These days, more people read the news online than subscribe to a newspaper.
Some day in the future, the last newspaper will roll off of the presses.
Reporters empty their desks into cardboard boxes, and they go home to start blogs, Twitters, and YouTube channels.
The last paper boy will wrap that paper in a plastic bag, pedal to his last subscriber’s house, and toss that last paper on that house’s roof.
Over the next few weeks, that paper will get soaked by the rain, rot into a disgusting lump, and then get blasted into oblivion with a power washer.
Weekly Challenge #753 – ANCHOR
- Lizzie
- Richard
- Serendipidy
- Tom
- Tura
- Norval Joe
- Rick Thomas
- Planet Z
LIZZIE
The shipwreck sank more and more each day. It anchored fears and doubts at the bottom of everyone’s hearts. Everyone in town witnessed the shipwreck sinking with hopeful expectation. The future would be better. The future would be much better. But the shipwreck decided to leave the main mast above water like a breathing tube. And the future wasn’t better. The future was a wreck, just like the shipwreck. Many stories were told about the ghost. It was there, breathing, making fun of the whole town for having had that stupid idea of sinking a ship to kill a ghost.
RICHARD
A, B, Sea
A is for anchor; B is for boat; C is the calamity that preceded this note; D are the depths where now we lay, E, all the errors that brought us this way.
F for the flares, not in their case; G for the gun, now a waste of space; H, how we hollered, but no-one could hear; I knew they wouldn’t, no-one was near; J, we jumped ship and hoped for the best; K through to Z… There’s no time for the rest.
Now as we drown, no more letters required; without O for oxygen, this rhyme has expired.
SERENDIPIDY
Every piece of fiction, no matter how far-fetched or separated from reality, almost certainly has its anchor, buried deep within the writer’s subconscious, in real life experience.
The things life has taught us, the events that have shaped us, our treatment at the hands of others, and the actions and thoughts we have entertained, all lend themselves to informing the words that appear on the page.
The fiction we write is rooted in reality.
So, when someone like me, writes fictional tales of murder, cannibalism, torture and depravity…
It’s probably best not to enquire how life is treating me!
TOM
From the Same Producers you brought you Prisoners of Love
“I got it,” yelled Mort. “No,” yelled Saul. “It will work.” “No it won’t” “Come on where’s your rizikirn.” “your meshugga.” “Like a fox.” “Not one copeck, Mort. Warning you.” “It can’t fail.” “Not listening.” “It a musical for our time.” “Anchors Way is not timely, it historic.” “I got a great idea for a chorus line.” “I am so not going to like this.” “Wait for it … the rockettes dress in orange and red Covid costumes, singing I got you under my skin.” “Saul you there?” “Operator I think I just lost my connection to New York.” “Click.”
TURA
Anchor
———
With VR holidays, you’ll experience the best of ancient Rome, or Renaissance Florence, or a fantasy Mars, without any of the inconveniences, like plagues or bad dentistry. These worlds might never have been and may never be, but while you’re there you’ll think it’s real!
All tastes are catered for. Wander the labyrinthine prisons of Piranesi’s imagination— or be a prisoner there! The life of a 4th century desert anchorite is surprisingly popular, but the simple joy of being alone in a vast desert, sure of never encountering a single soul, is an indulgence scarcely possible in the modern world.
NORVAL JOE
Mr. Withybottom insisted that Billbert accompany them to the hospital to explain to the staff how Linoliamanda had been hurt.
The emergency room was filled with the typical array of visitors: families with their children’s runny noses, scooter and trampoline bumps and broken bones. The man dressed in garbage bags and duct tape talking too loudly to no on at all, the bald old sailor with one squinky eye and an anchor tattoo.
Then there was the character sitting next to Billbert in sweat pants and an overcoat with a wiener dog tucked surreptitiously in the crook of his arm.
RICK
Anchor
.
In the city … bad things happen to good people. Ivan was not good people … he was a bad thing. Emily saw him differently though. She saw a sweetness, a gentler side.
She steered him away from the drugs, drinking, and violence … three things Ivan was really good at.
Love, kids, a decent life … once just dreams … now within his reach.
Then one night, alone, Emily was cornered by thugs … robbed, raped, beaten …
tortured really …
unspeakable things!
Thrown in a dumpster like trash.
Unhinged, torn from his moorings, the savagery within arose.
Bad things would happen …
awful, painful, cruel, bad things.
PLANET Z
Ted has a tattoo of an anchor on his arm.
But he’s not a sailor, never been in the navy.
Can’t stand boats or being on the water.
I don’t think he can swim, either.
And from the smell of him, he doesn’t bathe or shower much.
When it rains, he screams and runs inside.
At a restaurant, never gets anything to drink, and never orders soup.
So, what’s the deal with the anchor?
It’s just a temporary we put on there after he dozed off.
Nothing, really.
Not sure why I mentioned it, now that I think of it.
The first bite
There’s something about hot dogs at ballgames.
It doesn’t matter if you do mustard or ketchup, relish or chili and cheese.
It’s the hot dog. The hot dog is what matters.
When it’s just peanuts, popcorn, cracker jack and beer in the stands…
I’ve seen it. And I can’t unsee it.
The diamond is sacred. The game eternal.
That San Francisco crowd wanted kale chips, microbrews, Coke Zero, and sushi.
AT&T Park went up like an atom bomb. You could see it from Oakland.
Millions died.
So, we throw out the first pitch, take that first bite, and play ball.
Twinsies
Despite his heavy workload in the genetics fabrication lab, Joe followed the headlines as best as he could.
And when the Supreme Court rules that same-sex marriage was a civil right, he knew that it was only a matter of time.
“What about identical twins?” he asked an attorney friend.
“That’s just… wrong,” they said.
Joe sighed, hung up the phone, and stared through the glass wall of the fabrication tank.
Staring back from the tank, Joe Prime twitched and shuddered from the tiny shocks that the holographic micro-current neuroinducer used to copy Joes memories into his brain.
And smiled.
Buca
When it comes to Italian food, some folks swear by Buca di Beppo.
I think it means Joe’s Basement. Although buca in Italian is a hole.
Which in some cities, it is. The health code violation reports are longer than your arm.
Me, I prefer to eat in the attic. It’s quieter up there.
Although there’s spiders and dust. Yuck.
The garage? The cars take up too much room.
The kitchen? Well, you know your food will get to your table quickly, but it sucks you see something great that you didn’t order.
At least it’s not fucking Oliver Garden.
Pizza night
It’s date night.
We’re at the pizza parlor, you and me.
A table for two. With a candle in a wine bottle.
A violin player going from table to table.
Napkins and menus, a classy place.
You ask me what I want on my pizza.
What do I want on my pizza?
I want my lips on it.
I want my teeth, gums, and lips on it.
I want my tongue on it.
I want my saliva and gastric juices on it.
I want it all.
The waiter blinks, says he’ll be back, and puts down a basket of breadsticks.
Go see a doctor
Are you coughing?
Go see a doctor.
There are lots of them out there.
Some are short. Some are tall.
Some are skinny. Some are fat.
Some smell really nice.
They come in a variety of colors.
Some are in hospitals. Others are in malls.
And then there’s the ones in back alleys.
You don’t want to see them for a cough.
Some doctors carry sonic screwdrivers and say “I’m sorry” a lot.
You don’t want to see them for a cough, either.
So, go see a doctor.
There are lot of them out there.
And some smell really nice.
Friday
Boris slept like a rock. A bomb could go off, and he wouldn’t wake up.
Vanya liked to use her lipstick to draw on Boris while he slept.
He wasn’t ticklish, so she had plenty of time to draw on him.
She’d draw stick figures and bird, other animals.
Or she’d draw mountainscapes and seashore scenes.
She put a lot of effort into her work, switching to mascara brushes and eyeliner for fine details.
Her favorite was on Friday. She would write FR on Boris’ left thigh and DAY on his right thigh.
You know where she drew the I.
Weekly Challenge #752 – DEPLOY
- Lizzie
- Richard
- Serendipidy
- Tom
- Tura
- Norval Joe
- Todd Spargo
- Rick Thomas
- Planet Z
LIZZIE
Deploy your hopes and your dreams. Organize them in squadrons. Make sure they are well armed and motivated. Follow the rules. The rules? The rules to neatly line up your dreams and your hopes, the rules. Dreams and hopes line up neatly? Neatly and obediently. Those are not hopes and dreams. Those are not… Shut up. Deploy your hopes and dreams like an army. Organize them in squadrons of nothingness and the future will be yours. And then there was silence. That stifling silence that hits you when you know, you suddenly know. You close your eyes and you know.
RICHARD
Operation Deploy
I was surprised they chose us for Operation Deploy. The army considered us non-combatants pretty much a waste of space.
However, there it was, in black and white – although, somewhat coffee stained, thanks to my clumsiness! Operation Deploy.
We’d be dropped deep into enemy territory, where we’d undertake a mission vital to the success of the war. Details would be revealed to us after deployment.
For a covert operation, the enemy seemed to know exactly where to find us.
On the orders in my pocket, through the coffee stain, now dry, the words ‘Operation Decoy’ could clearly be read.
SERENDIPIDY
Welcome to the Centre for Internal Medical Research.
Thank you for volunteering for this exciting opportunity to become an Internal Research Assistant, which as you are aware, enable us to investigate a living human body from within.
You will, of course, have many questions about precisely how we will deploy you into the host body – that process is, I’m afraid, commercially sensitive. You will, however, be injected into a large vein, using a process that does not require you to be miniaturised, despite any science fiction you may have read!
Now, if you’ll please step into the blender, we’ll begin.
TOM
Home From The Hill
It was the four shift in the bunker. Junior Grade Smith was monitoring all the usual channel and equipment. The sound came from an ancient rack of prewar systems. A rhythmic clicking repeating again and again. Smith opened a battered three ring binder. He cross refed: Clicking and found the table of Morris Code graphics. Slowly writing down the difference between dot and dashes he had the message: DEPLOY. So he did. 10,000 drones in 10 warehouse took flight. Duty done he popped a burrito in the nano-wave. And took a swig of a Jägermeister. “I am the master hunter”
TODD
Build 61.0.3163.79 online.
The android’s eyes fluttered open registering the little girl standing before him.
“Hi mister robot. I’m Scarlett. What’s your name?” asked the little girl cheerfully.
“Tactical Observation Droid, Build 61…”
“Nooo,” she interrupted, “What’s your REAL name? “
“Tod, I’m Tod” corrected the android, “Pleased to meet you.”
Scarlett smiled and thrust her hand within inches of the android’s face.
“Want a piece of candy?” she asked.
Defense mode suppressed. Affable disposition triggered.
“Thanks, Scarlett.” The android smiled, gently took the candy, and popped it in its mouth.
Diagnostic complete. Build cleared for human interaction and deployed.
NORVAL JOE
Before Linoliamanda could reach for the doorknob, the door swung open.
Her mother gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. “What be happenin to ye, Linnie?”
“Where do I begin?” Linoliamanda said. “Billbert and I be flying to a battle between superheroes and villains, when we be knocked from the air.”
Mr. Withybottom appeared behind his wench, rolling his scurvy eyes. “Be the National Guard deployed to control the situation or be Superman called in?”
Billbert scowled. “Be ye drunk on bilge water? Can’t ye see yer own daughter be hurt. We be needing to get her to the hospital.”
TURA
Deploy
———
In George’s student days, he would write his essays by Googling a random string of buzzwords, then mash together everything he found, rewriting it just enough to avoid plagiarism detectors. He completed a Ph.D. in sociology that way, even got an assistant professorship. But he never made tenure, so he left academia and redeployed his skills to writing management books. After churning out a few dozen of those and getting a steady stream of $20,000 speaking engagements, he got bored with nonsense and longed for something real.
And that’s why he became a pirate (but not a very good one).
RICK
Girl Power
Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a figure. Young, beautiful, personable, and popular … Lynn had the world at her fingertips. Honor roll student, a nice car, a good after school job …
… and minions … boys who followed her, adored her, wanted her, would do anything for a chance to be with her.
Paul almost certainly gave this little thought when he confronted her …
“Arrogant, self-absorbed, inconsiderate … A germ that infests our student body” he said.
She cried.
Lynn told her minions, they were not happy.
Paul was beaten within an inch of his life.
Lynn smiled … Never underestimate the most popular girl.
PLANET Z
There had been some police brutality incidents, so people rioted and protested, and city councils and mayors threatened to reduce and cut police funding.
Cops began to retire or transfer to rural departments in greater numbers than usual.
A few national guard units went into the cities, and some federal troops went in to assist.
“How dare you!” shouted governors and city councils and mayors.
Riots and protests continued, and general crime went on the rise, too.
Then, a few city councilors and mayors themselves were mugged and assaulted.
They demanded action by the police.
“Fuck you,” said the cops.
George the Barkeep
George wasn’t a pirate.
He was a barkeep.
He bought this bar and named it George the Pirate.
And pirates from all around would come here to drink.
Sometimes, they’d pay with a ship’s wheel, or a figurehead, or an anchor.
All the junk you see hanging on the walls.
They’d tell stories, but it was tradition to tell them as if they were about George.
And George would laugh and serve another round.
He had no children to leave the bar to, but he lives on through his stories.
And we tell them, and raise our tankards to George.