A flash fiction story set at a wedding reception. In “The Name To Remember,” Greg Luti follows a reluctant guest who politely endures an older man’s long, increasingly wild story about being abducted by aliens — and finds that getting away is not quite as simple as it looks. I sat at a corner table of a wedding reception as a friend of a family member was telling me about an alien abduction he had. I tried my best to eat my chicken and drink my beer as he went on and on about the occasion. There is nothing quite like a family gathering with a person you barely know telling you about a time when the green men came to visit. I just sat there and listened, offering comments that proved attentiveness but not engagement. The individual speaking was an older gentleman, someone my parents knew from a while back. Surely if one of them were around, they would be able to better identify this person. I can’t even tell you honestly who this guy was, but he needed an audience, and I was the one stuck listening. The man finally got up to get some more food, and he ended his conversation. He didn’t really say bye to me, either, as much as he stopped talking and walked away. I then headed for the trash can to throw out whatever was left on my plate, in my attempt not to have to sit down with that stranger again. I threw out my plate and put my beer on a counter by the window. A man whom I also didn’t recognize was standing next to the counter and started chatting with me. I looked around the room for my family members, but they were all in line getting more food. I was stuck talking to another stranger I didn’t know. “Nice party so far.” He said in a stern, almost intimidating voice. “Uh… yeah.” I was not in the mood to hear another old guy give a hyperbolic tale. “The name is William. I am an uncle of the groom.” “Oh, yeah. My name is Justin. I am a cousin to the bride.” I skipped telling him of the history I have with the bride on account of the fact that I was not very interested in speaking with this man. “That’s nice.” He stated as he drank from his cold beer. “I couldn’t help but listen in on that story that the other guy was telling you. That is quite a thing to bring up at a place like this.” “Yeah, I don’t really know him either.” “Haha. I could tell. Alien abductions are not really the type of conversation for wedding receptions.” “Oh, you mean, you don’t go around telling everyone at the reception about the time you got abducted?” He found that comment amusing. “Not exactly.” “That guy forgot to mention a crucial part of the experience. Probably would have saved him some time. Plus for you, you wouldn’t have to listen to as long a story either.” I was lost in the message this stranger was trying to tell me. I figured I’d give him a chance to say whatever joke or remark he wanted about the other guy’s story, and then I could get back to doing what I was doing. I was already drinking, so allowing this guy a moment to be witty wouldn’t hurt. I motioned for my drink as I noticed it was empty, and a refill was desperately needed. Just as I thought the conversation would end, since he said nothing of wit yet, the stranger spoke up. “Do yourself a favor. If you ever find yourself in a tough spot, say like what you were talking about with that alien fella over there, just say one guy’s name. That is all you have to do.” “I’m not following.” I didn’t know what this guy was talking about, but he sounded like he was about to tell me about his alien abduction experience. Is this guy speaking in code, or am I drinking too much? I couldn’t tell. He took another sip of his beer. “I will say it plain for you then. If you are ever scared of something like an alien, say the name, Jesus Christ. See how they react to it.” I chuckled at the absurd comment. “I mean, you can’t be serious….” I don’t know what I thought was more out there, the suggestion or that this guy was seriously bringing up Christ in a room full of heathens. “There is only one way to find out. I mean, when they are abducting you, ready to probe you, and you have no other choice, maybe his name may save you.” “You seem to have experience with this,” I said, half-kidding, giving up on my empty bottle. He winked at me. “Maybe.” He began to walk away. “Remember, kid, the darkness is always afraid of the light. Enjoy the party.” He walked away, and then I found my family and sat with them for the rest of the evening, dancing and enjoying the food and music of the event. The exchange I had with the stranger had slipped my mind. When I brought up the individual at the breakfast table the next morning to my family, none of them knew who he was, and they reasoned I had misidentified one of my uncle’s brothers.

A surreal flash fiction story about waking up somewhere that does not explain itself. In “The Man Out Of Time,” Greg Luti follows a disoriented man through a world of gray corridors and glowing yellow lakes — only to realize he is being quietly observed. An individual finds himself in an area unfamiliar to himself and many others, I can imagine. To one side is a corridor similar to something you would see in Willy Wonka, with its gray appearance and deceptive doors. To the other side is a glowing yellow lake that has platforms that are no larger than a picture frame floating above it. The individual stood between walking down the corridor or searching the lake. Most unusual is that the area had no feel to it, not of hope or horror. The place is there to confuse you, and any other person there, for none of what I described made much sense. The corridors don’t lead to anywhere. You cannot swim in the lake. And the platforms are just there. This place had no title, for a title implies meaning and purpose, to which this place had none. “Where am I?” The individual spoke aloud. A stranger, an older gentleman, who the individual did not notice, sat behind him, leaning back in his chair. “You have gone out of time, as they say. There is a joke about time there, but I am just not in the mood to say it.” The individual standing there ignored the last remark and continued to inquire about his situation. “But…. This place… Nothing here makes any sense. How can this be the key to time? Where are the numbers?” “If you take away the numbers from time, what do you have?” The figure asked him. The man didn’t know what to say, and continued to look around. Where was he exactly? He did not know this place from anything he had seen in life. It was not heaven, nor hell. Perhaps he was having a dream. “I am not dead, right?” “No. You are certainly alive. You found out how to time-travel. Now the fun part is getting back.” “So when I time-traveled…” “It brought you here… yeah.” “But how did I not travel to where I was trying to go?” “The universe has a default system where if anyone tries to time travel, like yourself, they get sent here. You didn’t think the universe was just going to let you time travel as you please, did you?” The man looked once again at where he was, and didn’t know what the stranger was even saying. How can such a place of nonsense be where he goes when he discovered time travel? The thought baffled him. The stranger muttered more to the traveler. “You seem like a nice guy. I will do you a favor and tell you which one of those squares gets you back to your time. How about that?” “How do you know the right way?” “Fella, I have been here longer than most of been alive, so I know what happens to people when they pick the wrong way.” “Uh… okay.” “See that lake right there, go to the second row of platforms. And get to the end of the second set. The second to last one is the one that gets you back.” “All I have to do is jump on it?” “Yup.” “What about the corridor down there?” “Oh, that is nothing. Ignore that entirely. Last guy who went down there didn’t come back.” “Right… So walk towards the glowing lake, make my way to the second set of platforms and then get to the second-to-last platform.” “Yup. If you choose any other platform, you won’t get back to your time.” “Looks like I am forced to trust you here.” “Looks it.” The man started to walk towards the glowing lake. “Say, how come you don’t leave? What’s stopping you from going back to your time?” “Son, there is nobody who is gonna miss me where I came from.” “It may be hard for you to imagine, but I am sure that someone misses you where you are from. Even if no one ever expressed it, I bet there were a few who thought about you after you were gone.” The stranger stayed silent, as the time traveler walked towards the lake.

A satirical flash fiction story about fame, damage control, and the one option nobody wants to say out loud. In “The Celebrity,” Greg Luti follows a famous star through a tense meeting as his team debates every possible response to a scandal. A celebrity sat around the room of lawyers and consultants, ready to address them on the current scandal that has rocked his world. The celebrity is unsure if he can handle all the negative press and wishes to hear the opinions of his team, which has helped him before. He heard multiple takes on the situation, from having a press release on the matter to ignoring it altogether. Some suggested he go into another field for the time being, while others say now is the time to be releasing new material to capitalize on the publicity. The celebrity didn’t know what to do, for he had so many options, yet no clear path. After some discussion, a new voice spoke up, giving a take not heard of yet. “Why don’t you just leave? I mean, just stop all of this. What is stopping you from doing that?” “I am sorry.” The celebrity spoke up. “Who are you again?” “Light Pearson. I am the copy editor of your memoir. Joanne is out sick today.” “And you want me to do what exactly?” “Leave. The door is right there. If you really want to end all of this nonsense, then just go. No one is stopping you. You created this cage. You put yourself in this position. None of us is forcing you to do it. I mean, let’s be real. None of the people in this room wants you to stop, because we make money from you. But if you want help, real help, you won’t get it by asking a room full of lawyers and yes-men about what to do.” “And where does that real help come from?” “From within. Not from a shrink, or a consul, but from you. Find out who you are, before you start making decisions that will affect it.” The celebrity chuckled, “What about all my fans?” “Oh, please. People move on. The world moves on. Life moves on. If people need you in order to live, then perhaps the lesson you should give them is a realization that their life should not revolve around you, or anyone else, for that matter. You are only a celebrity after all. It is not that important, no offense.” “And what about my money and everything?” “Hey, if you don’t think a room of lawyers knows how to handle the money, then you have another thing coming. Am I right?” He winked at the person to his left. “So just leave?” “You want to know what to do, but you don’t even know who you are, without all the photos, all the glitz and glamour. Take it all away, and then ask yourself, “Who am I?” Then and only then will you know who you are. Because at the end of the day, it is your life. Not mine, not anyone in this room. Not even the fans. But yours… And how the hell can you know about your own life, if you never know about who you really are.” The celebrity said nothing. The editor finished, “Sometimes the best way to stay dry is to go back inside, not get a new umbrella.”

A humorous flash fiction story about the strange things that end up on a test. In “Peanut Butter Question,” Greg Luti follows an SAT instructor who has to walk a student through a passage claiming that smooth or crunchy peanut butter can determine romantic compatibility. I teach the SAT, and during it, the students are given questions that seem so unusual, that I have to take a second to comprehend what it is I am saying to this kid, as I am trying to teach a lesson for a question, something like how to find the meaning to the blank space in the passage (the trick is to always find a phrase or so that helps you understand the blank space) Sometimes the topics are just odd. One had the fact that people determine romantic interest based on their preference to peanut butter. I swear to God, I am not making this up. There is a study that suggests that people will break up with others because they don’t go with peanut butter, I suppose. And this whole time, we all thought we were having a nice light meal for lunch when making those sandwiches. It turns out we are forming unknown future romantic interests, that will come to define our lives one day. All because of peanut butter. Oh, and there may be an SAT question on it in the future too. Once you get to know the question types, and how to teach them, you start to say the same thing without really thinking. I am teaching the kids the steps, so I repeat them to every kid that I teach. This question of peanut butter was a study based question, which means the passage is informing the reader of a study. The student had to go back and find what the question is even asking. (sometimes they ask for different things) I told her to see that the question is asking for a example to the finding, so we then have to go back to the peanut butter passage, which is a written up paragraph or so, of no more than a few hundred words. I explain there is a line, normally at the end that literally says the words, “The findings say,” That is what we are looking for, because in that part of the passage, we are then being told what the findings found. It was then I saw the odd connection between peanut butter and romance. I took a look at the line with the details of the findings, and sure enough it was that, people determine their romantic relationships based on peanut butter. I stopped my usual teaching and spoke to the kid out of tune. “Can we just take a second to recognize that the test that will determine your future, and is possibly one of the most important tests you will take in your entire life, has you read a passage where peanut butter is connected to love somehow? I like to think that you are going to talk to your parents tonight and when they ask you what you learned, you will say, ‘Well, I learned that love is affected by peanut butter.’ I continued, “You are here for two hours and remember something silly like that.” She spoke up, as a way to confirm she was paying attention more than anything, “It is kind of strange, I guess.” I shook my head at the absurdity of the situation. “Don’t look at me with this. I only teach the SAT. I don’t write up the questions for it.” I then got back into the regular routine of teaching the proper steps to answer the questions based on the question type. She has to find the example that matches with what the findings even say. I didn’t focus too much on the nonsense in the study, as I did want the kid to learn something while there. We moved on to the next question, and didn’t mention the peanut butter passage again. The real kicker is I am not sure that the kid really views the situation as absurd as I do. They will go about their day never once questioning that it is odd on such an important test, they are being asked irrelevant, pointless information.

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.