A ficly about a late night trip to a diner.
A little place called Four AM. We stepped into the dinner, knowing our money was low. We’d been traveling at night a lot. There were two younger Latino men in the corner booth, sipping coffee, and debating the wonders of nighttime driving with the fifty-something year old waitress who sat next to them.
She walked over when we entered, bleary-eyed. I loved twenty-four hour diners. There was a kind of brutal honesty about the place, but everyone kept their decency. I looked out the big window at the car parked in the cold, the dew gathering on the hood. The lot, the single road through town, the park across the street. Everything was empty. There was a baseball game on the television which was planted awkwardly on a high shelf above the bar.
The food arrived on wings, like the cook had been waiting for us, and before twenty minutes was up, we were on the road, listening to the engine purr, the AM radio station hiss, and the chilled wind whip the sides of the car.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/18861
Ok, ok… What is the opposite of “timeless”? This is that.
They were accruing an enormous database of knowledge about him. He knew it was happening. It was… a game he couldn’t resist, and every time he logged on, the attacks would get worse. They knew how to get to him. Part of him hated it. Part of him knew it was an addiction, but he liked it. When he played the game, he liked everything. There was no way to stop. The point of the game was simply to play the game.
Although everyone he knew was playing alongside him, he had grown further and further from them, minor contact with them nothing compared to the backdrop of commercialism.
Now it was wireless. He could play it from anywhere, and there was nothing quite like the soul-selling high he got every time he sent out a message his contacts.
The game was winning. It already had his information, and he could be sure that his phone number was being held in the limbo of virtual space until the corporate entity running the game decided that it was going to sell it.
God, he hated Facebook.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/18792
Been rather busy as of late, but here’s something you might like.
I’m halfway done with the book, and I’ve been hard at work on both that and the website, which, yes, will eventually get done. Lot of work…
Anyway, here’s a poster for you all.
Short about the last day of High School. I don’t know if this is really any good, but I think it’s true on some levels. If every school year is 180 days, and we’ve been here for 13 years, I figure that’s about 2340 days. I’m still working on the new website, and SoaMW, so stay tuned for news on that.
The last day. Up until the most recent weeks, school was never going to end, and they were never going to be rid of that place. Now, the mood was perhaps a bit more somber. It wasn’t the end of just the school year, of even of high school, but of everything that had come before. In ninth grade they were told that the “real world” was a frightening place, and now they were beginning the transition into it.
There were a slew of teachers throughout the years that each one of them individually wanted to return to and embrace or yell at because they were finally free, or at least, after tomorrow they would be. They wondered how to spend the afternoon. Would feel like any other lazy summer afternoon? Was early June too early to start mental preparations for the move to college, or should the bliss last as long as it could?
No one could decide if the happiness associated with graduation outweighed the more unfortunate reality that many of the people they had known their entire lives would never shake their hands again.
There was a day, one last day, to tell everyone exactly what they thought of each other, sign yearbooks, and share almost tearful goodbyes, because the sad truth of the matter was that most of these people would be gone forever. And that was that. It was the last day.