You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You Read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.
Today’s Twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible. (Extension of Day 4’s Series)
You will never know what they’ve taken from you. Because you will never remember what you’ve forgot. That’s their power.
I’m so sorry.
It was the kind of thing that seems like a joke when you see it, like those chain letters you got growing up; but it seemed like the act of reading those three little lines changed how I saw the world. For the first week, nothing was different. The day progressed much as it always did: Coffee, shower, keys, work, school, gym, dinner, sleep. It was a predictable pattern that carried on with the kind of reliable monotony that lets an average joe go through his day without going mad.
The second week, no keys. But that was fine, there weren’t ever keys to begin with, the bus was just so much more practical and economic. Little things like that seemed to keep slipping. The coffee changed to tea, then to reverse osmosis filtered water. It wasn’t really a change, it’s always better to be healthy, and it may have been different before, but this is how it was done now.
By the fourth week, the progression had changed entirely. Scarfs were cool, and beards were a chance to express creativity and showed off masculinity. Mom and Dad called more often, the conversation inevitably drifting towards various life choices being made by less responsible siblings. Movies became chic again and never mind that the plot felt a little recycled.
Going on six weeks, the laundromat’s closed now. It was hard to remember ever going to it before, even though that’s where the letter had been left out on one of the folding tables. That’s all right, the dry-cleaner is closer to the apartment. Who want’s to sort their own clothes anyway?
Week eight, what was I talking about again? Have you seen the new Perfect Match on MTV?
The dry cleaner attendant carefully folds away the socks, replacing them with the identical s.o.q units. They found my letter. I need to get the word out somehow, let people know how they’re being harvested, how they’re being changed like so much dirty laundry. I need to keep it together, the puns are one of the first signs. I’ll try again after the next round of cleaning.
I’ll need a pair of sandals soon…