Touching Grass

“You know... You know, Marjorie, the ironic thing is that if people had access to their social media, they’d realize that the Sensitive Data Act is the biggest threat to American freedom since the Fake News Bill of 2042. An absolute infringement and desecration of our rights.”

“Owen, you wanna talk about threats, you wanna talk about infringement, how about the fact that a third party foreign body can access all my usable banking info every time I post vacation videos? That’s atrocious. Not to mention the declining mental health of our youth that have undivided access to inappropriate content, along with a staggering increase of cyberbullying.”

“Doesn’t the responsibility fall on the parents at some point?” Owen interrupted.

“Parents can’t control everything, Senator,” was Marjorie's quick rebuttal.

“I’d like to reanalyze if I may, you say people deserve access to social platforms for news, while that is the least reliable place to acquire it from. Talk about fake news. I believe the dissension of our country began with information technology. So I'm glad apps like, Mybook and Minutegram are gone; the best thing to ever happen,” Marjorie said confidently.

“Of course, you're glad they're gone. Now you can make your 'own brand of social platform'.” Owen air quoted, “All just a ploy to line your pockets right, Marjorie?"

Marjorie smoothed her vest and dipped down enough so you could see her unkempt roots. Shouting through her side of the split screen, “Oh here we go, just another loosely tied double standard that…”

Blake changed the channel. He’d heard this narrative a million times over. Unfortunately, he ran into a whole block of commercials.

“Have you been struggling to find your muse? Writer's block got you down? The elevator is full but it won’t go up?”

A defeated man sits in front of a blank easel fully equipped with a painter's palette, blotched with a rainbow of colors. He turns toward the camera.

“I want to paint but I can't find the right colors.”

A distraught woman sits in front of her laptop, hands cradling her forehead illuminated by the hefty glow from the screen.

“Ten words down, only four thousand more to go.”

Introducing, Creativitor. A once daily pill that works with the natural receptors in your brain to give you that extra boost of creativity, getting you unstuck and the gears moving.

Creativitor may cause a lack of creativity along with nausea, diarrhea, dizziness while standing, dizziness while sitting, tingling in hands, feet, or tongue. Call your doctor immediately If you experience a stiff neck. This can be a rare and fatal sign that your brain is dying.

The same man looks at the camera again, this time with a stunning bouquet of vibrant colors covering the entirety of his canvas.

The content young lady is typing away like a symphony on a piano she looks past the laptop and in unison, they say:

“Thanks, Creativitor.”

Blake sits there numb, resigned to the fact that this is the rest of his night.

With mid-term elections approaching there is a lot to be left unanswered.

When will Mybook come back?

When will the price of eggs come down?

How will we deal with the increasing crime rate?

Who better to settle these discrepancies than A.I.

The Talkbot symbol constructed itself on screen. A large eye with a shutter lens for a pupil.

No longer will we be subjected to the plight of human emotion, stifled by an antiquated system. From now on, logic will pave the way. A vote for Talkbot is a vote for the future.

I am, we are Talkbot, and we approve this message.

Blake officially had enough. He switched the TV off in frustration, letting out a sigh of contempt.

He reached for his phone, a formality at this point, like checking the fridge again expecting there to be more food. Like a compulsory ritual, he goes to check his socials. He's met with the same message he's seen 80 times already.

Dear User,

In accordance with the Sensitive Data Act, Mybook is temporarily shut down, we are diligently working with lawmakers to get the app running again. We thank you for your patience.

Regards,

Xeon Buford III

Ceo of Mybook

For more information about the Sensitive Data Act, follow the link below.

Minutegram, Chitchat, Chirrper. All more of the same. A perfectly placed note with legal jargon regarding the newly passed bill exclaimed by another billionaire CEO.

Blake was ready to toss his phone across the room and sink into the couch in a depressed stupor, but just then the screen lit up. A facecall from his buddy, Jerome. He answered.

“Ayo, what's good dude?”

“Shit, hang on.” He forgot his phone was hooked up to the house speakers. Jerome's introduction nearly shattered the windows. Blake promptly lowered the volume and responded to his laughing friend.

“I don't know man, just chillin, trying to distract myself but nothing seems to be working.”

Jerome's face nearly filled the entire screen, his bald head illuminated by the dimly lit street lamps in the background giving him an almost saintly look.

“Still down huh?”

Blake only responded with a lifeless grin.

“You should have come to see the movie tonight dude, we switched it up and saw Halloween XX: Michael Myers in Space. It's been eight decades and they still can’t kill this fucker.”

Blakes half hearted chuckle clued Jerome into his current mood. It was time to wrap it up.

“Anyway, just calling to see if you're coming to the protest tomorrow?”

Blake could care less about the current issue and the state of information technology he just went because it was something to do.

“Yeah man, I'll be there.”

“Alright coolio bro, I'll see you there at noon, peace out man!”

“Peace.”

And with that, Blake threw his phone on the charging stand and got ready for another sleepless night.

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The protest was more of the same: a succession of small repetitive tasks that did nothing. Blake couldn’t help but think that shouting, “Take back what you took! Bring back Mybook!” while stomping around in a mini circle in front of the state building with primitive, yet easy-to-read picket signs would change the mind of the entire congress. But at least he was outside.

“There he is again.” Jerome placed a hand on Blake's shoulder stopping him in his tracks as they rounded the corner.

“The old man with the newspaper.” Jerome pointed to an elderly gentleman seated on a bench thumbing through an old raggedy copy of the funny papers.

“I didn't know they even printed those anymore,” Blake responded.

“They definitely don’t, which is what makes it weirder, he's gotta be reading the same couple of newspapers on rotation. Fucking odd, man. And every day, like this. I really don’t get it.”

“To each his own I guess.” Blake shrugged.

With that, the buddies took off and melted into the mob of frustrated activists.

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Despite the heated arguments and frivolous debates, congress hadn’t budged. Social media and all its applicable sites were down for the past couple of months into the foreseeable future.

Blake just had to take it on the chin. “The rest of America was in the same boat”, he thought. “We’ll get through this together.” It wasn't all bad, he had to admit. His rituals and routines got a massive over hall. All that time he spent on his phone (which was admittedly a lot) needed to be replaced with something.

He started cooking more, whipping up his grandma's famous Bolognese in his speed fryer he got for Christmas years ago. Instead of dinners in front of the TV, he opted for dining on the balcony admiring the stars that lit up the sky on a cool summer’s night. He dusted off his cycler and took it through Seymour Park, before ending his trek at Cafe Social and reading until evening. No, not bad. Not bad at all.

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While they came few and far between, the protests were still a recurring thing.

“We're really moving the needle on this, I think we're close dude,” Jerome had said.

On lap about four hundred, Blake got a beep on his wrist, an alert from his Apricot watch. A small heads up signified by a depleted water drop that stated he needed to hydrate. He snagged a water bottle from his buddy and sat down right next to the old newspaper man.

Feeling particularly enlightened on this day, Blake decided to strike up a convo.

“You don’t see those every day.” Blake pointed at the yellowing cover page.

“No sir, you don’t.” The older man replied.

“Especially not one dating back this far.” The stranger tapped the date on the header August 4, 1999. Upon closer inspection, Blake saw the cover story.

ARE POKEMON SATANIC? WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW FOR YOUR CHILDREN

“Quite honestly I bring this paper here simply for nostalgia,” answering Blake's next question.

“A small token of my youth that brings back good memories, I know it sounds crazy, but if nostalgia was a drug I'd probably overdose on it.”

“Have you ever tried Nostalgator?”

The old man finally moved his gaze from the printed word, “Now what on earth is that?”

“Never mind.” Blake waved it off.

Switching gears, “What do you think of all this?” Blake waved his hand toward the gaggle of demonstrators.

“Don't rightly know son. I can tell you I do remember when social media first came out, believe it or not. I hopped on it myself.” Blake's new friend scanned the horizon as he spoke. “Not sure when it turned so codependent to be truthful. News every day; Instantly even if it wasn't true, maybe people thought it provided answers to what's next, when in fact we had no idea. Just wrought with anxiety If you ask me. That's why I'll stick with Old Faithful.” He rattled the frail paper in his hands.

“I'm Hudson by the way.” He extended his hand. “Blake, nice to meet you.”

“And what is it you do, Blake?”

“I'm a UX writer. I write for websites and stuff like that.”

Hudson seemed to light up at the admission. “Ah, a fellow writer, retired now but I did write for the paper oddly enough. Probably explains my attachment to the thing." He patted the tabloid in his lap. "What got you started into that, I'm curious?”

Blake had no idea why, but he felt comfortable with Hudson, so he decided to open up. “I always loved writing. I loved the story, and watching your ideas come to life. I'm a daydreamer. I suppose I love escaping into a whole new world that I created. I wish I could go back to fiction writing but I guess I've just been distracted.”

“We've all been distracted I'm afraid,” Hudson said with an exhale.

“I'll tell ya what Blake I'm always here, come by and bring me some of your ideas we’ll flush em’ out, it'll be fun; it'll help get me back into the spirit too, how bout it?”

Blake turned to Hudson smiling, “I think that would be great, same time tomorrow?”

“Same time and place friend.” After the ecstatic agreement, they both revelled in the silence. A silence that Blake broke with a question.

“What’a ya think is gonna happen with all this?” Blake waved a hand over the proceedings,

Hudson leaned back and let out a hearty sigh. “Quite frankly son I haven't the slightest clue.”

Blake mirrored his new writing partner, and slumped down on the bench granting him sight of the setting sun. Admitting to himself he didn't have the slightest clue either, and that was just fine.