Ned’s ark

Ned built an ark in his back yard.
Every time it rained, he’d herd the family into the ark.
“Get in the ark!” he’d shout. “It’s going to flood.”
When the rain stopped, he’d let the family back out of the ark.
“False alarm!” he’d shout. “But next time, just you wait and see!”
He’d hold surprise ark drills late at night, forcing his family to wake up and run for the ark.
“If this had been a real flood, you’d be drowned!” shouted Ned at his sleepy, shambling family.
They tied him up and set the ark on fire.

(… and that’s sixteen years for you.)

Weekly Challenge #788 – Hand

Birthday Baby Panther

LIZZIE

The hand, the foot, the wall. Don’t do it. But they did. A hand, a foot, a wall. Just any wall, just any foot, just any hand. The drawings held the secret, they said. And everyone believed them. We found them. And everyone believed them. They are centuries old. Everyone stared in awe. Scientists came from the capital to check and re-check the wall. And they believed them. By then, it was too late. They couldn’t say a word. The hand, the foot, the wall… Tourists loved them. Locals loved them even more. Money and jobs. Yes, money and jobs.

RICHARD

Maybe

Maybe I should try to do something with my life? Take a few risks, go out on a limb and see what I can make of myself?

Maybe I should quit the job, sell the house, liquidate my assets and travel the world, experiencing new cultures, places and ways of life?

Maybe it’s time I threw caution to the wind, strayed outside my comfort zone and seized the day, and to hell with the consequences!

Maybe it’s time to ditch mediocrity and the safe, unassuming life I’ve made myself, and invite danger, uncertainty and adventure in?

On the other hand…

TOM

I finally Got It, just like Coltrain.

You could argue, was it the voice running up and down the octaves? The
moves that would leave a mere mortal in traction. The lyrics so playful
and just plain party. The flash of purple head toe, toe to head. The band
an engine of funk rolling down funky town. The beat that drills down make
you want dance beat. Maybe it was as simple, as the one eyed stare, that
knowing look, your mine, and I would die for you. For me it was that
gentle hand making love to the love shaped guitar. The artist previously
known as.

DUANE

Most of my clothes before high school were hand-me-downs. It was common for neighbors and friends to pass around boxes of clothes that had been outgrown. I ended up wearing a lot of baggy shirts, stuffed into jeans with the cuffs turned up to keep from tripping over them. Sometimes the box had been sitting in an attic awhile. I spent most of third grade dressed in red and white striped bellbottoms with a paisley tunic shirt.

We didn’t hand down shoes. Everyone held on to favorite shoes forever. My Converse All Stars were down to laces and rubber toes.

SERENDIPIDY

They do say not to bite the hand that feeds you, but I’ve never subscribed to that.

For me, biting is the only option – you can’t exactly suck the flesh off roasted fingers, no matter how succulent they may be. And although I suppose it’s possible to slurp a nice crispy piece of skin from the back of a hand, it’s rather messy, and not at all dignified.

And good luck licking the meat from a boiled wrist; I don’t fancy your chances.

So I’ll bite, and gnaw and chew, until I’m done.

Then I’ll eat your other hand.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert’s mother held up her hand to signal her husband to wait. “Really, dear. I think you should stay here and we can make a plan for what to do about our burned-down-house and our super-powered son who’s just been outed, instead of chasing off after the guy who is likely to become the center of most of our future problems.”
His hand still on the doorknob, Mr. Blanketmaker paused. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Joan. You are always the voice of reason.”
Joan smiled knowingly. “Join us Billbert. This affects you as much as any of us.”

JARED

His hands were once thick and meaty. Even though age and disuse have shrunk his hands, mine will always remain small in his. `His knuckles are thick and swollen from boxing for his high school, when that was still a thing. In the pale skin, there are scars from when he lost a fistfight with a table saw. There are too many lines and divots, some pink, some colorless white, in his skin that show the untold knicks and cuts and scrapes of a life. Unseen are the marks of discipline administered, or a record of acts of service bestowed.

PLANET Z

Twenty thousand years ago, a person put their hand print on the wall of a cave.
Over the years, hundreds of others put their hand print on that cave wall.
Maybe thousand, layers of layers of prints on top of each other.
So many colors, so many different formulations of pigments they used.
Clay and crushed rock and blood and resins.
A simple message to the future: I was here.
Alphonse tracked the gold vein back to the cave.
Drilling holes, putting in dynamite, and blasting the rock.
Sifting through the rubble, washing the grit to reveal the gold specks.

Seedlings

It takes a century of soaking in The Pond of Knowledge before a sprout can become an Elder.
We test their brain-pods often, and prune off bad leaves and branches and pods to make room for the good ones.
One elder came up with the idea to graft branches and pods from the wisest of The Elder Council to speed along the process.
The results were a total crop failure. The seedlings and the edler were all destroyed.
Wisdom and knowledge must be earned and learned, not grafted.
The Pond had to be cleaned out and replenished with seeds again.

Flick

There was a new critic for the Tribute: Flick Billston.
And he hated everything.
You could open up the Entertainment Section and be entertained by Flickr’s verbal savagery.
The paper got bomb and death threats, directors and actors showing up at their offices demanding to see Flick.
“He works from home,” says the editor. “Sends stuff in with a courier.”
He wasn’t listed in the phone book. No paper trail at all.
The really angry ones hired detectives to follow the courier.
The detectives never reported back. And when Flick’s next review came in, it was that much more vicious.

Back to the drive-in

Every Friday night, every Summer, we’d go down Highway 6 and catch the double-feature at the drive-in.
It’s more than just a movie. It’s a celebration.
We bring a keg. We bring a big pit smoker.
Sometimes, we dress up for the special events.
And there’s dancing. And singing.
It feels like the Summer lasts forever.
But it doesn’t.
Every Fall, as we went back to school, the drive-in closes down.
Until the next Summer comes around.
School’s out, the drive-in’s open again, and everybody can’t wait for Friday night, when we go down Highway 6 to catch the double-feature.

The war

Half a world away, our boys were fighting and dying in a war.
So, we tried to stop the war.
We went out into the streets and protested the war.
We made banners and signs and chanted and blocked the recruiting centers and broke into the bases.
So, they killed our heroes.
They killed MLK. They killed RFK.
We escaped into our music.
Where they couldn’t kill us.
Even if they sent us to the war, we could bring our music with us.
When we went home, alive or dead, the music came back.
And through it, we live on.

The corner store

I’ve lived in this complex for twenty years.
At the end of the street, there’s a corner convenience store.
They sell the basics: beer, milk, candy, and chips.
They used to sell gas, but they had the pumps removed.
Back in the day, the place just looked run-down, but now, it’s downright seedy.
I walked down there for a jug of milk, and it was closed… not just for the holiday, but closed.
A truck and trailer out front, filled with wood and debris.
Peering through the window, the place had been gutted.
Oh well. I’ll have my coffee black.

In Heaven there is no beer

The song says that in Heaven, there is no beer.
There’s wine and whiskey and ouzo, and pretty much everything else, but there is no beer.
You can’t even smuggle it in. The angels will catch you and confiscate the beer.
Do the angels drink it?
No, they pour it out in the street.
That’s why we sneak out at night.
There are a bunch of breweries and bars right outside the gates of Heaven.
And because we’re already on the list, we can get back in again.
Even though St. Peter always goes “You look familiar.”
And he winks.

Weekly Challenge #787 – Don’t Press The Button

Pest

INDEPENDENCE GRAY

Homage to Rod Sterling

It was a stupid gimmick. “Will you press the button?” was just clickbait, the premise a variation of “Would You Rather?” Each time users engaged, the website’s SEO got boosted.

“You get to go back in time to when you had less responsibility. Will you press the button?”

Vicky didn’t hesitate before touching the green icon on her screen, mindlessly enjoying the diversion as she sat in the van waiting for the twins to finish dance lessons.

They never came out, but it was days after they had been reported missing before Vicky thought back to that silly phone game.

RICHARD

Big Red Button

Have you ever seen a great big red button, surrounded with hazard tape, and a sign insisting you shouldn’t press it?

Of course you haven’t – it just a handy way to illustrate reverse psychology.

If somebody doesn’t want you to press a button, it won’t be that easy.

It’ll be hidden away in a secret spot, only accessible by wiggling a paperclip in a tiny hole.

Or sealed beneath a break glass cover; secured with combination locks; or will require two burly military guys to insert their keys simultaneously.

Go on – I dare you to press their button! c

LIZZIE

“This is a camera. It takes snapshots as all cameras do. However, this is not a real camera,” said the seller, smiling.
The client frowned.
“This is a mind-reader.”
The client chuckled.
“You don’t believe it.”
The client shook his head, a sneer on his lips.
“Whatever you do, don’t press the red button. This is how it works.”
The client held the camera and he just had to… Click.
A snapshot slowly slid out of the camera.
The last thing the seller saw, a mask of horror on his face, was his own death on the client’s mind snapshot.

SERENDIPIDY

You know those buttons you have to press to change the lights so you can cross the road safely?

They’re dummies – not connected to anything; they don’t do a damn thing!

And those buttons you press to close the elevator doors?

Nope, those are dummies too.

They don’t work: Their only purpose is to make us feel in control, when in reality, it’s the machines that control us.

Take this power off button on your life support system… I bet that does nothing too.

Still, there’s only one real way to find out, isn’t there?

I can’t resist it!

TURA

The Button
—-
By the Emperor’s hand stands always ready the Button, which travels with him wheresoever he goes. When the Emperor frowns, the Button draws nearer to him; when he laughs, it recedes. None but the Emperor knows what the Button does, but surely must it wreak terrible deeds, should he ever wax so wroth as to press the Button.

Though the Emperor live far beyond the years that are normal to a man, yet must death claim him at last. In the innermost sanctum, the old Emperor passes the secret of the Button to his successor.

“It was disconnected centuries ago.”

TOM

Too Late

I yell to Timmy,” Don’t press that button.” If you have been following my
writing over the pass 16 years you know this can only end fictionally
poorly. Much like Kenny in South Park, Timmy is my go-to name when I know
I will be bump off someone. One time for over Two years I keep Timmy alive
only to your him volunteer to be off-ed in installment 104. Timmy is just
the spirit of on-coming death. So, what did the button do to Master Tim?
Remember the scene in Fargo? No? In a word: Wood-chipper. Funny? No? Too
Bad.

DUANE

His first day on the new temp job, Larry was shown around the laboratory. The lead scientist pointed to a metal box in the corner.

“Rule one: Don’t press the button!”

The scientist had Larry repeat the rule back to him.

“Oh, and don’t sample any of the experiments.”

As soon as he was alone, Larry ran across the room to the box and pushed the button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again, but still nothing happened. He pushed it a few more times before he lost interest and picked up the beaker on a nearby table. It tasted lemony.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert caught his father at the door. “If you think there’s a tiger loose in the neighborhood should you really be going outside right now?”
His father laughed. “This isn’t Huston, son. There haven’t been any reports of tigers in this area. Besides, I’ll just be going across the street.”
Billbert’s mother stood up at that. “Now Hosmer. Do you think that’s a good idea? Linoliamanda’s father is unstable. You don’t want to push that guy’s button if you can avoid it.”
“Don’t worry, Joan. According to his van, he’s the carpet king. I would expect him to behave royally.”

JARED

Max’s Bad Day

“Don’t press the button!” This was pretty much the first thing new recruits heard during orientation. It was also the most frequently repeated warning given that first day, and throughout Max’s employment at SyneDyne Industries. He was sick of it. It reminded him of his mother. And ex-girlfriend. And several schoolteachers. Eventually, he was so fed up, he couldn’t think of anything else. He vowed that he was going to push that damned button that very day. He was so distracted, that he didn’t see or hear the warnings and didn’t get out of the furnace before it fired up.

PLANET Z

There is a button on the console.
It’s red, and looks like there’s a bulb inside of it so it can light up.
Below it, there’s a label:
DON’T PRESS THIS BUTTON
All caps, bright red.
Can’t miss it.
I looked in the manual, and all it says about the button is:
DON’T PRESS THIS BUTTON
Doesn’t say what the light inside of it indicates.
Nor does it say what happens when you press it.
Why add a button to a console if you’re not supposed to press it?
So, I do.
It lights up.
And a siren goes off.

The sin and the punishment

Let the punishment match the sin, says God.
We, the punishers, keep a list of sins.
And their matching punishments.
With social and technological advances come new sins.
And new punishments.
We catalog them all, and debate new opportunities for each sin and punishment.
Some sins are not as sinful these days, meriting lesser punishments.
And with various medicines and surgeries, remedies can be employed in the place of punishments.
And for the greatest sins of all, we just leave them be.
Encased in glass for all to see.
The memory of their sin and its consequences is punishment enough.