short story
"Antiques of the Future"
Two old enemies are seen speaking to each other in a judgmental debate on a bustling boardwalk.
“I feel so unwanted. No one sees my messages unless they are marketed well. All anyone cares about is my physical look. Not my insight, opinion or the things I have to say.”
“You’re such a drama queen. People just use me as a means to escape from boredom when they travel from place to place. I’m so insignificant people pay no mind, to my looks. I am faceless”
“You big crybaby. Stop playing the pity card just because you aren’t as popular and as well receipted as me.”
“ Well at least people nod and vaguely hear what I have to say. You’re just another beautiful nothing.”
The two enemies stare transfixed at each other as they gulp huge amounts from the night’s breath.
“Your nothing anymore. You’re a relic. Why don’t you end yourself.”
“After you, old friend.”
The two enemies walk down the splinter laden stairs unto the tan grazed sand. They both take a glimpse at the other. They jump into the water. The sparks from their spirits come together to make a short lived visual death rattle.
The two tortured old pals, Television and Radio.
Two old enemies are seen speaking to each other in a judgmental debate on a bustling boardwalk.
“I feel so unwanted. No one sees my messages unless they are marketed well. All anyone cares about is my physical look. Not my insight, opinion or the things I have to say.”
“You’re such a drama queen. People just use me as a means to escape from boredom when they travel from place to place. I’m so insignificant people pay no mind, to my looks. I am faceless”
“You big crybaby. Stop playing the pity card just because you aren’t as popular and as well receipted as me.”
“ Well at least people nod and vaguely hear what I have to say. You’re just another beautiful nothing.”
The two enemies stare transfixed at each other as they gulp huge amounts from the night’s breath.
“Your nothing anymore. You’re a relic. Why don’t you end yourself.”
“After you, old friend.”
The two enemies walk down the splinter laden stairs unto the tan grazed sand. They both take a glimpse at the other. They jump into the water. The sparks from their spirits come together to make a short lived visual death rattle.
The two tortured old pals, Television and Radio.