Pictures and Stories

 

“Old Reporter”

Reporters are trained to hone a sixth sense, a nose for when a story smells fishy. And something about this was off. First off, the picture below the headline did not look authentic. It looked... what was the word?

Photoshopped, that was it.

Gray-bearded Mac McDuggan tilted back his fedora and dug a fingernail into his bald spot. He had seen hackneyed journalism like this before, during the Nixon years, during the Iran Contra, but logged onto the “Information Superhighway” or whatever folks were calling this newfangled computer thing, this report was taking the cake.

He strained his weary eyes at the name of the “web address” again. A trio of queer w’s, a period, and then “the onion.”

“Fitting,” McDuggan cackled. “Because these bush-league bunglers make me want to cry.”

Their “scoop,” if you wanted to call malarkey a “scoop,” was seen in the headline “It’s Raining Men, and Thousands Are Dead.” Squinting back at the image, he sneered at the crude splotches of red on the sidewalk, the phony look and mismatched depth of the screaming men falling from the heavens onto terrified civilians, and wondered how anyone could conceive of this garbage.

Galvanized, he turned to his steel typewriter, intent on writing a letter to the editor to begin to right this injustice.

But before he could do that he died of old age.

"One More Hand"

Harry shuffled the deck of cards and pushed it across the table.

“Deal,” he said.

“One more hand,” I agreed.

It was a way to pass the time. More importantly, it was a way to avoid talking about how he had grown an extra, mutated hand because of the experimental potion I made in the lab. I had intended to drink it next, almost certain that it would enhance my hand-eye coordination to a superhuman level as planned. As my assistant, Harry tasted the potion first.

It didn’t take long for Harry to start screaming hideously as the flesh on his left hand tore open and sprouted a new appendage. Carpal and phalanges bones took shape, then blood vessels and skin in sickening, deformed layers.

Presently, Harry was scowling at me again. Yikes. What did I do this time?

Oh, right. How awkward. Just my luck…

“Under the circumstances,” I said, “I suppose ‘one more hand’ was a poor choice of words. I'll try to do better next time, Harry."

I looked at the clock on the wall. We’d been on lockdown since Harry had triggered the panic sensors I designed. The janitor wasn’t going to arrive to let us out of the lab for another six hours. Man, I hated cards.

I thought of something to say to cheer up Harry, at least. I frowned at my hands.

“Jeez, it’s so hard to shuffle these cards with only two hands.”

"Black Liquid"

At first, we thought the black liquid was oil, that we’d struck it rich and that we’d be able to retire and live in extravagance. We even started writing down all the ways we’d spend the money. Our first choice was to found a company that was sure to make millions more. Kate came up with a name: Black Liquid Oil Company.

I set down my pen and gave her a quizzical look.

“What kind of a name is that?” I said. “I mean, from a marketing standpoint, it’s so bland.”

Excitement left her face and she furrowed her brow at me.

“It’s not bland. It’s straightforward. People will know exactly what they’re getting when they buy our product.”

“But it totally goes without saying that oil is a black liquid,” I scoffed.

Her frown grew more severe.

“OK, Pete. What’s your brilliant name for the company, huh?”

“Let’s keep it simple,” I said. “Like my name. Call it by my last name. Wh—”

Her chin lifted in triumph and her eyes got wide as she pointed in my face.

“White! So you want to name it White Oil Company. Ha! Now I am the one laughing at your stupidity.”

I tore up the list but we still argued for two hours. That’s when the city trucks rolled up and workers got out to assess the mess in the backyard.

In bed that night Kate and I kissed and agreed on a more fitting name. We should’ve called it Shit Company.

###

Thank you to Anna, my former coworker, who gave me a book of writing prompts called Complete the Story. Oh, I couldn’t resist writing at work. The higher-ups were not thrilled. But that’s a story for another time.