Flash Fiction: Appearances

Credit: Autumn Rhythm 1950. Jackson Pollock, Artist

by LJ Frank

Wednesday. It’s a day that’s snuggled between Tuesday and Thursday. On those two days I look forward to meeting my enigmatic friend at the art museum. I smile as she loves to wear slightly tattered jeans, high-heeled boots and mesh blouses.  I only know her first name and her text number.

But today is Wednesday. On this particular day I was to meet with a corporate business acquaintance. We met at an outdoor café and sat down at a tarnished metallic looking table under a warm late Autumn day when I began the conversation after our coffee was served.

 It’s a matter of becoming conscious of who and what you really are.



You’re really into that being naked to yourself and others.

It’s being conscious of your own self in a world jostling for scraps tossed off the tables of the wealthiest sitting in their boudoirs of power.

Hm. When did you realize that you were merely a product?

 Every time I turn on the Internet, take a survey and every time I take a drive in the country but can’t access the brochure described pristine lake of beauty because it was surrounded by private property. The list is endless. And yet I’m under the marketed illusion that I’m in control.

I feel the same way.

You. I understand you live in a luxurious gated community.

I’m hanging out with you.

Why do you hang out with me?

You’re free from the burdens of property ownership.

Horse manure.

I don’t own any horses.

The first words carved out by men on stone tablets thousands of years ago were bills of receipt. The economics of existence. Humans are a supply and demand product.

I know your work doesn’t pay very well in a society that depends on the economics of thievery.

Then…you agree with me?

I’m a bit of an avant-garde snob that really likes to dress in tattered jeans and spend Tuesdays and Thursdays at the art museum with an intimate friend.


She then reached for her phone and text a message.

I looked at my phone that was buzzing. The text read: “It’s me.” I looked up to watch her remover her wig, scarf and suit coat revealing a mesh blouse.