Click Clack

Jack compulsively flicks his lighter open and shut.
Jane compulsively flicks a switchblade open and shut.
They do this everywhere: at the diner, at the bar, while walking on the street.
Especially when they walk on the street.
There’s a rhythm to it. They’re in sync.
Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.
All day long.
they took baths instead of showers so they could keep flicking and clicking.
Jack would refill his lighter.
Jane would sharpen her switchblade.
And then they’d flick them open and closed again.
Sitting there at the retirement home.
Click clack. Click clack.
All day long.

Weekly Challenge #709 – OPTION

Sleepycat

LIZZIE

“No,” shouted the elderly lady, forking up a luscious pumpkin pie.
“Yes,” replied another.
The living-room of the Club was packed. All the ladies talked at the same time, tea cups held in a precarious fashion.
Suddenly, the door bell rang…
The rest of that night was spent at the police station where an important decision was made.
No more meetings after a night out at the local pub. The neighbors were such twats.
That was actually the word they wrote on a piece of paper, when they got back, and glued it to the neighbors’ door, chuckling like teenagers.

RICHARD

Ctrl, Alt, Delete

I’ve always wished life had been created by Microsoft, rather than poofed into existence by some divine entity, forged from random interactions of molecules, or pooped out of the butt of some pan-dimensional being… Whichever creation story you ascribe to.

At least then you’d always have the option to undo your last action, restore a better version of the past, and a handy pop up confirmation to confirm any drastic action you might have committed to.

Of course, life would also crash randomly, lose everything you’d done so far, and update itself at inconvenient moments…

No worse than now, really!

TOM

The Most Delicious Strawberry I Have Ever Eaten

You’ve undoubtably heard of the story of the monk chased by a tiger, driven over a cliff, held between heaven and hell by a single strawberry plant. Nice story. Didn’t happen that way. Being said Monk I will not enlighten you, a little Buddhist humor there. What started as a Koan on the options we must all chose in life, a paradoxical statement or question used as a meditation discipline for novices got way out of hand. This is the skinny. I plunk the strawberry, hit the tiger in the eye, he went over the cliff, and I waved goodbye.

TURA

Option
———
“I built this house myself,” my host said proudly.

I was puzzled by this statement. The house was part of a recent development of about two hundred residences, obviously built by a single developer. All the houses were slightly different but all were much the same, and they were built so closely together that only a thin person might be able to sidle between them.

“In other words,” I said, before I managed to hold my tongue, “you selected plot 37 on the developer’s site plan, house style 4, with options 6, 11, and 17?”

I was not invited back.

SERENDIPIDY

You should take the easy option: A shot to the head or the cyanide pill. Either way it will be all over soon, but the odds are firmly in my favour.

Or, if you’re feeling lucky, we can load the chamber, spin the barrel and take our chances with a last ditch game of Russian roulette – it halves the odds, but of course, I could still win.

Then again, you might fire the fatal shot, but that makes you a murderer – and we still have the death penalty around these parts for that particular crime…

Take the pill!

NORVAL JOE

Sure. Lifting off from the school grounds and flying Linoliamanda home from the school dance was not the only option open to Billbert. And probably not the smartest one. However, with the confusion of children complaining about wet hair, firemen and their trucks arriving with sirens blaring, and students all trying to phone their parents at once it was probably the easiest way to get out of there.
Besides, it had been a week since he’d last flown and Billbert really liked it when Linoliamanda held his hand.
Marrissa stood below them, her mouth wide open, watching them fly off.

PLANET Z

Paper or Plastic?
Are these my only two options?
What about if I use my own canvas bags?
How about just putting all this stuff back i nthe cart?
I’ll dump it out into my trunk and then empty my trunk when I get home?
How about wooden barrels?
I can roll a wooden barrel, can’t I?
Can you load this all into a catapult and launch it at my house?
I have a volleyball net I’m not using.
That could catch everything.
It sure caught the volleyball every time I tried to play.
I wasn’t very good. Or tall.

Poor Dan

At first, Dan kept saying “I cannot believe my eyes!”
Then, he’d say “I cannot believe my ears!”
Rarely did he say that he could not believe his nose, tongue, or skin.
I guess he didn’t smell, taste, or feel much.
It was when Dan said “I cannot believe my accountant!” that he was in trouble.
Dan was way behind in paying his taxes.
“I cannot believe my lawyer!” said Dan as he was dragged out of court and off to jail.
Let’s just say that his cellmate made sure that Dan believed that he was in jail.
Poor Dan.

Build the wall

Instead of building a wall along the border, why not something fun?
Perhaps a ball pit, like they have at Chuck E Cheese and McDonalds.
Then, families trying to cross the border will have to fish their kids back out of it.
“COME ON, MOM!” they will shout. “FIVE MORE MINUTES! PLEASE?”
And then it will get dark, and they’ll have to get home.
If they leave the kids behind, they will sink to the bottom of the ball pit.
And fall through chutes to The Organ Havresting Factory.
Oops. I meant to say The Ice Cream and Unicorns Room.

The Voltmaster Laughing

“Follow the wires.”
These are the first three words that every child in Mirkwood learns.
They look up at the gigantic mains that pass near every village, and down to the substation as the voltage is stepped down.
“Follow the wires, and you will find The Voltmaster.”
He used to harvest his power from the clouds, but with the help of giants and ogres and dwarves, he constructed a dam across The Eternal Falls.
Within, machinery like windmills, but for water, convert the flow into energy.
Precious energy.
The lights flicker, then return.
They say this is The Voltmaster laughing.

Cladimer Zook

Until we find three witches, we cannot hold the funeral of Cladimer Zook.
It’s simply too dangerous to allow his unbound spirit to roam at night.
As long as his body is wrapped in The Emerald Shroud, we’ll be safe.
But the owner of The Emerald Shroud charges us monthly for its use, and it’s not like we are made out of money.
Unlike the Silvergold Legion, who are made out of money.
Oh, Zook, you fool. Not to make arrangements.
Nobody lives forever.
To amass such power, you knew the consequences.
One day, a wizard. The next, an abomination.

Squirrelfeeder

We had a hawthorn tree in the back yard, and my dad hung a birdfeeder from one of the branches.
The birds flew from all around to eat the birdseed, but there were also a lot of squirrels coming to eat.
My dad would get angry and yell at the squirrels, and he’d fill a bucket with ice to throw at the squirrels.
“Go chase those squirrels away!” he’d yell at us.
And, for a while, throwing ice cubes at squirrels was fun.
But futile.
So, I stopped thinking of it as a birdfeeder. And, instead, it became a squirrelfeeder.

Stress and plants

They say that plants can relieve stress.
So, I tried to raise some plants at home and in my office, but I couldn’t keep them alive.
Not enough light… not enough water… too much water…
They just caused even more stress.
So, I got some of those automatic hydroponic plant systems.
Just add plant food and water when the system tells you to add them.
They handle all of the rest.
They cost a bloody fortune. And my electric bill went through the roof.
And so did my stress.
Now I just have plastic plants.
I haven’t over-watered them yet.

Weekly Challenge #708 – WHO CARES?

Myst's brother

LIZZIE

The chair faced a big wooden crate. Fragile. Fragile could mean a lot of things, he thought. Glass. He sat down and leaned forward. Rare wine. He sat back. Do not open it, they said. He stared at it and pondered. He wanted to open it… Porcelain. He tilted his head and tried to read the label. It was wet and blurry. “Screw them…” He stood up and opened the crate. It was filled with ideas, special ones too. The crate was filled with books, something extremely rare those days. He sneaked one out and closed the crate again, smiling.

RICHARD

Manisfesto

It’s election time again, and the politicians are crawling out from their unholy pits of self-gratification to ply their insincere charm and empty promises to a disbelieving electorate.

‘We care about the environment’, they proclaim from the steps of their private jets;

‘We care about employment and a living wage’, they profess, whilst raking in the cash from after-dinner speeches and televised debates;

‘We care about people and their rights’, they protest, whilst turning their backs on the demands of those they serve.

All just words, without meaning.

So, really, who cares?

Who knows?

Does it matter, anyway?

ZACKMANN

Here at Who Cares Retirement Home for the Aging Science Fiction Fan, everyday is like a Sci-Fi convention. You are likely to see our staff dressed as your favorite Science Fiction Characters. Your Doctor could be The Doctor and your reading lights are put on Gallifrey Stands. Cosplay is optional for residents and their guests. No Tribbles but our own Doctor Whooves lives on the other side of the yellow brick road from the main dorm.
A reminder to any staff cosplaying as Klingon unless coloring textiles you are forbidden to use the phrase “It’s a good day to die”

SERENDIPIDY

Ask yourself, ‘Who cares?’

Who cares enough to notice newspapers piling up on your doorstep, the unanswered phone calls, the plaintive cries of your starving cats?

Who cares enough to pay you that visit, to check you’re alright?

Who cares enough to notice your absence at church, the missed appointments and the ceasing of your daily walks in the park?

Nobody cares.

But they will, eventually.

Once the smell of rotting flesh pervades the air, and the maggots and flies infest the street; when the bills remain unpaid, and the litter builds up.

Then, they’ll care!

But far too late.

TOM

It isn’t so much Who cares, as what has been left in their wake. Baba O’Riley, Who’s Next, Pinball Wizard, Won’t Get Fooled Again, My Generation, Behind Blue Eyes, Eminence Front, It’s Hard Love, Reign o’er Me, I Can’t Explain, I Can See for Miles, Boris the Spider, Magic Bus, Squeeze Box, You Better You Bet, Another Tricky Day, Going Mobile, Trick of the Light, Young Man Blues, Long Live Rock, The Acid Queen, Pictures of Lily, The Seeker, I’m Free, The Kids Are Alright, I Can See for Miles, Happy Jack and my favorite Join Together. Yup who cares.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert watched Linoliumanda twirl around the dance floor as the fire spriklers rained water down on her.

Roderick laughed at Billbert and pointed. “You’re going to get soaked if you stand there.”

Billbert shrugged, “Who cares?”

Ms. Frunsio finally encouraged them all to leave the cafeteria and call their parents.

Billbert started to get out his phone. Linoliumanda said, “Let’s fly home.”

“We can’t do that,” Billbert said. “People might see.”

Linoliumanda shrugged, “Who cares?”

“I care,” he said dropping back from the kids around them and waited for them to look away before they floated up into the air.

PLANET Z

The light at the intersection has timing issues.
Two reds isn’t a problem.
Two greens is.
It didn’t take long for a wreck.
A young couple and a cab driver died.
The families sued the city, their lawyers walked away with a lot of money.
The city had to cut budgets, and repair crews went without a cost of living adjustment.
So, they went on strike.
More things broke, more people died, more people sued.
Things fell apart quickly, the cops went on strike, too.
Fire department, too.
We sit and watch the city burn through the night, and laugh,

Never Had

Never had a kid.
Never held my baby in my arms.
My baby.
So precious.
No first tooth.
No first words, first steps.
First day at school.
None at all.
No report cards, nothing but A’s.
Or F’s.
Detentions.
Run-ins with the police.
That’s no so bad, really.
Never having to bail your kid out.
Or identify their body.
Waiting for a match on the transplant list.
As they get sicker… and sicker… and sicker…
Is it selfish of me?
Not to want to feel any of that?
Not to take a chance?
Maybe.
When someone took one on me?