Blogger Fiction

…reply to that…
a short short story
by Kevin Cahill

Some guy in pyjamas sees the reply on his monitor. It reads,
“’kidding’ or being a smart ass?”
The cursor arrow is already sliding up to intercept the icon labeled “Reply”. It arrives, triggering the icon, a broad red arcing arrow that sweeps blandly but not without menace toward a faceless vaguely human figure. The icon illumines and is framed by a thin rectangular border.
Nothing happens for at least five, six, seven seconds.
And then everything changes.
The cursor arrow is now an hourglass and the word “Reply” is suddenly irradiated and vaporized, the icon unchanged though newly ensconced in a field of now darkened light.
All of this happens in an eyeblink. A moment later “Reply” is restored, once more superfluous beneath the faceless empaled icon. The hourglass is again a cursor arrow. Everything is as it was except that now it is in another quadrant of the screen there is
a new screen, a new field and there, blinking, a new cursor.
Nothing happens for several seconds, perhaps a full minute.
It’s intolerable really, the wait…what will it be this time muses Pyjamas?…
a word, a fragment….perhaps several of them necklaced along ellipses…? Maybe. Something but not just anything
Succinct? yes.
Urbane? not likely.
Laconic? ideally.
Enlightening? how is that possible?
Timely? unequivocally yes. That more than anything. Best to be quick. The need to Reply is now. It grows stale with every blink,
blink’n, blink’n, blink’n, blink’n, blink’n
And then as if summoned in by bugle, letters. Like crows tracks on the snow,
“you can’t kid a kidder.”
An imperceptible rest, then.
“maybe you can”
No period. Not even an ellipse. The pause is damaging.
blink’n, blink’n
Then the blinking cursor mouth begins to eat the message as if it is a famished rodent. It eats the characters one at a time, starting with the “, then n, a, c, space, u, o, y.
Pause, the cursor blinking, perhaps digesting what it has consumed. To its left remains “maybe”
What? Maybe what? Then in order and swiftly, e,b,y,a,m.
blink’n blink’n blink’n
Maybe nothing. Except,
“you can’t kid a kidder.”
That’s all. Simple. Is that it? Hardly laconic, trite at best, sophomoric more than anything. It still could be timely though. It hasn’t been too long. It could still be quick. No?
The cursor drifts up the screen. It lingers over the icon labeled “Send”. An icon of an envelope blazoned with a bold blue arrow pointing straight away from here.
Is that it then?
Maybe…
(The cursor darts back down.)
not.
The cursor squeezes out the characters like rabbit turds.
“maybe you can outsmart a smart-ass though.”
Pause.
Better, maybe. Well, at least there’s repetition. Repetition brings new dimensions. Nothing ever means the same thing twice in a row. It gets deeper…and miles to go before I sleep…and miles to go before I sleep. See? Deep…sleep. Kid a kidder? Outsmart a smart ass? No?
Send. Now. Quick. Don’t edit, don’t censor, don’t worry. Just send.
But the cursor stays where it is blinking, like a bird on a wire. And then…more turds. ”heh heh…:)”
Swift as a pigeon the cursor flits up and becomes an hourglass.“Send” is obliterated in a mute flash, the iconic envelope illumines and then is peaceful. Like a skillet scraped clean, the screen abides once more, empty and inert, the cursor arrow small and unobtrusive, bobbing like flotsam on the screensaver.


In an airport lounge a laptop monitor receives,
“you can’t kid a kidder…maybe you can outsmart a smart ass though….
heh heh…:)”
In less time than it takes to read it out loud, the arrow has already found “Reply”;
in less time than it takes to impale a human heart, it has already opened up a new field of inquiry; in less time than it takes to recognize a face or contrive a white lie,
the letters spurt on to the screen like gunshots hitting a paper target.
“huh?”
Quick. Send. Now.


Pyjamas reads the reply to his reply.
“huh?”
In more time than it takes to pull a bathtub plug; in more time than it takes to tarnish a reputation, in more time than it takes to take a life or shake a hand,
the cursor arrow migrates north and, at the proper latitude, swings directly west
passing through one icon after another, each one flashing its intentions as if it were the Moulin Rouge, FIND, ADDRESS, SEND/RECEIVE, DELETE, PRINT, FORWARD, and so on until it stops.
REPLY is where it stops. REPLY.
“Enter Here,” is what REPLY seems to say. “Enter Here and Rejoice in the Rejoinder of all Rejoinders.”
As if that was all it took. As if it were an easy thing to do. As if it were the only thing worth doing. REPLY
“Huh?”
blink’n, blink’n, blink’n
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is that funny? Is that clever? What is that?…Besides timely. Ok, ok, it is timely…
blink’n, blink’n, blink’n
Quick. Send Reply now. Something laconic…something ironic laced with innuendo and ellipses, resonating with ….what?
Maybe repetition…yeah, that’s good.
Here it is.
“What? …are you kidding? …or just being a smart ass?…”
Send. Now. Quick.
Pyjamas sips a soda. Not great. Ok, stupid. Next time it’ll be better though. Next time. Could have been quicker. Didn’t have much to work with.
Wait. Annoying really. Come on, reply to that one.
In the airport lounge, a laptop snaps shut.
Every second nurses a fantasy of stunned silence…an end…a blink’n end.