Behind a cellphone or a computer, it’s easy to be the big bad wolf. In today’s society, we understand that these Social Media warriors sit upon glass thrones, but the pen is mightier than the sword, and their words draw blood as sure as an arrow. But sometimes the curtain of protection is pulled aside and they are exposed for what they are. In today’s episode, authors Eva Newcastle and Joe Nelson pull back that curtain.
Cerebral v. Action? There’s no reading war here! That’s right, flash fiction aficionados. It’s time for the next installment of #GenresNotIncluded, the best typewriter improv on the planet with my good friend Joe over
@BooksPointof. Five posts each. I start the story tonight.
Alain Avery drank bitter for breakfast and ate his oats with 5 grams of protein because ounces were too colonial for his taste. Desperate for relevance after lunch most days, he lectured random women on social media about their opinions.
He’d show her. And then he’d be famous.
It didn’t matter which “her” he attempted to override. He knew they were all alike. They wanted to tell him what to do and how to think and by God, he’d show them! He was a man of breeding and class. A man who knew his place. And everyone else’s!
Until that Tuesday afternoon.
And they were all just like his mother, a well-bred woman who’d lost a fortune through no fault of her own. Still, Alain would make her pay. So, he opened the X app on his phone and scrolled until he found an avatar that caught his eye. He sniffed, armed with a passive retort.
Oh and it was a good one. This lass had the audacity to complain about her struggles working in the carpentry field. A man’s field to begin with! And her with makeup on her profile picture and surely no idea how to read a tape measure!
He was ready, thumbs poised to strike.
“I’m amazed women still have the audacity to complain about life given all they have these days. Lazy. Silly. Uneducated,” he replied, sliding into her notifications.
She bust out laughing. Her two roommates asked what was funny.
“You’re going to love this loser,” she said.
Laura had gone to trade school. She had quite literally built herself a career. And still she struggled to get contracts and jobs while her male counterparts, some of whom were total hacks, got jobs she was more than qualified for.
So she vented a little.
And Alain had seen.
What one roommate saw was better. “Wait a minute,” Brandy grinned. “Do you know who that is?” Laura shook her head. “That’s Alain Avery. That failed tech mogul. He’s a total has-been. Oh, this is juicy.”
“Oh, that was a mistake,” Laura beamed.
An anon, Brandy plotted revenge.
His timelime filled with home improvement accounts, all showing the same property…and all with a woman.
A woman with a nail gun, a level, and a sawzall. The woman he had trolled.
But why were all these accounts posting the same photos? And why did he recognize the house?
Info was easy to find. And Alain Avery’s failure was earned. The woman was his ex, and wives know more than they let on. Alain couldn’t resist bitter for breakfast. Careless, he took the bait Brandy set. An IP address in hand and a precise location, three roommates paid a visit.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to invite you to the showing of Laura’s latest flip.”
The paper thrust at him was an address with photos.
His family estate, lost to debt years ago.
A woman had bought it, rebuilt it, sold it.
This woman.
He cried at a legacy lost.
Fin.
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