Digitopia (A Drabble)

We trade conversation as commodity. The endless bartering of words. Stealthily concealing meaning within grammatically moribund tropes.

The LOL never touches our eyes let alone our lips.

A million words to furnish a life with a cast of thousands. The possibilities are endless.

The possibilities are ending.

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A Divine Comedy

Arthur Mulcrum was in no way unusual. His surname rhymed with fulcrum as you would expect. He had a side parting with lofty combover ambitions as you may have suspected. Like many Arthurs before and since he still lived in his childhood home at the age of fifty-three where he looked after his mother – the once statuesque, twice reduced Mathilda Mulcrum (nee Crump) – and her borderline feral dachshunds, Ranjit and Stephen. Statistically speaking, as was Arthur’s wont, Arthurs were no more nor less likely to live at home with their respective mums at the age of fifty-three than any other human males. Except of course, for Reginalds, who have remained a statistical anomaly throughout history.

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“Maybe we should take a trip this weekend?”

I offer it up but with no real enthusiasm. Put it out there. Knowing full well it’ll be shot down.

“Where do you want to go Ray?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a cheese place or something?”


I feel like there’s an opening so I keep talking. Warm to my theme like some riffing comedian we used to watch at the studio years back.

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