Prompt: Write a story set in or that includes an afterlife
Genre: Any
Word limit: 1,200 words
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1199 words

Forms

“Fill out the first three pages, sign here, initial here, here, and here, and then return it to me.  With the pen.”

                Jacob looked at the woman behind the gray steel desk.  She had high cheekbones and piercing green blue eyes and she probably was pretty when she was younger.  He looked at her for a moment, he thought that she was anywhere between sixty and eighty.  Her hair was short, with a blue tint that was popular in the sixties, but she wore tortoise rim glasses that were fashionable today.

                He glanced around the room as large as the gymnasium from his high school.  There were thirty identical desks in the room, each with a line of at least fifty people.  The people sitting at the desks were men and women, young and old, white, black, brown.  The black man sitting at the desk to his right was speaking with a Cockney dialect to an older man while the young white woman to his left was speaking in some African language with various clicks in her diction.  He looked back at the woman in front of him again; she peered over her glasses back at him.

                “Why am I filling out paperwork?”

                “Admission application,” she said with a roll of her eyes. 

He waited for an answer.  She smiled.  An impatient smile that slightly curled her lips, but did not extend to her eyes or brows or cheeks.  She said nothing more.

“So, the application is for …” he asked again.

She reached into her side drawer and pulled out a red manila folder.  She thumbed through several stapled packets, found one, and slid across to him.

“Everything is in there.  Next.”

The woman behind him, dressed in a burka, coughed but did not directly look at him.  He nodded and stepped aside and the old woman at the table started speaking in Arabic.  He walked to a table and sat down.  The form was mostly filled out for him.  It had his name and date of birth.  His date of death was listed on the paper. 

He stared at the paper as a searing pain shot through his temples.  He was dead.  Or supposed to die.  He looked at his watch, the second hand was stopped and the watch listed today’s date.  Or the day he thought it should be.  The date of his death.    He slid the stapled packet over in front of him and started reading.

He was applying to the “hereafter”, ultimate destination to be determined after review of the application and any supporting documentation.  A decision would be made any time from today on, and the committee reserved the right not to make a decision.  The living could petition for a decision on his behalf through prayer.  Any decision of the committee was final, and immune from appeal or prosecution.

Jacob filled in his application but did not sign it.  He went back to his line, but the light over the blue haired woman had been turned off.  A man at another desk waived and signaled him to his table.  Jacob slid his application over to the man.  He was dressed in a high collared white shirt with an embroidered red band at the neck and a pair of plain pants.  He looked as though he had taken part in the Bolshevik revolution and had thick black eye brows and a mustache.  He spoke perfect English with a hint of a Midwest, probably southern Ohio, dialect.  The man, he had a small plaque on his desk that said “Nikolay”, looked at the paperwork.  He slid it back to Jacob and told him to sign and date the application.  Jacob told him that there had been a mistake.

“Everyone says there’s a mistake.”

“No, I have a contract.”

Jacob reached into his jacket and removed a sealed envelope.  He had had the contract for three years; it had another eight years and four months before it expired.  He broke the seal, opened the envelope, and slid it across the table to Nikolay.  Nikolay read the contract and attached sticky arrows to parts of the contract that he thought were important.  He told Jacob to have a seat.

Jacob walked to the back of the large room and sat in a folding metal chair with scratches in the brown paint.  He watched people move through the lines and most were directed to two side doors from the room, holding their applications in front of them as if they were divining rods.  A young woman, her paperwork said she was eighteen, sat next to Jacob.

“I’m dead,” she said to him.  “And since I didn’t finish my community service project, they’re keeping me out of heaven.”

Jacob turned and looked at her.  She was dressed in a soccer uniform with white jersey, red shorts, and soccer cleats.  She had a gash at her temple, he could see her skull, but there was no bleeding.

“I meant to do it, I really did, but I was like real busy with prom, and the yearbook, and college applications, like who had time to get out to the shelter to pass out meals.”  She stopped and let out a long sob.  “This really sucks.”

Jacob asked for her application and read through the answers.  He took his pen and changed three words.  He added another line under achievements.  He nodded his head toward the lines and the young woman followed him.  They walked to a desk with a middle aged Chinese woman dressed in a green military uniform with a red armband.  Jacob slid the paperwork in front of her.

“Nous avons fait une erreur,” he said.  He pointed to different lines on the paper, flipping the pages back and forth fairly rapidly. 

The woman stopped and looked at the pages.  She took a large marker from the drawer and checked a box on top of the form.  She handed it to the girl.

“Vous pouvez entrer, vers la droite.” 

She tried to smile, it looked like a frown, but the girl thanked her.  The girl looked at Jacob, she stepped forward to hug him, but she squeezed his hand instead, and ran to the door on the right side of the room.

A nurse and a construction worker stepped up to Jacob and told him to follow them.  He stood in front of a rather stern looking man with a beak shaped nose, small black eyes and a tic that struck the corner of his mouth.  He told Jacob that he had reviewed his contract and did not see how it pertained to his arrival.

“I sold my soul to become famous.  I’ve got eight more years,” he said, raising his voice with each word, nearly screaming when he said “years”.

The man looked up and removed his rimless glasses and squinted as he spoke to Jacob.

“Good news, you’re out of your contract.  Bad news is you’re dead.”

He took Jacob’s application and checked the box at the top of the form.

“But I …”

The man pointed to the side door not taken by the young woman.

“You get what you deserve, but without the benefits.”

 

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Prompt: Write a story about a time machine

Time Warp

                Harry Thompson sat back in his chair and looked across the desk at the woman sitting in a hard back chair.  He had misunderstood her on the phone.  In person, she was clear and concise in what she wanted from him.

                “I need to know when I’m going to die,” she said matter of factly.  Her bony hands clutched a small black purse.

                She was attractive, stunningly so, despite, or maybe because of, her near ninety years.  Her eyes were a deep, sharp blue.  Her hair was white and rested on her forehead, the rest of it covered by a red hat with a wide brim.  She had nearly translucent skin and her face had no wrinkles.  He asked her why she wanted to know when she would die.

                “Dr. Thompson,” she said with some resignation in her voice, “You, as a scientist should know why one wants to know the answer to that question.”

                But he didn’t know.  Since he had a report in the International Journal of Theoretical and Mathematical Physics, he had gotten calls, letter, and emails from around the world.  He had described the presumed time travel of a lab rat, Rattus norvegicus, the rat’s official name was A56P-79, but Harry had called him Sebastian in honor of his father.  He had sent Sebastian two days into the future.  He had kept the information quiet until the report appeared in the Journal.  He had hoped for some calm scholarly praise for his accomplishments.  Instead, he had the animal rights zealots after him, the University sanctioned him for failure to have the proper approvals, and every time-travel fanboy in the world was knocking on his email to get a crack at time travel. 

                He did not expect Jessica Simmons to be at his door this morning.

                “Wouldn’t you want to know?” she asked him, leaning forward.

                Harry was a practical man, well as practical as a theoretical physicist could be.  He didn’t think a lot about life and death, the future or the past.  Just science.  He spent eighteen hours a day in the lab; he had burned through three marriages, was estranged from his two sons, and didn’t really think about the next day other than how to set up the next experiment.

                “Mrs. Simmons, I’m …”

                “Miss Simmons.  Not Ms. Simmons, Miss Simmons.  I’ve never been married.  Didn’t have time.  And I want to know how much time I’ve got left.”  She paused for a minute and stared at him. 

                Harry fidgeted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable by either her presence or questions.  It didn’t matter, both worked to her advantage.  He had small brown eyes and a weak chin.  He rolled a chewed on pencil between his fingers.  He needed a shave and his clothes needed to be pressed.  She had appealed to his scientific and human interests.  It didn’t work.    She opened her purse, withdrew an envelope, and placed it on the desk in front of her.

                “That’s fifty thousand dollars.  Cash.  I want to rent your machine for a ride into the future and a return trip.”

                “But I …”

                “But what?  Don’t need the money?  Not sure if it works?  I don’t care about the disclaimers.  If it doesn’t work, it answers my question.  If I come back, I’ve gotten what I want.  And you know that it works and you’re famous.”

                Harry looked at the envelope.  He wanted to grab it and count every dollar.  His grants had expired; the graduate students had abandoned him.  The wives all got alimony.  Hell, the Russians sent people into space for a fee.  Why not send an old lady into the future if it made her happy.  He tried to buy time by telling her he needed to draft a waiver for the trip.  She reached into the purse and took out a notarized indemnification of harm or injury for time travel.

                “We’re wasting time.  Let’s do this,” she said, closing her purse.

                Harry took the paper from her and read it.  He had learned a lot about legal paperwork from each of his divorces.  He turned to the last page.  Jessica Simmons’s signature filled the page, large looping letters, not the birdlike scratching he had expected.

                “Let’s do it,” he said, standing from his seat, and extending his hand to hers.

                He led her to the laboratory and explained the process to her during the walk.   The hall was narrow and cluttered and it opened into a large open laboratory with a high ceiling and exposed brick walls.  In the center of the room were three furnace boxes connected together with duct tape.

                “Not what I thought I would find,” she said.

                “The movies distort the reality of the science. “  He explained that there were no flashing lights or ringing bells.   But the room housed a vacuum and that is where the transformation would occur.

                Jessica sat in the chair and Harry attached a single sensor to her ear.  He put a thin tube into her nose and turned on a cylinder of oxygen.

                He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes.  “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

                He stepped out of the small room and turned on the power and adjusted a knob.  There was a long slow swooshing noise as a vacuum was created in the room and then there was a popping sound from the top of the contraption.  He killed the power and looked into the room.  Jessica was gone.

                Emotions flooded him.  He was ecstatic that the machine had worked; he had sent a human being into the future.  After a few moments, he was struck with dread as he realized that an elderly woman had walked into his lab and was now gone without a trace, except for a pile of cash.  He paced throughout the lab, rubbing his chin, trying to imagine where she had gone and when, or even if, she would return to the lab.

                Harry checked the chamber every hour for the next day.  He slept in the lab, waking every hour or so to see if she had returned.  One day extended into two, then three, and finally four.  He sat collapsed on the couch in the laboratory near his time machine.  He heard the pressure pumps turn on and after a few moments Jessica Simons pushed open the door.

                Compared to Harry, who had not slept for four days, Jessica was radiant, even more beautiful than when she stepped into the time machine.  She walked over to him, took his hand, and kissed it.

                “I got what I wanted.  Thank you.”

                She turned; her red hat tipped over her left eye, and walked toward the door.  Harry was astonished that she had returned, his machine worked, it really worked, and he was dumbstruck for something to say.  Jessica turned toward him.

                “You’re in for quite a time,” she said as she walked out the door.

Change of the Guard

                Shane rubbed his temples and then squeezed them, trying to push back the pain behind his eyes.  He walked to the window and looked out on the city – the steam and smog filling the spaces between the buildings made it difficult to see the distant sunset – and he turned toward the center of the room.

                “You’ve got six hours.  Don’t be duppy and wait till the last minute.” 

                Brudder said something under his breath, Shane thought he heard him, but needed to know.

                He smacked Brudder on the side of his head, a thin wire protruded from his skull.

                “It either sends or receives.  What’s it going to be?”

                Brudder closed his eyes and hummed.

                Shane took the unit from his pocket and held it in front of Brudder.  The ping started.

                “Dr. Brudder, the time has come, hasn’t it?  We’ve tried to be reasonable; we’ve tried to work with you.  The information is not yours to withhold, is it.  It belongs to everyone.”

                “I have no clock for this,” he started to say.

                “All you’ve got is time.  Or a little of it, depending on what you share.”

                “It’s primitive, I’ll admit,” Shane said, as he turned off the device and placed it in his pocket.  “The upload starts soon, but the probe, oh the probe, that’s how you started, isn’t it Dr. Brudder, with a probe, taking information and knowledge that wasn’t your, and accumulating a life time’s work in just a few hours.   But our probe, our probe is different as we extract the information; the probe monitors your response to the departure.  We don’t just sample.  No, that’s not what we do.  We take.  We take what is ours.  What you have stolen from everyone.  We’re taking it back tonight.”

                The room was dark now except for reflected light from the New Year’s countdown on the street below the hotel room.  Brudder tried to move but felt a pull on his wrists, rendering any movement impossible.    He looked at his wrists; there were no straps or restraints.  But he was immobile.  So were his legs.  Shane stepped to him and squirted the warm, pungent liquid into his nostril.

                “Tri hexyl iodine.   It will be in your neural network in minutes.  You still have a chance Dr. Brudder.  Just give us what we want, and I walk away.”

                Brudder leaned forward, looking down, knowing that the chemical had already passed through the mucosa, had already entered his plasma, was drifting through his blood brain barrier and bathing his cerebral cortex with the ionic solution.

                “We wanted to know as much as we could,” Brudder said, never looking up from the floor.

                “Even the biggest libraries check out books,” Shane said. 

The crowd outside started their countdown as lights slid down a rail to the street.  Shane tapped the syringe barrel, and the bubble floated to the needle and depressed the plunger and watched the drop form on the needle tip. 

“The extractor, cupric phosphoric choline.  I think you discovered it, didn’t you Dr. Brudder.  You never told us about it, though, we, the rest of the world had to find out about it after the trials, when it was injected to extract information.  And they called you to do it, didn’t they Doctor?”

Shane placed the needle against his forearm and slid it under the skin and into the vein.  The crowd erupted in cheers as he pulled the plunger back, and the blood filled the barrel, and he depressed it, sending the mixture into the vein.

Brudder knew what would happen; he had done it enough times, always asking the recipients what it was like to have the chemical sluice through their veins.  The descriptions varied, some were more eloquent than others, and the sense was the same.  A fog engulfed their brain.  Clarity was lost.  Alertness waned.  Focus drifted.  And it continued until all of the accumulated neural memories had been captured in the ionic structure of the cupric phosphoric choline.  He had started the conversations with articulate fellow travelers and ended with protoplasmic storage units.

Brudder squeezed his eyes shut, focusing his attention to his mind’s eye, remembering screens filled with equations and molecular drawings, trying to re-establish new networks as the old ones were erased.

Shane watched the man in the chair.  The tension in his face left, the lines softened, the tone relaxed.  He switched barrels on the needle and extracted thirty ccs of dark red blood.  He withdrew the needle.

Brudder opened his eyes.  The focus was gone; they were softer.

“You have become me,” he said.