Why Would I Write

  • 3478*

    3478*

    I punched the number into the payphone after the job was complete, just like I was instructed to. Goddamit, pick up the phone. Why isn’t she picking up?? The dial tone continued ringing. I looked around anxiously, outside it was pitch black. The only source of light for miles was from within the phone booth I was standing in. It was quite a trek, but I had selected this place for a reason. Nobody would pass by at this hour, let alone this season – it had been snowing for days.

    I stayed on the phone, waiting for someone to pick up. doo doo… doo doo… still no answer. I checked the time on my watch: four a.m. What the fuck do I do now? Why didn’t we come up with a plan B? Holy fuck. Frustrated, I hung up the receiver. This was no time to panic. What was my next step?

    I looked out of the phone booth again to make sure that nobody had followed me, I was alone. I stepped out into the snow, walked around to the side to shield myself from the win, and sat down, back against the wall. What did I get myself into?

    The calm that I felt faded away and was now replaced by fear and anxiety of the crime I had committed half an hour ago. Well, the crime I had looked like I committed.

    I was told by Miss Chicanery (a fake name, I’m sure) I’d be paid double the reward of turning her in by donning a wig and dressing up like I had just killed someone in cold blood. I only had to walk past some security cameras to lead the authorities astray, while she (who would have done the deed), exited the same building in the opposite direction.

    I had to make sure that I wasn’t followed, call her up to check in, and meet her somewhere else to collect my reward. Because she wasn’t answering, and I had no idea what to do next. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it up, I needed something to calm down my racing heart.

    Now’s not the time to panic.

    I finished my smoke and headed back into the phone booth, I tried the number one more time.

    “What took you so long?” said the voice on the other end.

    “Me?? I called you about five minutes ago and nobody picked up!”

    “You must have dialled the wrong number, I’ve been waiting for you to call all night and my phone didn’t even ring once!”

    “Forget about it, now that we’re talking – where do we go next?”

    “You sure nobody is on your tail?”

    “I’m pretty-“

    There was the sound of a gunshot on the other end, followed by the thud of the cellphone dropping to the ground. What the fuck just happened over there? The sound of footsteps crept towards the phone. A man cleared his throat and spoke.

    “Miss Chicanery?”

    I remained silent. Do they think she is me??

    “I know you’re listening. Nice decoy, but you’re not going to get away this time. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

    He hung up. I placed the receiver back in its place and collapsed against the wall. Holy fuck. What did I get myself into?

    Image Prompt from Reddit: Phonebooth

  • You Used to Call Me on My Cellphone

    “Wow, still getting texts from my boss even when I’m dead, can you believe it?” I said, going through the notifications on my phone. Once I was done with all the tags to tributes and photos on Facebook, there weren’t many to go through. People tend to stop reaching out when they know you’re gone.

    My new friend who seemed lost in thought a moment ago noticed I had a phone with me. “What the hell – how did you get that in?? I thought they confiscated that shit at customs?”

    “Beats me, they must have missed it. Besides, there’s not much charge left anyway, it’s going to die – like I did.”

    “That’s very funny, can I use your phone for a bit before it dies? I haven’t been connected to the internet in ages.”

    “Dude, you came in right after me!”

    “I know! It’s been half-an-hour.”

    “And..?”

    “That’s an eternity without being online!”

    I shrugged and handed him the phone, “sure. If you get caught, don’t say it was from me.”

    I didn’t bother logging out of my apps or deleting my messages – it didn’t matter anyway, we were in the afterlife, what would people do with information about my past life? I continued walking down the street, leaving my friend, who found a bench to sit on, behind while I explored this new world.

    The afterlife isn’t so different from life. If I took a photograph of the two worlds, you would have trouble discerning the differences. I didn’t feel like I was dead. It was just like living but in another country.

    A couple of weeks had passed since the day I arrived – I had settled into a new routine in this life. I had completely forgotten about the friend I made when I saw his face on the front page of the daily paper.

    Suicide Bomber Stopped From Setting Off Phone Bomb – Terrorist is now in custody, and police are currently investigating the phone used in the crime.

    I spit my coffee out.

    Writing Prompt from Reddit: “You die with your cell phone in your hands, and the afterlife customs agents miss it when letting you in. You find that it still works, and you can connect to the internet and contact people in the living world.”

  • The Deal

    Having just moved into your new home, you jokingly say “If there are any monsters in my room, come out and we can make a truce!” Then, a skeleton walks out of your closet.

    I dropped my backpack onto the floor in shock and inched towards the exit, wishing that I hadn’t closed the door.

    “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” said the skeleton as it closed the closet door behind it. (I assumed it was speaking despite its lack of lungs and larynx. The alternative explanation was me imagining voices in my head, which was probably just as bad).

    “Are you questioning my ability to speak?” it asked when I didn’t respond to its first question. (Holy fuck, was it a mind reader too?) “No, I’m not a mind reader, that’s just what all the other people I’ve encountered asked when they met me.”

    “Come on kid, I don’t have all day. What are the terms of the truce this time?”

    “I didn’t think of one yet! Give me some time!” I managed to blurt out. It was the truth, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I said those words.

    “You’ve got ten seconds, if not I’ll go all Army of Darkness on you!” (it sure knows its trivia!).

    “Okay, don’t bother me and my family, and I will feed you once a week!”

    “What, do you think I need food to survive? Look at me!” the skeleton retorted.

    “I didn’t think it true! What kind of truce has worked for you in the past?”

    “I the life of your firstborn child in exchange for peace and quiet is a pretty common one I’ve received,” it said.

    “What if I don’t want kids?”

    “What the fuck is wrong with you? Everybody wants to start a family!”

    “Not me. I don’t want any kids.”

    “Fine, you can make that promise then, since you won’t be having any kids. It’s a win-win for you.”

    “Are you going to meddle in my affairs? Will you try to get my partners pregnant?”

    “Hell no, I’ve got better things to do than to make holes in condoms.”

    “What the fuck do you do inside the closet anyway?”

    “That’s none of your concern.”

    “Fine.”

    “Fine.”

    “So we have a deal?”

    “Deal.”

    “And kids, that is the story of how you lost an older brother. So if you see a skeleton in your closet, be sure not to make promises you might later regret.”

    Writing Prompt from Reddit: “Having just moved into your new home, you jokingly say “If there are any monsters in my room, come out and we can make a truce!” Then, a skeleton walks out of your closet.”