Fortnightly Writing Competition: SLIDING DOORS

[brushfe]

SLIDING DOORS

We've all had those fork-in-the-road moments that would have drastically changed the course of our lives. From bigger choices like travel, job interviews, or high school dates, to the more subtle events like missing an elevator, spilling a coffee, or holding the door for someone. Looking down the road not taken, we can look into another dimension, and see a whole other version of the life we lead.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a short story about a fork in the road moment, and the effect it has on a character. Maybe it's a nostalgic reflection in our later years; or a two-part story that explores both outcomes; or a quantum mindbender where both paths are taken simultaneously. 

Voting will only focus on the story you enjoyed the most (if we have enough entries, we can vote for 1st and 2nd place).

RULES
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No minimum word count
No genre restrictions
Deadline: Friday, July 11, 2025 at 11:59pm EST

Good luck to you all!


****Note this is my first time writing a challenge, so please let me know if I can improve it or have missed anything!

[Mandle]

Bloody brilliant theme, well presented!

[brushfe]

Bloody brilliant theme, well presented!

That's a relief to hear - there were so many good ones in the archive!

I was hoping to find a theme that could also inspire a game over or Mags entry. Maybe a new use of the New Kid button in Maniac Mansion

[Mandle]

First draft of mine done. Will let it simmer a few days and then get it ready to post.

[Sinitrena]

True to theme, we'll vote in two ways:

• [...]
• The story you think would be even greater if it was written in a different genre (name the genre and the benefits you see).

I'm not sure that's a good premisse for voting, because it basically asks the voter to reward someone for not doing a great job - A story set in the perfect genre (no matter how 'genre' is defined in this context, which is also a question), perfect in everything, would receive less votes than a flawed story that would have worked better in a different genre.
Honsetly, I don't think it's much of a problem, but better I point it out now than during voting.

-----------------------------------------------

Oh, and I also have an entry for y'all:

The Visit is Scheduled for Today

Spoiler

The door closed behind him, slowly but surely. He always loved her level-headedness, her calming influence. And so he turned around one last time, but only in his mind. He hesitated when he walked away, or so he told himself. In truth, his steps were fast, sure, direct, strong. Later, yes later, the hesitation was in his thoughts, the uncertainty. But not then. In his memory, his hands brushed over the door knob one last time, his eyes were glued to the smooth paint as he walked away, he stumbled slightly over the uneven stones of the pathway. In his memory, he wanted to return, in his memory, he didn't want to go.

In truth... But what is truth?

The car keys did slip from his hands, the wheels clipped the curb, that much is true. But was it anger on his mind or were it tears in his eyes? Later, well... We know what he thought later, we know what he told himself, over and over again, until he believed it himself. When he drove too fast away from his wife, from his kids, his family, towards a new wife, new kids, a new family, he did not spare a thought for what he left, only for what was to come.

Or maybe there were some thoughts for his daughter, for his son. He'd call them often, he told himself. But what is often? He called them regularly, but what is regular? Once a year? Twice?

And the years passed. And for years he did not look back. He did not go back. He forgot the yellow house with the roses among a sea of pebbles in the front garden, the rickety shed he never finished to built in the back, the abysmal pink shower curtain his wife, Lilly-Anne, loved, the antique bookshelf he bought at a flee market far under value and still never sold...

Many years passed and life went on, a normal life, a happy life, just like any other, with his wife and his kids, two boys this time, until she died and the twins married, had children of their own, a life of their own.

And he was close to death.

His children knew as much, all four of them. And today they were scheduled to visit. His two boys came, with their wives and his grandchildren, with flowers and a book he would never even start to read, they embraced him, kissed him, said goodbye, though they did not admit it yet, not to themselves, not to him.

And his son and his daughter from his first marriage? They did come, or they did not. Who would be able to tell? Not him, for he met ME.

My visit was also scheduled for today. It always was, from the day of his birth to this day, and it never changed, not during his car accident, not when he nearly drowned as a child. It was always today.

How does he see me? Who would know? Not even I know how I seem to you, but here I am. It is time for me to take you to a world far from this, strange from this. I am the guide in the shadow, the path forward where no path goes back. Reach for my hand and I shall lead you, bring you forward to the world beyond.

(My hesitation is not visible to him. It is not true either, but what would he care?)

Or, I could give you one last choice, one last chance to change your regrets. I only offer one. One choice, one chance, one decision. Now and in the past. Choose now, and choose in what once was. Change one regret in your life.

(I do not tell him why I offer him this choice. Why would he need to know? Or that I offer it to all.)

It is clear in your mind from the moment the thought first settles what you want to change and so you do. You return back in time, through years and decades, through lives lived and lives forgotten, to decisions and memories, until he last stands in front of a different door and the words spoken before were so similar to before, yet so very different.

The door closed behind him, fast, heavy, thrown in anger. A sigh left his lips, he knew it was going to be that way. He loved her temperament, her spirit, but when he walked down the steps of the front garden he didn't look back. Later, he told himself he did. He believed it even. In his memory, this visit merged with all the others, just as secret, just as passionate, but passionate differently. Lust was replaced by anger, love by hate. He walked away so fast he knocked over the old garden gnome. In his memory, he stopped and set it upright again, in his memory, tears fell down on the bleached out plastic and the gnome did not roll into the streets that day. In his memory, he wanted to return, in his memory, he didn't want to go.

In truth... Well, who knows?

The car did drive over the gnome, shattered it under its heavy wheels, that much is true, but not for him. His memories were of regret, of the things lost, of the things that would never be. Later, that is. Later he remembered his hesitation, the questions he asked himself then, but in truth... Not then, not when he drove away from his mistress, pregnant with twins, when he drove back to his old family, his old life, his two children, the son and daughter he loved.

He'd visit, he'd said, had said so to his lover. And so he did. At some point. At some time. He visited. But not too often, not always, not ever from some time on.

And the years passed. And for years he hardly ever looked back, he almost forgot his fling. He hardly remembered the wild night that broke the bed frame, the night he told his wife he had to work longer, almost forgot the young strong tree he planted in the garden, the green wallpaper for the nursery they still picked out together and that Meredith loved, the drawing he made of her and that she sold off many years later...

Many years passed and life went on, a normal life, a happy life, just like any other, with his wife and his kids, the boy and the girl, until she died and the kids married, had children of their own, a life of their own.

And he was closer to ME.

So close was he on the day their visit was scheduled, that he embraced his son and his daughter one last time. He kissed his grandchildren, he laughed with them. They had brought flowers and a book he wouldn't read, they said goodbye and they knew it was for the last time.

And the twins, did they also come? Who would be able to tell? Well, I, but why should I? What does it matter when he would never know, for he did not live to see it, for his visit with me was scheduled for today.

And so we met again, and so we meet again. I step towards your bed and look down on you, old fragile man, with so many regrets and so many choices, so many paths before you once, and now none.

I granted you a boon once, many years ago or now, today, in this moment. What is the difference? And you took it, as all of you do. You do not remember yet – and now you do, as I grant it to you, right before I take you from this world, take you through the great desert of the unknown, towards the black gates and the fields beyond. I shall be your guide and your leader, the path and the question, the stone and the walking staff.

So I ask you now, which memories shall I take, which life do you wish to remember, which decision is your final one, for it is the last in this world and the irrevocable one.

I hear your cries, your begging. Both of them, you want. Both paths, both women, all at the same time. But both paths was not our deal, both women never an option. There is no third option, no convenient way out, no escape. You were always going to leave one, you were always going to leave one life behind. It is in your nature, in your very being. That, I cannot change, I would not change. I just offered you the option to take one decision again in your life. A single one. A generous offer, as you know.

Does the path you humans take ever feel completely right? Which memories shall I take?

Or should the reader decide? Lilly-Anne or Meredith? Maybe you should look through their decisions, their regrets.

The door closed behind him, and she stared at it for a long time. She had always loved his steadiness, his clear path in life...

[close]

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I have a vague second idea in mind, but I'll probably not finish it, so don't wait for it.

[brushfe]

Incredible work! What a powerful picture of the human condition. There's so much to think about here. This feels like a story that needs to be read every few years in preparation for later life. Or maybe a more immediate lesson?

This part will certainly stay with me for a long time...

Spoiler

Does the path you humans take ever feel completely right? Which memories shall I take?

[close]

Thank you for sharing this!

And you raise a great point about the voting. That was an attempt to have a "themed" vote, where we think about what would happen if the writer took another route — but it's unnecessary at best and, as you point out, destructive at worst. I'll strike it from the assignment post.

[brushfe]

@Sinitrena you've made a hard act to follow, but here's another entry!

Pace Car

Spoiler

The first I reckoned it was, of course, the highway. The very same highway that you surely know me from now.

But back then, it was the afternoon, and traffic crawled. I was in the left lane. They teach you it's the fast lane, but since they teach everybody that, it's the slow lane. The right lane seemed to be the best one, but I knew this old song too. Once I get over there, the left lane picks right up. So no sir.

Let's put a little money on it, I said to my car. That plumber's van is passing us now—a dollar says we get to 89 overpass first. That's two miles out. We jockeyed the whole way. I took a quarter-mile lead right at the end, but by some miracle, the right line opened up, and it was a Kentucky dead heat. We hit the overpass at the exact same time.

At the time, it wasn't as strange as I grew to think it to be. I was just pissed at the luck of it all. So I did it again—same traffic jam, same plumber's van, same bet to the next overpass. This one was a good seven miles off, but my mind didn't wander once from the position of that van. At times it was long gone, at others I left it well behind. We were all over, changing lanes, speeding. And there's no way he knew we were even racing. But knowing how you know me, maybe you've already guessed the end. It was another damn tie. Despite all we did, we were under the same inch of bridge at the same damn second.

By the time I got into town, I was starting to sweat. I pulled into the Whataburger for my supper, but I just sat in the truck trying to reason out what all that just was. Either my brain was too small or the forces at work were too big. So I put it aside and walked in to order. That little chapter of peace lasted about a minute.

Sure enough, there were two cashiers working, and two lines of people waiting to order from them. This was not the day for a choice like this. So I waited, til one line was just about empty and the other was three deep, and joined the short one. The last guy in the other line and I stepped up at once. Even our orders got done together. I watched the cashier hand me my ticket, then slide the same little slip to him.

This went on and on. If I went for gas and found four empty gas pumps... I pick one, and three other trucks would pull up to the others. Even if I spent ten minutes cleaning out the truck or twenty minutes reading magazines in the store, we'd all drive off at the same time. And then part of it became clear as crystal. If I had to make a choice, it was made very plain my decisions did not matter one bit.

So what the hell is this? Some curse? A sign from God? Forty-eight years at church and nobody ever told what a sign looks like. But even then what's it mean? And what about all the others? Are they asking the same thing I am right now? Are they losing their minds? It's been weeks. Weeks. It ain't about everything all lined up all the time anymore. I just want a goddamn answer.

The best I can do is destiny. It's real and I've seen it. There is a divine, there is a plan, and you got no choice. What else could it all mean?

Time to find out.

I'm calling you out, God. If anyone else is listening to this, there's another recording on here with all my funeral wishes. And for the record, I'm picking a new pace car. There's an old white Toyota in the right lane, and an overpass ahead. Let's see if both of us hit the wall at the same time.

[close]

—————

For anyone else looking to add their own story, the contest closes in five days!

[Baron]

I've found my inspiration - stand by. 

[brushfe]

I've found my inspiration - stand by. 

Fantastic! We'll start the voting once you've posted

[Baron]

Death Warrant

Spoiler

Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 13h36 - 6th Precinct

Detective Constable David Tarker had a reputation down at the 6th precinct, and he meant to keep it. He was a no nonsense investigator, a man possessed when he was on the trail of a malefactor, like a bloodhound on the heels of a fox.

Which was why when the Perkins file crossed his desk, a slight smile quirked the corner of his lips.

It didn't matter that he and Perkins shared a distant history. It didn't matter that Tarker's ex-wife had dated Perkins for a while in high school, or that Perkins had accidentally dented his car at the Bowl-o-rama 20 years ago, or that Perkins' dog had left a steaming pile of nastiness at his outdoor wedding reception. No, what mattered was that Perkins was accused of being a low-level drug dealer, and that Tarker always got his man.

He signed the warrant application with relish, and assembled his team.

Wednesday June 6, 2012 - 16h11 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent

The officers pulled up in front of the accused's residence in full force: three police vehicles and eight officers armed with all the tools necessary for disassembling a house and ferreting out hidden evidence. Crow bars, drill guns, even a reciprocating saw—Tarker was going to enjoy this.

He led his team up the walkway of the unassuming suburban residence and knocked firmly on the door. There were a few footsteps, and then the subject of the investigation answered.

"Humphrey Perkins—we have a warrant to search these premises. I am Detective Constable Tarker and I will be the supervisory officer for this search. You are to remain in my eyesight for the entire period of our search and you are to refrain from any communication, electronic or otherwise, with anyone outside of this home. Do you understand?"

"Davie, what on earth is this all about? You're going to frighten the cat with all your stomping about with heavy boots. I say, what are you intending to do with that crowbar?"

"Mr. Perkins, obstructing a police investigation is an offence under section 129 of the criminal code. You have the right to be present but not to interfere. Please sit down in the living room where I can see you."

Perkins made a face, but did as he was instructed. He poured himself a drink—scotch, by the look of it—and sat himself down on the sofa.

"Want one?" he asked grumpily, waving his drink in Tarker's direction.

"Officers on duty do not imbibe, Mr. Perkins. In fact, I recommend you don't either, given the circumstances."

"Recommendation received and ignored, Davie. Under the circumstances."

Constable Jeffers moved a coffee table away from the wall and took out his reciprocating saw.

"What are you going to do with that?!" Perkins asked, spilling a bit of scotch in his panic.

"We have reason to believe that a cache of drugs is hidden somewhere in this house," Tarker explained. "It's all in the warrant I handed you. Drug dealers will typically hide their horde in the walls or between the floor joists to evade the law, and thus we must open up the walls to investigate."

"Oh, Joyce won't be pleased with this ..." Perkins muttered.

"That's no concern of ours," Tarker said, trying to keep the glee from his voice. Perkins had been an annoyance in his life for many decades, like a mosquito in the night. At last Tarker was going to swat that pest. "Constable Jeffers—proceed."

Jeffers pulled the trigger of his saw and—nothing happened.

"Must be the battery." He shrugged and swapped it out. Then—nothing still.

Tarker's foot began tapping, despite himself. "Jeffers?"

"I don't understand it, Sir. I tested this equipment back at the station and it—aaarghhh!"

The battery pack of the reciprocating saw had somehow caught fire, burning Jeffers' hand. He dropped the tool on the floor, screamed like a madman, and then rushed to the kitchen to run his injury under cold water.

Tarker frowned at the offending tool that was still smoldering in the middle of the floor.

Perkins slouched deeper into the sofa, nursing his drink.

Then there was a curse from upstairs, followed by a scream. And then the sound of something large falling down the stairs.

"Won't you excuse me just one moment," Tarker said to his suspect.

"But I thought I wasn't to be left out of your sight for the duration of your search?"

Tarker frowned again.

Thursday June 7, 2012 - 08h19 - 6th Precinct

Captain John Runciman scowled over his reading glasses at Tarker. "And you expect me to believe this report?"

Tarker swallowed. "All of the attending officers can corroborate it."

"This was to be a simple execution of a search warrant in a low-risk premises," the Captain barked. "Instead, I have six officers off on injury, and yet nowhere does it say here that the suspect booby-trapped his house or made any move to resist the attending officers. How am I supposed to explain this to my superiors? Jeffers—third degree burns suffered to the hand and arm due to battery pack catching fire. Henderson—hernia trying to move a couch. DeWitt—internal burns due to ingestion of superheated coffee. Green—slipped on the stairs and broke three bones in his arm and shoulder. Chan—disfiguring scratch marks across the face caused by a spooked feline. Brodeur—broken nose and concussion due to crow bar slipping back into his own face. And then, on top of the cost of an ambulance attending the scene, the engine of your squad car overheated on the drive back to the station causing a complete write-off of the vehicle. And I'm to believe that, somehow, all of this was a coincidence?"

Tarker swallowed harder. "It does seem suspicious. But I can't otherwise explain the events that occurred in my report."

The captain glared at his subordinate. "It's not your job to explain these things—it's HIS. Get this Perkins fellow in here for an interrogation."

Tarker's mood brightened considerably. "Yes, sir!"

Thursday June 7, 2012 - 11h03 - 6th Precinct

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Perkins," Tarker said, showing his old acquaintance into the interrogation room.

"You'd just have arrested me and dragged me down here anyway—you said as much! Davie, I know we've had a rough history, but we've actually got a lot in common, if you think about it. She left me before she left you, after all. The thing is—"

"Please sit down, Mr. Perkins. Before we get into it, please state your name for the record."

"Er, Humphrey Perkins, accountant. I say that last bit because I think one of my clients might be trying to wriggle out of the bill by throwing me under the bus. I do tend to get distracted, and I'm a bit of a klutz as you well know, but I'm not an idiot."

"We can discuss your theory in a moment, Mr. Perkins, but first I want to know what happened yesterday at your house. Why have I been filling out insurance forms all night?"

Humphrey cast his eyes heavenward. "I told you, Joyce wasn't going to like you trashing the house."

"So your wife is a witch?"

"My wife left me three years ago—I told you we had a lot in common. No, Joyce is ... she's an old tenant of the house, see? Long before we moved in there was an accident and ... she's haunted the house ever since."

Tarker blinked in disbelief.

"I know it's not what you want to hear, and I did try to warn you, but ... there you have it, all my cards on the table."

"Mr. Perkins, I won't pretend to know what is going on, but I know it's not a ghost haunting your 1980s bungalow. You're going to sit here, in this room, while I execute another warrant, and when I come back I want you to have come up with a better story. Understood?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Perkins said, rubbing his eye as if tired. "Joyce gets ... worked up when there are strangers in the house, especially when the regular occupants of the home are not around. Our old cleaning lady ... we still didn't really understand back then ... She was a beautiful black girl, twenty-six—Rebecca was her name, very helpful. We came home one day after she had been cleaning alone and ... she was scared senseless, hair turned white as snow—skin as well. I've heard she still doesn't speak more than one word at a time.

"Now, how 'bout this? You and me get a drink down the local pub and I'll tell you everything you want to know, about Joyce, about the Gomez account, even about Tilda, that manipulative woman we both so love to hate. But please, I'm asking you not to send more people over to the house."

Tarker thought a bit, then rose. "Painfully transparent, Mr. Perkins. You're not going to frighten a police officer with a ghost story, and you're not going to win my confidence by feeding me empty leads and pretending to understand my personal life. I have a job to do, and I pride myself in the fact that I do it well. Enjoy your day in the interrogation cell, Mr. Perkins."

Friday June 8, 2012 - 09h17 - 6th Precinct

Captain Runciman stared over those same reading glasses again, expression aghast. "He must have had a partner? Or laced the air with hallucinogenics? I just can't believe what I'm reading!"

Tarker shook his head in agreement. "It's baffling, Sir."

"Jenkins barely survived his lungs being filled with water, while his partner McDonnell lost his leg 'as if by sharkbite' in a room that was later established to be dry as a bone. Dick Carpenter—who I've worked with for twenty years—had his gun go off in his holster, shooting himself through the foot, while the bullet continued through the floor and struck the hand of Sergeant Dingman, causing the saw he was operating to go out of control and gravely injure Officer Singh. Lieutenant Patryski went blind while exploring a broom closet, and the hospital still hasn't managed to dig his fingernails out of his own palms! Detective, this is a catastrophe. Half of the officers stationed at this precinct are off on disability claims now—it's costing us a fortune! The union, the insurance adjuster, and the brass are all breathing down my neck, and for what? No evidence in a low-priority case. On top of that, your suspect lawyered up and we're on the hook for a habeas corpus writ—we have to let him go."

Tarker gritted his teeth, his dreams of petty vengeance evaporating like thin rain on hot pavement. Then he had an idea.

"What about those jerks from Drug Enforcement downtown?"

Captain Runciman shrugged. "Those trigger happy cowboys? What about them?"

Tarker chose his words carefully. "They've elbowed their way in on some of our biggest cases, and blown more than just a few with their heroics. Squandered thousands of man-hours in investigations, just to prove they're the alpha dogs on the force. Maybe we should call them in on this one. If they find the drugs, great, at least we get our perp off the streets. If the house really does take bites out of people ..."

The captain waved his finger at Tarker. "That's despicable. Make the call."

"Yes, Sir."

Friday June 8, 2012 - 11h44 - 13 Meadowlark Crescent

"Couldn't hack a simple search and seizure, eh Tarper?" Lieutenant Montoya sneered, cleaning his gun in the back of the police van.

"That's Tarker," Tarker clarified. "And no—that house must be cursed. It's the strangest thing, but accidents keep—"

"Hey, if I wanted your life story I'd have asked your mom to bust out the photo album after all of our wild sex last night. Samson, Price, Yomaha—you're on point. The rest of you are with me."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Tarper, I don't want you touching a thing in this crime scene. Your sole purpose is to babysit the suspect, and then help yourself to a popsicle if you can get him to bed on time. Understood?"

Tarker let out a long exhale and nodded.

"OK, this is it, go go go!"

The Drug Enforcement team charged up the driveway and smashed their way through the front door. Tarker followed at a leisurely pace, not wanting to interfere with their methods. He found Perkins just inside the front door.

"Tarker, are you insane?!" the accountant cried. "This is not good. This is not good at all. I need a drink."

"So do I," Tarker agreed. "Hey, you want to go check out that pub you were talking about? We've got a bit of catching up to do and ... well, these boys might be a while."

As they walked down the sidewalk Tarker thought he heard a muffled scream, but it could just as easily have been someone's tv turned up too loud.

[close]

[Mandle]

Jailed Fortune

     

Spoiler

      I wallow in a jail cell, my punishment far outweighing what I still refuse to call my crime.  It's been almost a decade since my incarceration.  The time has flown by, as if someone had their unaware heel on the fast-forward button of a carelessly dropped remote that just happened to be pointed at the TV.

      That's what my whole life has felt like, to be honest: one long, static-barred fast-forward on a TV screen, one that I barely knew I owned, with a heel always pushing down on me.  The solid steel door opens.  The guards in their riot armor have their guns trained on me against their shoulders, each crab-stepping to opposite sides of the doorway, faces invisible behind black plastic curves.

      Am I really that dangerous?

      Between them, walks in the priest.  Some things never change, it seems.  I hold out a palm at him, fingers spread.  He nods sadly and turns away.  I don't need his last rites.  I close my eyes and focus.  I don't want to be conscious for my execution as they pick me up under my armpits and drag me out the door and down the industrial-green corridor to where I know the killing machine waits, squat and purposeful, in the room at the end of the hall.  I find peace.  My mind goes back:

      This feels more real:  It's nine years earlier.  I wake up in a bed.  My eyes snap open at a sharp, cracking sound and the ceiling is on fire with swirls of violet and yellow light.  I'm grabbed under the armpits again and dragged toward a door I cannot understand the physical reality of.

   
      At this point in my scrawlings, I'm gonna let you off the hook and write down what I am and what led me to this outcome.  Because I have to leave soon.  Never mind my name, call me Joe, if that helps.  If you are reading this, you found it behind the air-conditioning grate of this awful room.  If you're a cleaner, get some of the dust caked in there out, please, for the sake of humanity!  It's an inch thick!


      Here I go, then: The first time it happened, I was eight years old.  I woke up just knowing that my little sister, Deirdre, was going to stub her toe on the corner of the stove, and start squealing.  So, I saved her.  I was there to pull her away right before the moment when it would have happened.  How did I know my dream was real?  Well, in it, I'd seen her wobble into the kitchen and pick up speed, then she turned.  Her plump little fingers of one hand, outstretched at the edge of balance, had clipped the hindquarters of "Chief", our tabby, who had jumped right off the chair he'd been on, onto the breakfast table, spilling dad's cereal bowl.  Dad had sworn a bad word.  Mum had looked over cross at him, then'd stood and gone for a sponge.  As she'd raced around the table, one of her hands on the edge on the tablecloth at one corner had slipped, and she'd clutched the cloth and dragged everything down on top of her as she went down on her butt with an 'OOMPH!".  So, I woke up, raced down the staircase, not having seen myself in the dream; I wasn't destined to be there.  I guess I was still supposed to be dozing upstairs. And that's how I managed to pull my sister away from the fate of a painful stubbed toe.  Nobody noticed my heroism, of course, what with dad helping mum up from the floor, both of them laughing, mum's hair full of cornflakes and milk, tablecloth still draped off one shoulder, Chief long gone out the cat flap.  My parents hugging far above, me hugging little Deirdre while she struggled in my much larger grasp, trying to bite my face.

     
      I really have to leave soon, but I'll keep writing, because why the fuck didn't I get to see Deirdre die in a car crash ten years later?  All I'd been able to do was cheat on a few answers on some tests in middle school and predict the number Mr. Hill wrote on the board when I wasn't supposed to be paying attention.  Seeing that number nine, or whatever, in the dream didn't even help, because the dream warned me to pay attention anyway.  What a useless gift!  I'm so sorry, sis.


      FUCK!  Then, up through high school, there were quite a few, admittedly explosive, dreams that taught me a bit about the proper finger work needed in the backseats of cars with girls, each girl's bits needing different strokes.  I guess that was what you'd call the hot streak of my physic career?  I peaked at wet dreams?!

      And, I really need to stop writing this shit.  But there's still a bit of midnight coffee left in the cup, and I really want to try to tell someone, even if it's just a cleaner who throws these papers away in the trash at a glance, what it's like to have a superpower that only shows you trivial crap.

      Here's a brief list of people I've 'saved':

      Some guy who was about to pay a dodgy mechanic five-hundred bucks for putting in a faulty transmission.  Told him he was being ripped off.  He got it down to a hundred bucks for consultation fees.  Not like I even saw he'd die in a car crash later, so fucking sorry, sis, down the line or anything.  Just ended up saving the guy four-hundred.

      I once pushed a lady to the side who was about to walk into an opening door.  Got a punch in the face myself for that one.  Crossed the country for that.

      Paul (the dream had provided a glimpse of his passport as he'd boarded the plane for Thailand).  He was one of the very few out of inconsequential hundreds that I knew the name of.  Can't complain that much, really, though.  I would have never gone to Thailand otherwise, and the food was amazing.  Paul still caught a very minor STD anyway, just a different one from a different boy.

      So, yeah, there's actually another really good one that I even went to Iceland for, but time is running short, I'm about to be put to death, but yeah, that was me, the globetrotting superhero, saving folk from the only minor accidents my powers allow me to see.  Why did I even bother?  Because I could, all right?  I was the only one who could!  Shut up!

      The reason for my upcoming execution was just another case of many: 

      Yeah, I call these things "cases"; I even have a corkboard on my wall back home in my superhero-styled "b'what?-cave" room with various colored yarn connecting pins stabbed in sketches and notes.  It's all I have to justify this compulsion every time I wake up from one of these fucking dreams.  Anyway, this one was a guy in Florida who was gonna burn his toast beyond redemption five days from then.  He didn't have another slice of bread in the house, and would have gone to work hungry.  YES, these are the exact kind of EMERGENCIES my superpower warms me of constantly. I was in Paris at the time, saving a kid from getting splashed from a puddle by a passing car.  But, yeah, I made it there to Florida on a maze of connecting flights, two days ahead of time.  Now, I'm a professional by now, as you can imagine, so it was a simple task to just buy an extra loaf of bread from his local 7-11, lockpick my way into his house while he was away, and plant the bread in his cupboard next to the one that would run out two days later.  I'm SO DONE by now with talking to people face-to-face.  Got that broken nose that time from doing that.

      When I stood trial for 'time-crimes', after being dragged and ripped through the horizontally swirling violet-and-yellow tornado at the foot of my bed by black-armor clad, plastic-visored brutes, in this very motel room, the prosecution started out with some legal babble about how psychics were some anomaly that science and the law didn't fully understand yet, but were some kind of world-destroying paradox.  The evidence stacked up against me in the case of the guy whose toast I'd prevented burning going on his way to work fifteen minutes later, stomach satisfied.  Because of this, the scar-faced lawyer, burns having seemed to have melted half a cheek halfway downward, spoke out his closing statement:

      "The accused is obviously guilty.  By allowing the zero-subject, Person A, to leave his house a quarter of an hour later with a full stomach, this caused the traffic accident at the intersection of Helm and Justin to occur.  Person B, a child passenger in the afflicted car, was killed.  Person B would have grown up to become a serial killer, killing Persons C, D, and E through M, as you can see on the monitor chart-web.  Person J, here...," and the prosecutor waved his VirtuaWand at the screen, drawing circles around the relevant boxes of the web of names, "...now lived, instead of dying, going on to found a bakery that produced a bad hotdog, here, that caused Person O to get sick and take a day off work, which made his Secret Service brother, Person P, lose concentration in a Presidential briefing.  The momentary fact he missed was a minor point, just a peanut allergy, of Person Q, here, but Q died at a politically funded event down the timeline, here, from eating a Thai shish kabab that was supposed to be only miso-coated.  Because of his death, Person R, his wife made a speech at his funeral that annoyed Person S, the deceased's sister who went home with a headache instead of stopping at Home Depot and buying the faulty electric stove that would later, instead, be shipped to Person T,  a gas station attendant who had to put out a housefire instead of manning the pumps, which caused Person U to have to wait and not attend the vital talks that would allow a rat infestation bill to be passed in Congress.  Two decades later, Person X, the President of the United States, eyes bloodshot, mouth foaming with rabies, would launch nuclear strikes on a whim and that's why we, People Z, are living in this unintended radioactive wasteland.  ALL BECAUSE OF THIS ONE MAN!" and he stabbed a finger over at me.

      Thankfully, finally, my lame superpower had found its back foot on the starting block for a running head start.  The dream I'd woken up with, the one I fast-forwarded through like a heel on a remote in the middle of the night, made me pen this, and yeah, years of experience and meticulous scribbling made me a stickler for detail.

      I know I still have time to stash these papers in the air-conditioning grate and go on the run before the violet-and-yellow portal opens at the foot of the shitty motel bed I was supposed to be asleep in when they'll arrive to take me.

      Wish me luck.  I love whoever you are.  There's a tip enclosed

[close]

[brushfe]

Two amazing last minute entries -- it's shaping up to be a photo finish!

The polls are open, and I hope many of us can find the time to read this great variety of surprising spins on the Sliding Doors assignment.

Voting closes July 19, midnight EST.