literature

FFM: Foreign Influences

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Frederich stood in the rain on the steps outside his front door and considered the rat.

Every morning when he left for work it was there, waiting for him, watching with its beady little eyes while it calmly cleaned its whiskers. It was sleek and fat and brown, and it was following him. He was sure of it.

Gripped by misery, he opened his umbrella and embarked onto the street, the pitter patter of the falling rain upon the taut plastic uncomfortably similar to the tread of little feet. He knew it was ridiculous and possibly even a little absurd, but he could feel the eyes upon his back, watching him. Sometimes there were many, sometimes just the one, but wherever he went the rats soon appeared. He was a man cursed.

It might have been better if there were some small distraction, or some person in his life to draw him forth from his obsessions, but he had long since alienated any enduring friendships or relations. And without a human element to cleave to his life had become quite meaningless.

Each morning he woke up and had a boiled egg and toast for breakfast, and each day he commuted to and from work without raising his head or veering from his course. He would bump into people as he walked along the street, mumbling rote apologies, unsure if it was he who paid too little attention to his surroundings, or if it was they who did not see him.

He would be thirty-five years old in June, and had been employed as the obituary columnist of a local newspaper for the majority of his adult working life. Sometimes relatives of the deceased would send him small thank you letters or a box of supermarket cupcakes. He would have preferred to make his obituaries more succinct, clinical relating of the facts.

“Frederich Mandelson, 27, dies of lethal sugar overdose from too many conciliatory cupcakes.”


Unfortunately his editor preferred it when the pieces were more poignant.

“Editor of beloved local newspaper perishes in fatal car crash. His employees embrace their newfound freedom.”


His last holiday had been to the south of France three years before, and his memories of that time had assumed the crisp and brittle consistency of holiday snapshots: here an exhibit of uncomfortably hot sand in ones swimming trunks, here a picture of a small colorful umbrella in an iced drink. He had not enjoyed the food, or the company. And shortly after that the rats had come.
He sometimes suspected that they had stowed away on the ferry when he left the squalid waters of Calais. At first catching glimpses of them in the shadows by the office dustbins, or running along the gutter across the street in perfect time with his own striding pace. Only later did he come to understand their true portent.

A year later his wife, Mathilda had left him, to his vast and enduring relief. But since then he had felt listless and indisposed. It seemed that even her small company had held some meaning in his life, and without the anchor of her presence he had become nothing and no one.
Such thoughts would strike Frederich at odd moments; while eating warm bread from the downstairs bakery, or watching a rerun of his favorite 70’s sitcom on a Wednesday night. Sometimes the idea would distill into a vague yearning for meaning in his life, or even simple companionship. Perhaps if he had someone to share his life with, the rats would leave… But always the thoughts would pass, and he would settle once more into his routine existence. It seemed that habit and the passing years had inured him to his own loneliness and obsession.

His walk home from work was made in twilight. The first streetlights guttering into life as brightly lit shops and restaurants tempted him from the sidelines with their promise of warmth and companionship. But always he resisted the lure. Arriving at his apartment door, Frederich paused upon the threshold and glanced back at the dark street, his expression stark and furtive.

The rat was hunched in the shadow of the curb, watching him, as always.

Overcome with terror Frederich ran inside, locked the door behind himself and proceeded to run from window to window, closing all the curtains. Only when the apartment was in complete darkness did he feel secure again.

He sat in his living room, silent and shaking, as a photograph of his wife peered down at in disapproval from the top of the television set.

It could no longer be denied. He was being followed by rats, and someday soon they would try to get in.
:iconflash-fic-month: Day 31! THE FINAL DAY OF FFM 2013. Five years of madness and mayhem, and in true FFM fashion, today's challenge was to write a piece of absurdist fiction. Wordcount: 785

Examples of Absurdist fiction are Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson, or Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. And the genre itself: "focuses on the experiences of characters in a situation where they cannot find any inherent purpose in life, most often represented by ultimately meaningless actions and events. Common elements in absurdist fiction include satire, dark humour, incongruity, the abasement of reason, and controversy regarding the philosophical condition of being "nothing."

So yeah. It was a bit hard to get a handle on the genre to be honest. I'm not entirely sure if this story qualifies. It's pretty weird. Maybe even a little more than that... The constant observations of sinister (potentially imaginary) rats and a rather boring introvert with people issues. :paranoid:

The title gave me so much grief, still not sure that this really fits. Ah well, if you find the perfect title, please tell me.

The final day FFM 2013 stories can be read here: flash-fic-month.deviantart.com…

It was a blast, as ever. Until next year! :salute: VIVA!
© 2013 - 2024 The-Inkling
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LaYeobright's avatar
This was Very Interesting! :happybounce: I quite enjoyed it, but was also a bit unsettled; I think it was mostly because I could so easily be Frederich. But the rats were possibly rather sinister as well. :shifty: The flow of the whole thing was Excellent! :D I cannot say whether it's proper Absurdist Fiction or not, because until now I had a rather wrong idea of what that was. xD I thought it'd be a little more akin to surrealism, or even fantasy, than it is, and I don't think I've read anything within the category. I should probably get on that! :paranoid: The rats were intriguing, and I couldn't help but think of Coraline (because I'm always one to think literally first. xD), and his imagined obituaries made me chuckle. :giggle:
I LIKED IT. :iconsomuchluffplz: