“Today I will be happy.”

That’s how each page starts. That’s how each day starts.

“Today I will be happy.”

It’s perfect. Hanni never has to think. She could. If she wanted, she could think. But why? It’s all written so well. When you’re born you’re given your book. The story of your life. What you will decide to eat every day. How many errands you’ll run. The people you’ll meet. Who you like. Who you hate. All of it foretold for you. Your first day of school. Your wedding day. The day you get your wisdom teeth pulled. The birthdays. The sick days. The lazy days. The memorable moments. All written down. Black and white. Clean page after neat, clean page.

And, “Today I will be happy,” atop every one of them.

“Today I will be happy.”

Hanni stretches. Because that’s what her book says.

“Today I will be happy. And to start today I stretch.”

She scratches her cat, Jax, behind the ears. She showers. Eats eggs. Makes her bed. Hanni dresses for work. She grabs a bottle of water and an apple and is out the door. Because that’s what her book says. And each day is just like this.

“Today I will be happy.”

Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Trip.

Wait. Trip?

Hanni trips. She glides down her front steps like every other day. Her office is 8 blocks from home. And at the third block, Hanni trips. Her arms reach out in a quick attempt to save herself, but it’s too late. She had never planned on tripping. The apple rolls to her right and her water bottle and book fly into the street. A car passes over the bottle and water explodes in every direction. And Hanni’s heart breaks. The book is drenched. She can’t remember seeing this in the book ever. She can’t remember anyone ever ruining their book. Hanni snatches up her book and returns home. No one calls to see why she’s not at work. No one has a book that says she will not be at work. Her life was simple. She had skipped ahead several times and she knew that she was happy. Her life, happy and unremarkable. She would stay happy and healthy until retirement. At which time Jax would pass. She would be happy though because he lived a long, happy life with her. And she would take her retirement money and travel. A new city to be happy and stretch and make the bed in every year until she died herself.

Unremarkable but happy. She could keep going on. She mostly knew the plan. After all, it was unremarkable...

Tomorrow Hanni would wake up and continue the way she had been.

Today I will be happy.

And Hanni’s doorbell rings. Before her eyes are even open, her doorbell rings. That has never happened before. She opens the door and finds a new book on her steps. A red ribbon tied around its leather bound pages.

This book does not say she will be happy.

This book is empty but for one page.

The words are scrawled in her own writing.

They are not neat. They are not even straight or centered. There are splotches where it looks like someone may have not only spilt coffee but also cried. And along the edges someone has inked in little roses and vines. And somewhere in the mess, in Hanni’s own script is just one message.

“Today I will live.”

I still devour the voices

grab the sky to embrace it

rage the world ablaze

snuff out torrents of rain

sail the squall of tempests

I still devour the voices

dance in youth’s wild abandon

pluck the strings of truth

tear my soul in pieces

let life into my heart

I still devour the voices

holding spring to my bosom

seizing the pennant of youth

swallowing its nectar deeply

imbibing the dregs of youth

Mamma always told me that I wore my pain like I wore my clothes, form-fitted and too close to the skin. The melancholy always clung in layers across my ribs and at the corners of my mouth, my eyes reflecting the knives that had skewered me through.

She would preach for me to swallow those bitter pills. "No one will love a sad, broken girl," she'd say as she handed me the needle. And I'd stitch wounds and powder scars until I was the perfect illusion of whole. But the stones thrown always found their way back home, chipping armor and weakening my bones.

And I would crack.

And crack.

And crack.

#microwrite #flashfiction

Lift the veil of your blackness

in the spirituality of deep night.

greet the rosy red hue of sunrise

kissing your skin with passion.

See with your heart the purple

softness and love mingling with red.

Thumb the rough bark of brown tree,

warmth of dead plants, decaying,

earth opening up to burgeoning life.

Stroke green to absorb virgin growth,

imbibing freshness of clean health,

like a minty taste on your tongue.

Brush the blue of cold water, gurgling,

smell its salty brine wafting around you.

Caress blush on your cheeks in red dashes,

heat emanating in color of spicy passion,

flashes of anger and intensity, overwhelming.

Whiff wind-whipped stormy colors of grey

breathing sweet ozone and new breezy air.

Peel the pebbled skin of an orange, taste

sweetness like the tropics, round like

the orange globe of the sunset in sky.

Savor yellow, like a ripened banana

nourishing and sweet, drawn into soul.

Wrap white of purity and cleanliness,

cocooning your body in soft simplicity.

Expand all your senses to see the beauty

light touches of color grazing your skin.

Red clouds and a rainbow to

the south of the city.

Sheet lightning to the east.

Light it up and let it fly. The sky

is spinning out its paint box tonight. 

“The fundamental cause of the trouble in the modern world today is that the stupid are cocksure while the intelligent are full of doubt.” 

- Bertrand Russell

So, 94% of people self-report as being above average. 

Are we really all surprised? 

Really, are any of us currently living in western civilization surprised by the fact that the majority of people around us think they are superior to one another. In this fast-food, social media society? 

We spend a massive portion of our lives cultivating and paying tribute to the persona that we portray. Slathering images of our "superior selves" all across the internet, groveling for "likes", for "love" for some glimmer of happiness. We build an altar to ourselves, in this society that tells us that sheepish "individuality" is king. We wrap ourselves in garments, paint our faces, tease our hair and hope for some kind of affection to reach out for us across the cold void of our new virtual existences. There is only "I" and "I" and "I"; "me" and "me" and "me". We are better. We are the best. We are loved. We are worshipped. The world exists for us and us alone. 

Of course we think we're better than the person sitting next to us. 

For decades we have been taught that you must be better than your brother. You must compete. You must strive to be above. To be looked up to. To be worshipped. We cannot find the god in this modern society...we must worship the self. To stay divided to stay alone. To drive our emptiness, to drive our need for consumption, our need for competition. Always be better. Always be the best. Always be alone. Always be in need. Be better than your brother and your sister. 

And so we find ourselves. Delusional and empty. Searching for the meaning that exists all around us. 94% better than the rest. 

The girls dropped me off at the truck stop; Sara even was bold enough to slip me a note with her number on it, wearing a grin too hungry for her age. I thanked them all for giving me the ride, even though I was quietly torn as I thought to myself that I hoped my own daughter would never pick up a strange man on the side of the road, even if she was with two of her best friends. The three girls that gave me a ride were way too trusting or way too naive.

A bell rang as soon as I opened the glassdoor to the truck stop, yet I assumed the door opened often enough because no one bothered to look at me as I entered. I looked at my mobile, still no bars.

I walked up to the counter and waited for the boy behind it with the oily, slicked back hair to acknowledge me. After a few moments, I cleared my throat more to catch his attention and asked, "Excuse me sir, do you happen to have a payphone around?"

The kid looked at me with a stupid stare. Either I was stupid for asking or he perhaps was not playing with a full deck. "Um, we have a phone that Frank pays a bill on every month. Is that what you mean?"

"Well, perhaps," I replied without being harsh, "my cell is not getting any signal, my car broke down a few miles back, and I need to make an important call. Do you mind if I use it?"

"I could care less, but Frank would probably not allow it. He doesn't let me use it unless it is to call the cops to help with a sudden asshole problem or something. I am sure he will not let a stranger use it. Frank's bit of a cheapskate."

A big burly man, with an ugly scar across his face and and even uglier scowl, cupped the kid in the ear. "Watch yourself, boy!" He turned to look at me, "So you need to use my phone? What is in it for me? Like the moron said, nothing is for free."

I didn't recall the boy saying any such thing, but shrugged in my response, "I suppose what are you needing to have done?"

Frank looked me over as if measuring my worth. "You do not look like you are worth much of anything useful."

"You might be surprised."

"My cook called in sick, can you cook? I hate cooking and right about now, I would love a bit of a break."

"I have made a feast or two before. You let me use your phone and I'll cook for you until my ride shows up, deal?"

He eyed me suspiciously. "How long might that be."

"At least an hour."

"Deal!" Frank spit in his hand, and held it out to me. I mimicked the barbaric action and we shook on it. Frank slammed his ancient touchtone phone on the counter for me and I called a number by memory.

The other end picked up after two rings, I started to talk, "Zulu-November-Golf-Delta-Alpha-Alpha-Romeo-Kilo-Juliet-Three-Echo-Zero." I hung up the phone. "So, you going to show me your kitchen?"

"What the hell was that bullshit? I thought you needed someone to pick you up."

"I do. They'll be here shortly. You are wasting time. You want me to cook for you a bit or not?"

~~~

"Dammit Frank, when the hell did you learn how to make burgers like this?"

"Didn't, it is the new guy."

"Well, better not scare the new guy off like every other guy you get to cook for ya."

"He is only here for a short time, payment for using my phone."

"Dammit man! Break his knees or something. This is the best grub you've served here in about three decades."

"Fuck you Bob! The food here is not that bad."

"Perhaps not, Frank. But, this food IS that good!"

Frank called back to me, "Hey mister, can you make me a deluxe as well? Seems everyone thinks it is the best thing they've ev'r had and I want to see for myself."

"Sure thing, Bossman!" I always wanted a reason to say that, seemed as good a setting as any to do so. Frank gave me an ugly look pondering whether or not I was mocking him.

Just as I finished Frank's burger, I heard the bell go off letting everyone know someone new just walked in. This time though, everyone slowly did turn to see. I  smiled to myself and removed the grease-stained apron, knowing my ride was here.

Roxanne stood out like a flower on a dying cactus. She belonged anywhere in the world save here. Half of the men in the place were still in the process of scraping their jaws from the floor. Half of the women in the place turned a few shades of green. The rest of the people in this place were too stoned to noticed their hand in front of their face to realize that perhaps the most beautiful woman they would ever see on this earth just walked into this dump. I wasn't sure if it was irony or fate that Roxanne by the Police started playing on the vintage jukebox. None of the patrons here looked like the Police type. Hell, for the entire time I've been here, it was the first song to play.

"Here you go, Bossman. Enjoy and thanks for the use of your phone." I handed Frank a plate with the last burger I would ever make in this forgotten place on the side of a forgotten road. Made my way to Roxanne. Look at my watch, it took her 47 minutes to get here.

"What took you so long?"

She smiled sweetly, "The traffic to the middle of nowhere was a lot worse than one would have guessed."

"So Roxy, look around. Any fella look trustworthy here?" Roxanne had the uncanny ability to judge characters extremely well. She scanned the place quickly, pointing out a quiet boy, too busy scribbling in a notebook to notice us looking at him. I walked over to the boy, got his attention and slipped him Sara's number.

"What is this?" the boy said dumbly.

"It is a phone number to a particular girl. Perhaps fate means for you to fall in love with her. Perhaps fate means for you to just make her laugh. Call her tonight. That call will change your life. Don't call her, your life will never change."

With that, I walked back to Roxanne, took her hand and led her out of this dump in the middle of nowhere, that fate dumped me at.

We climbed into Roxanne's 911, she floored the gas and we slammed out of there teasing the speed of sound.

"So, do I have to take you to your rendezvous point, Alex?" she asked with a smile that could cut glass.

"No, I think the blind three will be satisfied with their touch influencing that truck stop instead. No need to go to the other destination, unless you are that bored."

At that, a set of blue and red lights started to flash behind us. I started to smile. Roxy's smiled deepened.

"Let's see what happens with this slight diversion first, Alex. Maybe I'll even let the cops catch us. Just imagine the extra credit we can get spreading a bit of fate in jail?"

I look at Roxy and have to laugh. She was by far the most beautiful woman I knew, but she loved a side adventure almost to the point of insanity.

"Do either of us really need extra credit? We are the three, blind bitches favorites."

"Precisely. Because we are just too good at what we do. By the way, that boy just made the phone call."

"You sure?"

"As sure as I am that it is going to start to rain in about thirty seconds after we get pulled over."

Roxy pulled to the stop and rolled down the window. The cop, to his chagrin, looked like he was punched just looking at her.

"Um, do you have any idea how fast you were going, um, miss?"

Roxy smiled, and broke the man's poor heart just from the sight of it, "No officer, I was a bit preoccupied catching up with my friend here. Just how fast was I going?"

I started to laugh as the rain suddenly came down in sheets, soaking the cop, and soaking Roxy a bit as well. Her dress clung to her even more desperately than before. Damn, if she didn't look even sexier wet.

I didn't laugh only at that though, I laughed wondering if Sara and the shy, poetic boy she just met had any idea just how severely their lives were about to change. They never do.

Love has damaged me, and I don't know if I should blame myself, for believing in such a dusty social development, or society itself. Love is nothing more than a mirage, a chemical reaction in our brains, the very same that frighten us with phantom ghosts and drive us to tears with whispers of those who've passed on. It's evolution, a survival trait that has long grown rusty. I know these shadows, the magical trickster called Mother Nature, and yet, despite my knowledge and woes, I choose ignorance every time.