I wouldn't be opposed to having a like button on a trial basis if you can only 'like' comments and it takes 50 likes for it to show.
Then have a system so we can view all the 'liked' posts, which should be the funniest on the forum.
The screen flickers in the dark room. It's night time or early evening, we can't tell from here and the curtains are shut blocking out any natural light. As our camera drifts in closer more detail becomes apparent : pictures of a man, a house, an older couple, a school. Not pictures, photographs. Red crayon marks describe circles on certain photos and now we notice newspaper cuttings as well.
It looks like an intel room from a film. The man at the computer hasn't seen us yet so we continue looking, observing, not yet worried.
The flickering screen shows an open website. A strong blue blackground with white type and this triggers something in us, something we should remember, something we should note. It passes and we take a closer look at the walls, the man still somehow unaware of our presence.
The man in the photographs is tall and not unattractive. Several of the shots appear to have been taken from distance, the grainy images looking almost ghostlike. Childlike scribblings - again in red crayon (is it red crayon? we ask) - state, "Him taking a walk", "Him at the gym", and "Nitefly sleeping". We stare, unsure who 'him' or 'Nitefly' are, wondering if they are the same person. They look very similar and we conclude that they must be the same man. Who the older couple are we don't know. The school? The house? We don't know. Is the man a teacher? Is that his house?
A noise alerts us. The
clack-clack of a keyboard. The man is typing. We peer closer.
"The screen flickers in the dark room. It's night time or early evening, we can't tell from here and the curtains are shut blocking out any natural light. As our camera drifts in closer more detail becomes apparent : pictures of a man, a house, an older couple, a school. Not pictures, photographs. Red crayon marks describe circles on certain pictures and now we notice newspaper cuttings as well.
It looks like an intel room from a film. The man at the computer hasn't seen us yet so we continue looking, observing, not yet worr-"
The man turns around suddenly, staring directly at us, through us. We shiver, struck dumb with fear. Time stops. Time starts. The man turns back in his chair and begins typing again.
"50 likes and I come to visit you," he says outloud. His voice sounds dry, broken. "50 likes," he says, looking at the man in the photos on his walls. He picks up the red crayon (
it's blood, we think, it's blood), stands up and delicately scratches an X over the man's face. He joins the X with a thick line to the house on an adjacent photograph. Standing back he nods, appreciating his own work.
Our camera backs away, horrified, and we leave the room, the house, the area quickly, our legs buckling and our heads filled with confusion.