“We’re working on it! Promise!”
“Well, you better work harder and faster!”
“Why? It’s just some stupid pictures. They seem to be doing ok without them.”
“I don’t care if it’s the lint from your belly button! Get that inspiration attached to that site!” A pause. Softly, “We don’t want these Ficlyteers…Ficlyites…whatever they are, to mutiny.”
“Mutiny, sir?” a tiny voice says.
“You know, revolt, rebel. We don’t want them unhappy! They might leave.” A gasp is heard.
“Leave, sir? Could they do that?”
“You bet your bippy they could! All that talent and creativity could be taken….elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere? Then what would we do, sir?”
“We would rot away, unused. Our wives and children would starve. Our race could cease to be.” Silence. Then noise is heard, softly at first, but growing in pitch. Clicking and clacking as the little workers of Ficly.com begin to attach some images to the little button known as inspiration.
“I knew I could get them to do it,” a voice whispers softly into the dark.