Reflection Infection

Reflection Infection

Bruno Lowagie

Title: Reflection Infection

Author: Bruno Lowagie

Version 1.1: April 9, 2021

Depot: D/2020/Bruno Lowagie, publisher

Publisher: self-published

All texts: ©2019–2021, Bruno Lowagie

Websites: lowagie.com / wil-low.com

Cover photo: © 2020, jorien Stel (on Pexels)

https://www.pexels.com/photo/decorative-statuette-in-form-of-monkey-reflecting-in-mirror-4616088/

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains mate­rial pro­tected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties.

Any unauthorized reprint or use of this mate­rial is prohibited. No part of this book may be repro­duced or trans­mit­ted in any form or by any means, electronic or me­chanical, includ­ing pho­to­copy­ing, re­cording, or by any infor­mation storage and re­trieval sys­tem with­out express written per­mis­sion from the author.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Short Fiction

Bad Hair

Farewell, my Heroine

Death of a Corner Store

Laundry Love

The Interdim Bureau

The Face of Love

Reflection Infection

Time Paradox

The Citizens of Taronia

Unicorn

The mind is deceitful...

Karma is a Bitch

Out of Breath

Reincarnation

For the Love of Mother

Reflections

How Animandrill saved his life... and mine too

The Winter King

The rumors about my death were greatly exaggerated

Victor’s Dilemma

Conflicting Expectations regard­ing Episode Thirteen

Family Tree

The Beast

Ants from Space

Every End is a new Beginning

Skin Hunger

The Longest Night

The Takeover

Short Fiction

I look at writing in the same way an athlete looks at his sport. No one runs a mar­a­thon without building up to it on before­hand. Like­wise, I don't start writing a book without training my writing muscle first.

In 2019, I planned on writing two full-length books in Dutch. I prepared for that task by scribbling down more than a hundred short stories.

I used about thirty of those stories to partici­pate in writing con­tests in The Nether­lands and Flan­ders. In one year, I won three first prizes, five publications in antholo­gies, three publications in lit­erary maga­zines, and eight honorary men­tions.

Occasionally, I also wrote stories in English. Every month, writerscentre.com.au organizes a Furious Fic­tion contest, giving authors 55 hours to write a 500-word story that meets a challenging set of rules. I partic­ipated for six­teen months in a row between March 2019 and June 2020.

On sweek.com, there used to be a monthly Flash Fic­tion challenge. It involved writing a #Micro story of at most 250 words, includ­ing a prede­fined key­word. I par­tici­pated in March and May 2019.

At the end of 2019, I thought of writing a full-length book in English, a language that isn’t my mother tongue.

To improve my skills, I wrote at least one story a week in response to Reedsy’s Weekly Writing Prompts on reedsy.com. Each story needed to be at least 1,000 words long, with a maximum of 3,000 words. I submitted forty-four stories between Janu­ary to June.

In July 2020, I finally felt comfortable enough to begin writ­ing my full-length book. It took me three months to finish a first version of the manuscript. In September, I started a search for a US-based literary agent or pub­lisher.

When I didn’t find one, I decided to self-pub­lish. I was ad­vised to try Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP), but as I didn’t know the service, I chose to do an ex­periment with a selection of short fic­tion first.

Reflection Infection is the byproduct of the full-length book that I’ll publish in 2021. In December 2020, I ruminated on six­teen Fu­ri­ous Fiction, two Sweek, and forty-four Reedsy stories. Of these sixty-two stories, twenty-eight sur­vived the editing process. I hope they’ll find an en­thusiast au­di­ence of short fic­tion readers with a broad taste in gen­res.

Enjoy!

Bad Hair

My name is Jordan White, but to the world, I am a Mur­phy. No matter what I do: everything that can go wrong, effec­tively goes wrong.

I al­ways find myself in the longest queue in gro­cery stores. I must stand in the back of the bus or metro because I never get a seat. I have no suc­cess at hitch­hik­ing, and no taxi ever stops for me when I need one. Bouncers don’t let me enter night­clubs, claim­ing the maximum ca­pacity of the venue has been reached.

The list of things that work well for normal human be­ings but not for peo­ple like me, is long and painful. That’s the fate of a Murphy. We can protest the injus­tice being done to us, but no one ever lis­tens. We are the ma­jority, but we don’t have anything to say in so­ciety. Most of the times, it’s as if we aren’t even rec­og­nized as real peo­ple and there’s very little we can do about it.

—

One time, when I was much younger than I am now, I tried to fool the world: I went to a clan­destine bar­ber­shop to have my head shaven. That was a daring deci­sion. As we all know, cut­ting our hair is allowed, but shaving our head bald is con­sidered a criminal offense.

My civil disobedi­ence wasn’t inspired by any crimi­nal or rev­o­lutionary intentions, though. I just wanted to go to the concert of Baldrick and the Babes with The Hair­less Ea­gles as sup­port­ing act. Alas, Murphy’s weren’t admit­ted. I would have to pretend being bald if I wanted to buy a ticket and get in.

I tried the black market, looking for a shaving ma­chine or a razor blade, but I couldn’t afford the crazy prices mer­chants were asking for these precious goods. Only scissors were within my pay grade, and I knew I would never fool anyone into thinking I was bald for real if I cut my hair with scissors. I had no other choice than to find someone who could give me a clean shave, hence my visit to an il­legal barber.

—

I was afraid of ending up among gangsters and anar­chists eager to overthrow society, but much to my surprise, the other customers at the bar­ber­shop were normal people, just like you and me.

Bald? the barber asked.

Bald! I answered.

Do you also need a fake ID?

I was surprised at the question and laughed: Why would I need a fake ID? If you’re bald, no one ever asks for your ID. Everyone can see that you aren’t a Murphy.

There was laughter in the barbershop which I misin­ter­preted as a confirmation of my point of view. I had been asked for my ID many times, but I had never seen it hap­pen to one of those priv­ileged baldies. The thought alone that they would be bothered to prove their iden­tity was absurd.

I have a promo today, the barber said.

Twenty bucks to have your picture taken. Five hun­dred for a fake ID.

Wow, that’s almost as expensive as a new ra­zor and a set of razor blades, I said.

It’s a good investment, the barber argued.

I’m sorry, I said. I can only pay for a haircut. I’m sure I’ll manage without a fake ID.

Several people in the room sighed, but they didn't say a word. In the mirror, I saw an old man shake his head, as if he pitied me. I won­dered why.

If you say so, the barber snorted.

I thought he was being rude, but in hindsight, it was stu­pid of me to think my ruse would work. I never made a chance.

—

At the box office, I put my hard-earned money on the coun­ter and asked for a ticket for the upcoming con­cert.

The woman at the counter looked me in the eyes and said: Can I see your ID please?

My first instinct was to run away, but I kept my calm and decided to try talking my way out of it: I’m afraid that I don’t have it on me. I think I forgot it at home.

That didn’t work well.

Every citizen is required to carry their ID at all times, the woman replied. If you can’t show me your ID, I’ll have to call security.

Oh wait, I said, trying to hide the state of panic I was in. Let me check my pockets.

I was sweating like a pig when I finally pro­duced my ID. The woman at the counter looked at my pic­ture, then at me and my bald head. She didn’t say any­thing. She just pointed at the sign saying: No Mur­phy’s allowed.

I understand, I said, and I realized that I had to get out of the place as quickly and as incon­spicuously as possi­ble. I wanted to take my money back, but the bald woman put her hand on the hundred-dollar bill.

For my silence, mister White, she said as she handed back my ID.

I didn’t protest. I knew that she could report me