The Centilogue

Short Fiction by Christopher Peterson

Month: February, 2014

Professional Homicide, or the Birth of an Executive

His sweaty palms dampened the blue notecards clamped between his bony and quivering fingers as the emcee cued him for his inaugural keynote to the conference of industry experts. Years of formal education and institutionalized exploitation of his technical savvy culminated into this moment, his quick and unrefined rise from the metal folding chair and shuffling approach to the lectern centered on the dais. A feeling forgotten since high school burned his stomach, climbing through his chest to insidiously sponge the moisture from his throat and tongue. Suddenly, contempt and bloodlust quenched his lips and he spoke with ruthless ambition.

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Asleep Behind the Wheel

A muted candle flame dwindling behind frosted glass hung low between snowcapped office buildings on his homeward drive, anonymous commuters sliding by in salt-filthy sedans and SUVs entrenched between gray slush furrows. At a stop light he stared between frozen brick condo towers at the tarry maple veins against the medium-rare clouds and thought of the sleeping pills waiting in the bedside drawer. Sleep was harder to come by in the February market despite the lingering nights, and each pill represented a chance to fight off consciousness for sundry hours that would pass like fleeting shadow men in the periphery.

Frequency Meditation

It’s too late to make any changes SOY UN PERDEDOR I’M A LOSER BA but then again too late means that there’s an end and YOUR MISERY AND HATE WILL KILL US ALL SO if I’ve learned anything it’s that whether things will be okay or they won’t be THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT AND I FEEL they still will be so does it really ma SOMETIMES I WISH I’D NEVER BEEN BORN AT ALL ably not but how do I justify the effort I’M WITH EVERYONE AND YET NOT and turn off the fucking radio.