Soulmates & Funerals
Flash fiction
Hey guys! Suprise story drop.
I wanted to write something longer today. So here it is! If you wish to challenge yourself and write something similar the prompt is:
A fortune appears on a protagonist’s wrist every morning.
I like to keep the flash fictions under 1500 words, so if you want a limit that’s the one :) I hope you’ll enjoy it!
You will meet your soulmate at a funeral.
Read the message on Tyler’s wrist. It appeared in the morning, just like every day. People said these were blessings of gods, but in all honesty, nobody really knew where they came from. They just appeared one day. One sentence every morning predicting what would happen in the near future. Everyone around the world got one, often vague and less reliable than fortune cookies, but creepy nonetheless.
“Great…” Tyler mumbled and swung his feet from the bed. Just to make sure it was bullshit, he reached over to his bedside table and checked the calendar on his phone; no funerals planned. He let the thought go. Last week, one of the fortunes told him he would eat fire, and he was pretty sure it meant the jalapenos he had on Friday.
So Tyler made breakfast, played with his dog, and spent about two hours on a call with his mom. A regular lazy Sunday went on, and lunchtime rolled around quickly. Tyler’s stomach recognized the hour and accordingly made noises. Tyler never said no to his cravings. So he put on a pair of white sneakers and a jacket and jumped into his car.
A few raindrops fell onto his window. Great. Another rainy day. Just what we needed. Tyler thought, but his grumpy mood was lifted quickly by the purr of his lovely Mazda. He looked at the darkening sky, hesitating for a moment. People, for some reason, just forgot how to drive when it rained. The growl of his stomach quickly drowned out the thought of him staying home.
He drove off his driveway and headed toward the town. No need to worry about traffic and other drivers on such a slow day.
As he neared the intersection just around the corner, Tyler barely bothered to look at both sides; nobody should be driving there. Pressing the gas pedal, Tyler ran passed the stop sign.
An ear-shattering honk slowed down time.
Tyler’s head snapped just in time to see a giant truck approaching him. An equally scared driver behind the wheel was waving his hands from side to side.
But there was nothing either of them could do.
There was a funeral planned after all. Sadly, Tyler wasn’t able to talk to his soulmate there.
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He was delivered to the correctional reception center on May 4th at 05:00 and exchanged his name, his watch, work boots, a canvas jacket, and his street clothes for a prison-issue orange jumpsuit, underwear, boots, and his new identity: prisoner 9519.
Then he was escorted to the processing center med bay by 4 armed guards, a med tech, and 2 security dogs, both hypervigilant German shepherds with low-slung hips, lolling tongues, and big white teeth. The med tech informed him that he had a syringe of haloperidol at the ready should he, prisoner 9519, engage in any off-regulation behavior.
At the med bay, 9519 was led to a chair at the center of the room. One of the guards shortened the chain that joined the manacles at his wrists and ankles and instructed him to, "Sit here." He sat, and the med tech pushed his head back and fastened a rigid C-spine attached to the chair at his throat so he was unable to view anything that was not directly in front of him. His right arm and ankles were placed in braces attached to the chair. Once secured, the med tech turned 9519's left forearm upwards and locked it down too. The tech swabbed his wrist with a numbing agent, explaining as he did so that he was being outfitted with a device that would track his movements at all times and inject him with a paralyzing agent should he engage in any off-regulation actions. The device would also provide him with digital readouts consisting of daily routine reminders, notifications, and other pertinent information.
"Think of it as your digital fortune cookie," the tech said.
9519 bent his eyes to the left as far as he could in an effort to watch the tech work. He felt a small sting as the tech made a vertical incision on the meaty part of his wrist, directly below his thumb. He staunched the blood as it welled up and inserted a thin strip, like the news banner at the bottom of a TV screen, and sealed it with a foamy line of transparent synthetic skin. The synth skin hissed and bubbled for a moment and then flattened seamlessly to his wrist and sealed the wound. Finished, the tech ticked off a list of things 9519 should expect as the device integrated with his body.
"The nanites in the synthetic skin will copy your DNA and format it into the device so your body won't reject it. It will itch for a few days. Do not scratch or pick at the bandage. You will be escorted back here in 48 hours for a checkup. If you scratch at the bandage or the device, you will be placed in a body security chamber for the duration of your healing process. If you attempt to remove the device, the skin around the device, or your limb, the device will deliver a heavy dose of haldol and a neuromuscular agent that will block the transmission of nerve impulses to your skeletal muscles, resulting in temporary paralysis. Attempts to remove the device will also land you in solitary confinement for 30 days. My advice, 9519, don't do it."
The tech activated his new fortune cookie with a small handheld device. It gave a bright little chirp and went online. The small screen blinked a few times and then a message began to scroll across its face:
"Cell #503, lockdown 18:00 hours, wakeup 05:00, breakfast escort 05:30..."
Roger stretched and checked his wrist. Ah, there it was, the card. He'd long since given up trying to find out where it came from or how it worked. What he knew was that the little plastic square appeared just on his wrist every morning, right where he'd used to keep his cheap plastic watch. He bought Rolexes now. Hell, thanks to the cards he could buy Rolex.
It was almost time to order breakfast. He was just lingering over the menu when a knock came on his penthouse door. Odd, he thought. He was still getting used to the idea of having personal staff, but he thought he'd made it clear that they weren't to bother him before breakfast.
The elevator door slid open. "Excuse me, sir," said the butler, a fat manila envelope in his hand. "This came for you."
"Huh," Roger said, mildly curious. "Looks important."
"It seems so, sir."
In no hurry he slid it open. The contents slid out onto his table. At the top were two words in bright red: "The Bill."
Roger blinked. "Oh sh-"