thought someone was about to enter the house.” I went to sit back down by my desk, and put the gun in my drawer, wiping my forehead of the sweat that gathered. He rolled his eyes at me, the same way he notices I don’t do my laundry. “And you didn’t think about calling for help? You decided to shoot up the room like you are John Wick! You gotta think, man! You really could have hurt yourself.” He wiped the Doritos from his shirt and face and shook his head at me. “Yeah, yeah. I know…”

A contemplative poem about the language that shapes a life. In “The Words,” Greg Luti follows the things we are told, the things we say, and the words that remain when the rest of life is stripped away. There are many words you are told to remember in this life. As soon as you are born, the world cannot wait for you to talk, only for them to tell you to shut up, and force certain words down your throat. You will remember some of these words in your life. I am sure that some of them will mean very much to you, and to who you are. Perhaps some of them you say at your marriage, or at your graduation, or at other important life moments. These words stay with you, whether you wish for them to or not. For how else can we truly remember a moment if the words we uttered while there are lost? I played that game too. The game you play. The game we all play with these words. But then it hit me one day that the most important words you, or I, or anyone else, will ever have to know will never be discussed. You have not been asked what you are to say to the Creator when your time is done on this earth. When you are done living, the life you have is over, and you are to be taken away to the other world, the spiritual world. Do you know what you are to say to the Creator when you meet him? If you are like most, you have not thought much about this very situation, for we are a people so caught up with life, we forget about the very one who gave it to us. So I ask you, what would you say to God when the time comes? Do you ask for forgiveness for all the sins you have committed in life? Do you plead with him to give you another chance at redemption? What do you say to the Lord when you meet him when you die? I say that you would be wise to consider the option of the Lord being real, for the other option seems rather foolish. If there is a God, you would surely want to speak with him after you die. If there is no God, then believing in one doesn’t do you any harm. For what good does it do your spirit if you reject God all your life? Should God be merciful to you then? You reject him your entire life, so why should there be mercy to you in death? When you die, there are no more secrets to be hidden. No more lies that you can get away with. No more of anything. The light is brought forth, and that which was dark shall be shown too. When that moment comes, will you be ready for it? If you were to meet the Lord after you die, would you even know what you are to say to him? If you have an answer to this question, then I suggest examining it, as you do other things. Switch roles, and ask yourself if you would be okay if someone said the very words to you that you are to say to the Lord when you die. If you have no answer to this question, then I suggest getting one. You learn all that the world gives you while you live. So many words. So many lessons. And yet when the time comes for you to speak to the Creator, you are speechless, as though you never had any time to consider the question. I am here to tell you that you will die, and you better be prepared to speak to the Lord when that day comes. Choose your words wisely on that fateful day, too. For in this life, you are given many chances to recover and learn, but when you die, you don’t get another chance.

A poem that argues philosophy doesn’t only belong to books and classrooms. In “The Real Philosophers,” Greg Luti looks at ordinary people who keep asking the hard questions while going about their everyday lives. The real philosophers, at least the ones I have met, are those who question the world, wherever they go. They whisper of truths in the office. Silently speak of questions in the grocery store. They philosophize as a part of their life. They question because that is what they see at the moment. As we are throwing out the trash for the day, Moving the carts out of the aisle. Picking up the boxes from the truck. They ask questions; those who call themselves philosophers boast about it. You speak of great minds and think of the books they wrote. What wise words did they write, and how did they form their argument? What school are they from? The minds I know don’t know any of that. They care not about writing their thoughts in books, nor would they say their words are even wise. They are not forming an argument, but seeking the truth in the world as the world tries to hide from them. And don’t mention schools of philosophy to them. They don’t know what that means. The greatest questions can’t be answered in a book, or even a poem. They cannot be formulated, studied, and dissected as though they were an equation. The great minds of today put all their thoughts down as they sit in their ivory tower and reflect upon the great minds of the past. What did that person think of what I view of the world? How do I respond to them? But my philosophers don’t do that. As we are sitting in the break room, eating some pizza, they present questions about the world. Not for their next book, or lecture, or even to be right, But because they wanted to know the truth. They asked not for themselves, for they gain nothing for asking the question. They asked because they were compelled to. We would be working on some boxes, and my co-worker would present an idea he has of the world, which, of course, takes up most of our time. Then we learn of the world, and ourselves from it all. Are you ever going to be taught about that exchange in school? Will my working buddies ever be remembered for the questions they posed to the world? No. No, they will not. For we value the minds in the ivory towers. Those who can support their claims, rather than those who randomly ask questions of the world. But I ask, is there not a difference between a student of philosophy and an actual philosopher? Why must I study to be a philosopher? Am I not born with a brain to question and think? If I do that, wherever I go, how then can I not be a philosopher, no matter what my degree says? Why must I attend classes to prove I question? Is the modern philosopher fooling us all with their very knowledge of the history of the field? Are they questioning because they are well-versed in the field or because they are philosophers? If you spend all day defending your point and learning about the history of the field, how can you ever call yourself a true philosopher, or one who lets their heart guide their way? Question… Question the world. That is the trick to being a philosopher. All that other nonsense they tell you about in school and try to teach you is wrong. You can question the very world we live in wherever you go. Want to wonder about life’s purpose at the gym? Go ahead. Want to ponder the proper form of government while working at the bank? Right on. Want to speculate on the nature of humanity as you clean up the room? No one is stopping you. We are killing philosophy by making it all about books and words, and not about the heart and feeling of the mind. Live your life as you would and should. And when the time comes for you to wonder about life, don’t be afraid to ask. You may not like the answer, but you should not be afraid to ask the question. If an ivory tower philosopher is reading their books, defending their points, how can they truly know enough about life to question it? They live in books and in their own heads. Do they know the struggle of the average person? Do they live among us, as we all struggle with paying bills? Do they truly know how to live a life? If the answer is no to any of those questions, then how can we say they are the best thinkers for the field? I recognize the irony in my statement, and for that I apologize to the reader. What is my solution to this problem? To have the real philosophers replace those in the ivory tower? That solves nothing. To remove all the ivory tower philosophers? We both know that is practically impossible. To have a culture where questioning and philosophy are accepted by the public? As much as I want to say that can happen, I know it won’t. I complain about the ivory tower philosophers for being too involved in books and not enough in life, but I fail to accept that without those minds, philosophy would not even be written down. Where does that leave me? Where does that leave any of us? We need the ivory tower philosophers because we all know the real ones would never do it anyway. Yet, we all want more from the real philosophers who inspire the truth to be found in the world. The only solution to this philosophical question is right in front of me. We are to use what we know of philosophy to figure it out. Question it. If we do that, philosophy shall always be in good hands.

An ironic, introspective poem about how quickly a life can tilt. In “Quite A Change,” Greg Luti follows a speaker through frustration, disillusionment, and the uneasy choice to stay in the fight. Sometimes I wake up and feel like Tupac, I ask myself if I should just end my life. One clip, one click, one ending. Click and then boom. My story would be over before it got started. Life sucks, so screw life. Screw all they say about it. All that guru bullshit the heathens teach. All that nonsense of goodwill they pass to keep you grounded. All of life sucks. But this gun, this gun may do the trick. I will screw life by taking my own. Of course, that would mean I have to get a gun. Go to a store and buy one. Which is going to take some time. I am in no rush to kill myself, but damn… Going to the store and then making a shopping trip all just to end this all seems to be doing the opposite. What type of nonsense is that? Shit, then I have to pass the test that proves I am not crazy… But I want to buy the gun to kill myself, which is the definition of crazy…. Damn… what would Pac say about this? Wasn’t he talking about changes in that song? Huey died, I remember that line. And so does Tupac in the song. That is what the rat-tat-tat-tat part is about. For those who don’t know. Hmm…. I am starting to think this whole suicide experiment is not going to be as easy as I thought. The whole point of me ending my life is that it would be quick and painless. Like ripping a bandage off… But now I need to be devoted to ending my freaking life… As if this is a job I need to accomplish. Shit, if I am going to work so hard at ending myself, I might as well work hard at improving myself. What is the freaking difference? Instead of going to the gun shop, maybe I will get some stuff we need. What do we need? I don’t know. Probably milk and eggs. You can never have too much milk and eggs. One of the tutors I know brought in eggs to give to people. I am not even making that up either. She brought in a pack of eggs she got from the farm, and asked if anyone wanted them. As though she was giving out a piece of candy or something. The place has rewards they give students for doing well academically, maybe the kids will like to have the eggs instead of what we give them now, which is like Rubex cubes and other stupid stuff kids like. Not to bash the kids, but boy, do kids like stupid things. When the kids achieve success, we allow them the option to pick from an array of moron toys, like squishy things, or slime, or other things that if you are an adult and playing with them, you are deemed a weirdo. You need to buy a gun in order to kill yourself. Students who do well get stupid awards. I see no changes. The world didn’t make sense then. It doesn’t make sense now. It probably won’t make sense in the future. Now, you will be told by various bullshit artists that they have the solution to all of life’s problems. Because they know. They are the few who have the secrets to this. Like they are using a secret recipe for a dish we all eat. They tell everyone how to live, how to eat, and how to improve themselves. And what happens? That person then ends up committing suicide because of problems they were hiding from people all along. You explain that to me. Don’t actually… I was just being nice. I don’t really want you to explain it to me. That is kind of like when I ask someone how they are doing. I don’t really want to know. I only do it as a formality. Because saying what’s up, or hey, can be repetitive pretty quickly. I don’t know…. Maybe, just maybe, suicide is not the answer. That is just a theory, though. I have nothing to really prove that, but I feel like there are enough out there who would support it. I give a person two options – They have to buy a gun and then shoot themselves. Which is really a pain in the ass as much as tragic. Guns are expensive, and honestly, I have things to do; I can’t just go to the gun shop and buy a gun. I am too busy for that. Oh, and the taking of the life is sad too. You know the ending of the pre-mature life, that was never much of one. Then there is option two – I don’t give the person the gun, and they don’t shoot themselves. I am not a math guy, but it seems the second option has a higher rate of survival than the first. It is the best of the two options. If you commit suicide, then that is that. Game over. You lose. You are going to cash your chips in. If you don’t…. Then you get to continue to play in this miserable, strange experience we call life. And hell, playing in the game is much better than not being in the game at all. Plus, there are some of those fake gurus who would tell you about success and wealth, and I don’t know if you know this, but you can’t really succeed or get wealthy if you are dead. You are welcome for that piece of advice. Now overpay me for a speaking engagement and then let me talk nonsense for an hour. That would be a funny thing to put on a tombstone “He tried to live…. He failed.” I heard somewhere that we are only here to die. Which I guess is true, in a weird, screwed up way. But that is true, the same way that saying that killing yourself solves your problems. I mean, sure, you don’t have to get out of debt anymore or worry about all of life’s issues, but that is more because you are dead, no longer dealing with them, than any real solution on your end. It is similar to throwing out food you were supposed to eat. Did you get rid of the food? Sure. But is that the way you were trying to get rid of the food? No. It was not. And you are a fool if you allow the cook to see you make that move. At that point, suck it up and eat the damn meal. If you are stupid enough to get caught like that, then you should have the balls to eat the food in front of the cook. So yeah, you solved your life’s problems, but you also didn’t address the major issue now. You don’t have a life. I don’t mean that in the way some try to insult losers who don’t do anything all day. No, I mean you are no longer in possession of life. If living with life is the number one, then you are living without life, which is number zero. You are zero; you have no life. Now that would be a funny thing to hear at a funeral. “This man was a zero. He no longer has life.” If you commit suicide, do you think you are allowed to attend your own funeral? It feels like the afterlife would have a rule against that sort of thing. Like you killed yourself, so you are no longer allowed to see the world. I bet there is a sign in hell or wherever you end up when you blast yourself, about that sort of thing. You thought you were clever. You thought you were slick. Trying to one off yourself, getting out of this life and removing yourself from the game. Well, you were wrong. Because the place where you go to after the shot goes off doesn’t even like people who commit suicide. They look down upon those people. We are talking about supernatural beings and freaky things that are not human either. Those things look at you committing suicide and shake their heads. Or you know, whatever they have that they can shake, showing a disapproval of your death. Is there a lesson here? Something that you can take with you? Maybe you should not blast yourself when you get down. And no, don’t get all witty with me here either. No gun blasting. No rope hanging. No bomb exploding. No train jumping. None of that. Don’t do any of that. Do not kill yourself. You will die without lending the world a hand. I won’t say what you think I will say…. That you are worthy of life, and have something to give to this world. That each and every one of you is important. I am not a fake guru. I won’t say what you want to hear. The truth is that you may be a loser. You may be a zero. And heck, you may not even have much to live for. Logic may even tell you that suicide seems right then. The game is over for you, so why not end it? Seems reasonable, right? Wrong…. Because you don’t know everything. You have no idea where you will be in a year or five or ten. Your life may be better then. It may be worse. But you ending it all, is you thinking you know more about your life than you really do. You don’t know the future. None of us do. I may get run over tomorrow. I may get hit by a train in a week. I may get killed by someone I roughed up way back. Who knows? I don’t know. And neither do you. So stop bitching and complaining that your life sucks. And get in on the little secret that you oughta know. Life doesn’t suck for everyone. It is just a matter of how you deal with the hand you are dealt.