Bits of sand tick against the murky, wet widow-glass. A car, its tires buried by surf, sways under a strong coastal wind. Headlights, once illuminating the breaking waves, begin to fade until finally darkness consumes them.
A burly man carrying an iServer satchel slams the car door behind him. “That’s it! The battery’s kaput.”
A female companion follows. “Unless we find another power source…”
“There’s nothing else I can do.”
“Don’t worry, Kev. You’ll think of something.”
“Thanks, Jen. But why? No one’s writing anymore. I mean, nobody’s around to write anymore.”
“Kevin, Ficly isn’t just for those that write. Ficly is for everyone; the ones that remain silent, never writing, never commenting. Ficly’s for them too.”
“And spammers,” Kevin says with a grin. “Don’t forget the spammers”.
Jennifer laughs. “Remember the spoofs everyone did, pretending to be spammers?”
“How could I forget? It was tough knowing what to delete. – Look there! It’s our base camp.”
Light flickers beyond the sand dunes. CAMPFIRE.