Short Story Competition 6 (The Box) - Vote Here!

pickarooney

This is the official voting thread for the latest Variations on a Theme competition. Apologies for the delay with posting these up. Inclement weather and incompetent airport management must bear the brunt of the blame.

The theme this time was:

Ann sees a mysterious box on her desk. Just then her phone rings.

For more details on the competition, see the discussion in thisthread.

Seven people entered this time and their stories appear below for your approval. These stories are posted anonymously and the winner revealed after voting closes, at around midday on Tuesday the 14th of December. You may vote for as many stories as you like, all we ask is that you give a reason for your vote in the form of a post on this thread.

Unfortunately this did not mean that entries submitted after the deadline without a really really good excuse were accepted. I received two entries in the last five minutes and it would be unfair on those who rushed theirs for the deadline to allow late entries. If anyone wants to post up an out-of-contest version, please feel free to do this in a different thread.

Please let me know by PM if your story was submitted on time and is not here or is incomplete or badly formatted in any way.

Please give the authors as much feedback, positive or negative but above all constructive, as you can.

Voting is public, and votes without a post in the thread will be ignored.

The order of the stories is, as usual, randomly generated.

Good luck to everyone involved! Thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and critique the entries.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Boxing clever

Monday morning, 8:57am and Anne looked at the monitor as the software scrolled through it’s authentication process. The final lines rolled away and she was logged in. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose, eyes closed as she readied herself to sit down and start all over again. She opened her eyes, glanced down and noticed the box for the first time.

The phone beeped, urgent, insistent. The bastard. Erwin was routing calls to her already even though she wasn’t supposed to be on for another couple of minutes.

Anne watched the screen as the customer’s flight number and name flashed. After three rings the status light in the corner blinked an angry orange. Her first demark of the day, the first part of the stick that Erwin would use to beat her and the team. “The metrics…” he would whine in that nasal Austrian drone. Why should she give a cat’s backside about the metrics – apart from this ruination on a minimum wage job what possible difference did it make to her if a call was answered in 3 or 5 or 155 rings?

Anne scabbled for the headset, tapping the answer button as she slid the mic into place… Just made it, half a ring more and that status light in the corner would have gone orange and how much would Erwin have not liked an orange answer metric before 9am?! She heard the automated answer script in her ear, her own voice bright and optimistic on her first day “…and thank you for calling Acme Airways…”. She had been convinced that it wouldn’t be as bad as the trainers had tried to make out. They were just trying to impress or scare the trainees, she was sure of it then. That surety hadn’t lasted long.

The status was red but now the fatal “CALL DROPPED” message had bounced onto the screen. Anne had only ever seen that message in training before, never on a live screen with a real customer. “A dropped call is a dropped customer, a dropped customer is a lost customer and we must NEVER lose customers!”; six weeks and still that warning rang in her ears. Of course a dropped call also meant an automatic loss of all her productivity bonuses for the day. Anne should have been upset. She tried to feel upset. It wasn’t working.

“Can I confirm I am talking to Tom Howitt and this is in connection with Acme Airways flight AA356 from Dublin to London Stanstead please?” The scripts flashed up automatically depending on Anne’s actions so it was difficult to get lost in the task list. Difficult to have a human conversation as well but who has time for that when your average call length metric is 28.5 seconds? “A trained monkey job” Erwin would rant when some unfortunate made a mistake – he never failed to remind them that a computer would be faster or the dreaded outsourced call centre would be cheaper.

“Yes, yes it is… And well done on reading the information I have spent time tapping onto the phone keypad while I spent 10 minutes waiting in the queue for one of you ladies to decide to pick up the phone”
Ahhh, the Passive Aggressive. Anne hadn’t worried about them in training – she was far more afraid of the Shouters; the angry men who would yell abuse or the women who would scream filthy names at her (the calls were often played back at the end of a shift and there was a secret but very active competition for the Operative who received the most creative insult). What Anne had learned early on was that the Shouters were just angry and once they calmed down they were usually fine. But the Passive Aggressive were just nasty, cruel and calculatingly insulting. She held her breath waiting for the sly digs.

Erwin was looking at her from his workstation. The round O of surprise perfectly framed by his heavy jowls, still slick with the grease of his Egg McMuffin. But it didn’t matter. Feeling lightheaded Anne turned. The banks of hunched shoulders and the babble of conversation drifted away, inconsequential. The grey double doors needed a swipe card to open but the green sign over them read EXIT and that was the one thing that Anne could clearly focus on. She could hear him pattering after her, could sense his belly jiggling as he tried to catch up with her. But she was going to reach those doors before he reached her and he couldn’t leave the call floor during a shift. The identity card slid through the magnetic reader and she let if fall to the floor as she stepped through the doors.

Meanwhile in his box Schrödinger the cat dozed happily, his tail twitched slightly as massed ranks of dream mice met gruesome ends in a variety of interesting and creative ways. Silently he purred through the day, content.

Meanwhile is his box Schrödinger the cat slowly stiffened as massed ranks of dream mice nibbled away at a piles of dream cheese. Silently the corpse grew cold through the day as the mice played, content.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

The lawyer in office 3C grunts a quick ‘hello’ to me most mornings when we meet in the hallway. It’s really quite impressive how he manages to sound so condescending and haughty by muttering just one word. Still, he’s only one of the many people that are openly sceptical about my… well, my profession I guess. I’m a fortune teller, specifically dealing with tarot cards. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. That girl’s a nutcase. I’ll let you in on a little secret though – I don’t believe in fortune telling either. But it pays the bills and more (you wouldn’t believe how much I make in a week – more than my lawyer friend I’d bet) and it’s quite fun to do.

I came over to San Fran about twelve months ago looking for some acting gigs. I started doing tarot readings for fun with my housemates, then when I realised how gullible people were I started charging them for the privilege. Had to make ends meet, right? I made a website, stuck a few advertisements in the local papers and here I am, making a living from it. The local daily paper even expressed an interest in giving me my own weekly column. I guess you could say the whole thing is a scam, but I find that most people just want their thoughts confirmed and someone to listen to their problems. It’s not the tarot reading that helps them, it’s having a friendly ear to hear their thoughts and opinions. So, I’m more of a mystic counsellor than a fortune teller. They go away happy, I go away happy, what’s wrong with that?

Renting the office space was a brilliant idea. It adds a wonderful touch of professionalism to the whole thing. I put a big, comfy L-shaped leather sofa in the office, with a mahogany coffee table beside it to lay the tarot cards out for the reading. I found a few cheap trinkets on ebay to add to the mystical vibe (purple-hued abstract paintings, a dreamcatcher, shiny metal jewellery) and added a few scented candles to the mix as well. I have some coffee and biscuits on a corner-cupboard too. It’s all pretty relaxing and cosy, like you’re heading over to a friend’s place for a gossip. That’s really all this is anyway.

People usually send me an email or ring me on the phone to make an appointment. I like to do some research before I meet them, so I usually prise some information from them before they call to my office. Getting their full name is pretty easy, and a simple “Oh, are you from out of town?” will get me an approximate address. Sometimes, if they sound like they are younger, I’ll ask if they went to a certain school, and they almost always tell me “No, I went to XYZ College.” – it’s really easy to make a simple profile of someone from that basic info. Then I hit the internet and check Facebook and newspaper archives for some more specific info. It goes down great with clients when you can get something really accurate in a reading. They love it. Makes them come back again. And at $60 every time, that’s business I can’t let slide.

I pour myself a coffee and start shuffling the tarot cards aimlessly. I used to take out some of the bad-sounding cards, like Death and The Hanged Man, but I found that some people were almost disappointed when they didn’t turn up. When the reading is slightly ominous it encourages some people to return for more info. Which means more money.

There’s a knock at the office door, and a short, rosy-cheeked woman in her thirties pops her head in the door. She’s my first appointment of the day, Alice Rickman. “Am I too early?” she asks quietly.

“Not at all,” I reply, waving her into the office. “Would you like a tea or coffee?”

She is slightly surprised by the simple offer, but it disarms her a little and puts her at ease. She is quite a shy and polite woman, but that doesn’t surprise me from the things that I read on her Facebook page (which wasn’t set to private, saved a lot of hassle). She’s single, has been for some time and from her comments to her friends on her page, I’d say she’s desperate to find love. So I’ll try to incorporate that into her reading.

I bring her tea down to the coffee table and begin shuffling the cards once again. There’s a box on the table that wasn’t there before – a small, dark one made of expensive-looking wood.

“What’s this?” I ask nervously.

Alice opens the box and reveals a worn, pearl-studded brooch nestled in some velvet fabric. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing this along. It’s a family heirloom – my mother gave it to me before she died. I thought it might be lucky for me when I do my reading.”

Oh hell no. I hate when people do this. Talk about dead relatives I mean. It makes me feel so damn guilty. Then, my phone rings – the local newspaper. I really need to take this call… but this woman seems like she needs my attention. I’ll put it on silent just this once. I turn to Alice with a forced smile. “Shall we begin?”


I just do a standard three card spread, and then make a story from the cards that present themselves. I shuffle the deck and place down three cards. I flip the first one and it is the Seven of Swords. Perfect.

“That’s the Seven of Swords,” I tell Alice. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat, mug of tea cupped in both hands. “This card can have many interpretations, but in essence it signifies a change of house or a change in your life, like a relationship.”

I look up at her on that point, and she nods eagerly. “A relationship? Can you tell me more?”

I turn the second card – Death. Damnit, I really didn’t want her seeing that card. She seems the type of person that would worry about it turning up in her reading. On cue, Alice gasps and sits back in her chair. Time to spin the positive interpretation.

“Don’t worry Alice, Death is not a bad card,” I say, placing a hand on her knee. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I really need to take that call. “Many tarot readers refer to the card as Rebirth. It can signal that you need to let go of past hurts and move on with a clean slate. Did a past relationship end badly for you?”

Alice hesitates for a moment, sipping the tea to buy her some time. “Well, I recently had to care for my mother when she was ill. When… when she was dying. My last boyfriend wasn’t very understanding about that.”

Pangs of guilt hit me again, and I pat her knee and shake my head, muttering some words of sympathy. I’m taking her money for this. Time to turn the last card. Nine of Swords. Oddly appropriate.

“This card tells me that you have a lot of tension and anxiety inside that needs to find an outlet,” I begin. “Have you talked to your family and friends about your mother’s passing? About what happened between you and your last boyfriend?”

Alice catches a tear before it falls down her face. “Not really,” she says. I offer her a tissue. “I have no family still living, and people are so busy with kids and husbands and work. It wouldn’t be right to burden them with my issues.”

My phone rings a third time. I know what these San Fran hacks are like – no reply, no column. And I would make so much more money from this than I can from Alice. I need to answer that call. Alice stares at the three tarot cards intently, and then starts crying – not just a few tears, but proper, full-on crying.

“It’s just so hard sometimes, you know?” says Alice, blowing her nose. “I miss her so much.”

My phone rings again, but I’ve decided, I’m letting it go. Time to do the right thing. For once.

“Well, I’ve got a few hours free. Stay for a while. Tell me about your mother,” I say. I pick up the brooch from its box. “It’s beautiful.”

Alice musters a smile, and launches into a story about the brooch’s family history.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Ann shivered as she walked back to her desk from lunch. Even for winter, the office felt unnaturally cold, and the chicken soup she’d had for lunch had done little to warm her. She pushed through the fire doors separating the office from the canteen and looked across the room. Not surprisingly, she was alone.

Every day after lunch, she came back early, unable to feign interest in the karaoke shows her workmates loved. Every day, the other cubicles were unoccupied; void of human culture except for those stupid posters. She glanced at her neighbour’s desk as she passed, and shivered again. Photographs of celebrities, most cut from glossy picture magazines, adorned every centimetre of free space.

She tried not to think about that, or about the way life used to be, or about the man on the phone.

Abruptly, she froze in place. Her heart tried to leap to her throat. Another rectangular cardboard box was sitting on her desk. She felt a sudden icy chill as beads of sweat began to form on her forehead.

Not again. Please not again.

She closed her eyes and waited. And then the phone rang.

Please not again.

Ring ring. Ring ring.

She swallowed hard and forced her eyes open. Her arms and legs were shaking. Every muscle in her body had tensed.

“No.”

The word escaped her mouth with a sob and she realised she was crying. She reached into her handbag, grabbed a tissue and dried her eyes, looking back towards the door. Nobody could see this.

Ring ring. Ring ring.

Ignore it. Ignore it and maybe it will go away.

She lifted the box and knelt down on all fours. Nobody could see this.

At the back of her desk, there was a hollow behind some drawers. Her hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped the box, but finally, she reached back, found the space and wedged the box inside. Nobody could see this.

As she got back to her feet, the phone was still ringing. Suddenly, overcome with a blind rage, she lifted the receiver and roared.

“What do you want? What do you want with me you ****ing bastard?”

Her grip on the phone was so tight it had turned her fingertips white.

At the other end of the line, the caller remained silent, shocked – or maybe scared – by her outburst. Whoever he was, if somebody caught them he had as much to lose as she did.

“You got my present?”

She ignored the question.

“Stop doing this. Stop sending them. You know what will happen.”

She was crying again, the words almost incomprehensible, even to her.

“Have you opened it?”

“No, and I’m not going to. Leave me alone!”

“Open it at home, Ann. I think you’ll like it.”

He sounded so calm and secure, as if he hadn’t just endangered her life, and she hated him for it.

“They’ll take me away if they catch me. Please stop sending them.”

The anger had waned now, and all that remained was the fear. Fear of being taken away. Fear of the men who smelt of kerosene and carried boxes of matches to work.

“Open it, Ann. They don’t want you to and that’s reason enough to do it. I didn’t--”

She slammed down the phone without letting him finish, and wiped her eyes as she glanced behind her. Nobody had seen her. Nobody could see anything.

But still, she didn’t feel safe.

The man’s voice still rang in her ears as she arrived home that night. It was half past seven, and a cloud of vapour accompanied every exhalation. As she walked, the day’s snowfall crunched beneath her feet. It stopped as she arrived at her door and reached into the bag for the keys. Looking inside, her heart leapt once more. The cardboard box took most of the space inside, but her keys were visible just beneath it.

She glanced back down the street.

Nobody could see.

She turned the key, stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Once she was safe in the house, she flicked the hallway light on and sank down to the floor, leaning her back against the closed wooden door. She lived alone, and so nobody saw her finally let the tears fall freely down her face.

Her bag lay in a heap by her feet, one cardboard corner of the box sticking out like an accusatory finger. She reached forward and lifted it into her arms. The box weighed about the same as the others, and inside, she knew it would be something similar, something wonderful that could have her put in an asylum, or have her house burnt down. Or both.

She leaned her head back, rested it against the door for what seemed like hours and let the tears fall until there were no tears left.

The walls of her house were paper-thin, and through the plasterboard she could hear a wailing noise accompanied by a rapid beat and followed by riotous applause. Her neighbours were watching a karaoke show.

Gradually, she stood up and walked into the kitchen, the box tucked safely beneath her arm. The room was dark, and through the glass door, the snow covering her back yard looked orange in the flickering neon street lights. The grass, the shrubs, even the incinerator was coated with an orange cotton blanket.

She put the box on the table and sat down. Surely there’s no harm in looking inside...

Like the others, the box took some time to open. Small metal staples lined its edges to ensure the contents would not accidentally fall out. The stranger took precautions.

Eventually, the last of the staples fell free and she pulled open the box’s top flap. She turned it upside down and held it over the table. Inside, something slid free and she heard a thud as the contents hit the wooden table. She lifted the box, put it to one side, and for the third time in her adult life, held a book in her hands.

Next door, there was further applause as a new contestant took to the stage.

Ann stood, the book still in her hands, and walked towards the back door. As she turned the key, she ran her eyes across the book’s cover. She stepped into the yard with her eyes still fixed on it. Six men dressed in colourful robes rode horses past an old looking castle. Above, the words read ‘The Canturbury Tales.’ She traced the title with one finger and felt a sting as a final tear pushed its way free and down her cheek.

The snow crunched beneath her feet once more as she walked towards the incinerator.

In her head, she heard a voice that was not her own. Neither was it the man on the telephone, but perhaps a mixture of the two.

Read it. Read it and live more in a night than those fools next door will in a lifetime.

Her hands were shaking again.

She flicked the switch on the side of the metal drum and opened its door. The incinerator shook for a moment, then began to hum. Inside, an orange light flickered to life, lighting the kindling inside.

Read it.

She looked back towards the kitchen door, then over the fence towards her neighbour’s house. Music still blasted from inside, interrupted by occasional laughter and cheering. Nobody would see. Nobody would know.

She waited for the incinerator to reach full blaze, her heart thumping so hard in her chest that it began to hurt. What if they came? What if they burnt her home and took her away like they took her father? She could taste the kerosene on her lips again.

Despite the freezing night air, she soon felt waves of heat coming from the furnace. It was almost hot enough.

She looked at the book, bit down on her lip, and thumbed the cover open. A few pages opened with it, leaving her on one which bore the title “The Wife of Bath's Tale.”

Read it. Read it. Read it.

The heat from the furnace was near unbearable as she turned and stared into the flames .

There was no choice. There was never a choice.

She tore a handful of pages from the book and threw them into the fire. Again and again she tore and threw. Each handful was like a shard of her soul burning before her until nothing remained but the cover.

With a final sob, she ripped it in half and pitched it too into the blaze.

She shut the incinerator door, and looked across her yard. A set of footsteps walked a snowy path from the kitchen door to a clear circle where the snow had melted.

Next door, the music played and once again her neighbours cheered.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

The box


The box sat silently on the desk top. A small white cardboard oblong, tied with string, looking curiously old-fashioned on the shiny wood grain surface. Angie stared at it at first, this neat foreign object among the otherwise chaotic detritus of her workstation. It wasn’t there a minute ago. She was sure. She put down her steaming coffee and eyed the package suspiciously. She didn’t touch it or pick it up; her nerves were already jangling with thoughts of the previous night. Foreign objects appearing on her work surface were not what she needed today. She looked around the office, then glanced out the door through the safety glass of the counter to the glazed front door. Yes, it was still locked. She could see leaves skidding past on the footpath outside, but no passers by braved the ripping wind and horizontal rain this early. The bell above the door, which rang to warn that someone wanted entry, remained silent. No one could get in without being buzzed in, anyway. She was safe.

She glanced back at the parcel, this small, neat, harmless thing. Why did such an innocent box send a weird shiver up along her back? Perhaps she was just stressed and imagining things, and it had been there all the time. She hadn’t slept, after all. Hadn’t even showered before work, in fact. She had left the house hours ago, because waiting around for news wasn’t helping; she needed to do something. After pointlessly walking through the park in the pouring rain, and dawdling among the taxi drivers in the coffee house downtown, she had come here. She needed to keep things regular, to stick to her routine. She had keyed the alarm, checked that the CCTV was recording, and gone to make coffee. She was always security conscious, especially so today. There hadn’t been anything unusual about the place when she came in, but now here was this box.

She picked it up. It was light. No label. No name. Just a plain white cardboard rectangle, with ordinary string tied in a neat little knot. She turned it over as if looking for a clue hidden on it somewhere.

Ping.

Her phone. Jesus, it had made her jump. She felt around in her pocket and found the silver X6, a gift from the boss. Maybe it was Joe. Her heart thumped as she unlocked the screen and the New Message opened. ‘Please, let it be finished’, she thought. But no, just a reminder from the drycleaners that shirts had to be picked up. As she set the phone down beside the box, her hands shook.

She looked around the desk at the clutter of post it notes, scrap jewellery, pawn dockets and various letters. At the back of the desk, hidden beneath a shelf, was the hook that held the key to the locked cabinet, the one that contained the knives and other expensive or dangerous toys, things that had been pawned at one time or another when money was more important to the owner than a switchblade. A jolt went through her. She had used that key last night, and she knew she had replaced it carefully. Now, the cabinet key was gone. Something was definitely not right. She got up and walked to the display of steel blades and crude looking tools of rage. Was anything else missing? She couldn’t tell.

This was not good. With the skin on the back of her neck prickling, Angie looked around for other signs of disturbance. Someone had to have been here, and the only other person with access to this office was Ron. Today, even thinking his name made her edgy. Ron the Con. Her boss, the hard man, the criminal. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself. Ron had been ok, you know. Mostly, he ignored her, as was his way. As long as the work was done and the money put in the safe, he had pretty much let her run the show here. Sure, he got a bit leery some days, when he’d had a pint with his lunch and was feeling kind of loose in the afternoons. He would find reasons to lean over her shoulder, or touch her as he reached for something on her desk, his breath hot on her neck. He wasn’t her type, about thirty years too old for a start, and all nasal hair and mid life hormones. Harmless though, Angie had dealt with worse. So what if she let him cop a grope now and again when he had a few, it kept him happy, and he was generous when he was happy. How he had got such a tough reputation, Angie couldn’t fathom. He trusted her; he let his guard down, silly fool. Angie had taken advantage of him being distracted by her curves. If the randy oaf was going to get drunk at midday and ogle her boobs, or fall asleep in his office, that was his problem. He deserved to be conned. She had got away with her scam for ages. He hadn’t noticed the missing dockets, or that the takings had fallen. Taking candy from a snoozing baby, it was. He only ever stuck his head in to interfere anyway, and when he did she knew how to get rid of him. Angie was the one who ran things in this hockshop, so really, she deserved her own little kickback, didn’t she? Ron had his fancy Merc and his liquid lunches with the boys, after all. Yeah, he had a rep for being a hard man, but she was a hard girl. She could handle him.

Though lately, Angie realised that her little dip in the till each day had climbed to quite a sum. It was getting noticeable. And sleepy Ron had begun getting a bit too interested in his business. He may have been a horny old dog, but he wasn’t stupid. This financial hole that Angie had put herself in was a bit to big for him to miss if he had really looked, and flirting with him wouldn’t help if he did. So she couldn’t ever let him look. Ron would not be the sort to let the police sort stuff like this out, that would go against his moral code. He had friends in low places to deal with it. But then, so did Angie; Angie had Joe.

She had known Joe her whole life, they shared a loyalty that counted for something. He was a useful man to know, this indestructible brute, with his inked knuckles festooned with gold rings. He liked his bling, did Joe. A large effeminate diamond stud decorated the lobe of his left ear, but the last man to mock him for it didn’t hear too well through his ears, anymore. Joe had always struck her as a bit of a muscly thug with not much going on upstairs, a bit of a dim bulb, really, but he was good when it came to cruelty and force with no questions asked. Joe feared very few things, and in his straightforward style he would sort this mess out for her, if she asked him the right way. Angie knew the right way: money. Money and violence were the only things Joe really understood. And she understood them well enough too. She knew where Ron kept his stash that the taxman couldn’t touch. The proper money he made, under the radar. It was much more than her petty scam could ever gain. A nice amount, worth taking risks for, even if split two ways. And violence was her only way to get it.

But now, here in the shop in the cold light of day, staring at this mystery box, Angie didn’t feel so sure about it all anymore. Things weren’t right. She hadn’t heard from Joe since yesterday, he should have phoned already. She tugged at the knot on the box, and it came undone easily, the string loosening and falling away from the package. She fumbled with the lid, it was stiff against the underside, and didn’t want to come away. All the while her heartbeat seemed to rise into her throat and her palms were clammy. The lid finally loose, all she could see inside the box was a piece of crumpled paper. It was packing for something, clearly. She gingerly pulled it from the box; it took a moment to uncrumple the paper and reveal its contents, a single large glittery stud earring.

As the jigsaw pieces of recognition began to fit together, she read the two words written on the wrinkled paper: Nice Try.

Her phone vibrated on the desk in front of her and began to ring. Angie startled at the sudden noise. She stared at the number on the screen; it was the throwaway number from the sim she had given Joe. ‘Oh, god’, she thought. ‘Let it be him’.

She picked up the mobile, and put it to her ear slowly, as she hit the call button. Her instincts were telling her this was all wrong. This box in front of her didn’t make sense. She needed to hear Joe’s voice. She needed to hear it had all worked out.

‘Hey, bitch, I think we need to talk’.

The realisation that Ron’s voice hadn’t come just from the phone, but also from behind her, only struck Angie at the same time as his hand reached around and covered her mouth. And by that time, it was too late.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Ann

Mist rippled across calm water. She sat in the damp stones at the waters edge and peeled off her tights, left leg first, then right, before neatly folding the nylon into a shimmering cube. Her coat slipped from her shoulders. A breath of wind ruffled the water’s surface. She rose, dipped her toes under the water’s surface and gasped. Her skirts started to trail on the water’s surface. A rippling dragged behind her. The front of her dress clung damply to her legs. She turned to me, laughing, unable to see me between the beams of the car headlights.

“Come in, it’s cold but it’s magnificent.”

I took another drag from my cigarette. She kept wading further in, arms above her head with pirouetting grace.

“Come on, you’ll love it.”

I held my breath then exhaled slowly through my mouth, savouring the smoke a second time. Each step heightened my thrill. The lake bottom dropped away, and the air trapped in her skirt billowed as she fell deeply into a pocket of water. I watched her do this from the shoreline, my eyes trailed along behind her like the fabric now clinging to her arms and face.

Sometimes a little manipulation can be a good thing. Her baptism was almost complete. I could see her arms struggle against the hug of her clothing, muffled panic reached me in brief blasts of sound. I watched her dance in the water, wondering if anything more beautiful could exist. Her struggle was glorious in its futility. The feeling of ultimate power thickened my throat. I breathed faster, plumes of steam and smoke rising from my open mouth. I called softly to her.

“Ann, can you hear me? Let me know if you can hear me. I can’t see you Ann, where are you? Are you ok?”

Her shrieks rose in pitch. She thought I was trying to save her. What a funny little girl she is. I found myself turning from the scene momentarily to look for my lighter, I’m sure it was in one of these pockets. My left hand returned empty, but in the right is the slim wooden box I left on Ann’s desk earlier this morning. I really must commend the Chinese, they are master craftsmen. Its silky lacquer hums under my slightly sticky forefinger. I drummed on it twice with my fingernails and then put it back. It had served its purpose for today.

“Oh Ann, I do hope you’re ok” I sighed.

I repressed a giggle. It would be unseemly, unprofessional. I could see her bob close to the surface, a dull mound in the midst of the rippling water.

I’m Charlie, by the way. I am an equaliser. We are rare these days, but a few of us still work the old circuits, keeping the traditional methods alive. Society has developed its own equalisers, making us virtually redundant – excess is the greatest of all. Nothing hurts as badly as a fall from the very top, as the boss repeatedly tells us.

I’d hate to say I laugh at the old sod, but the truth hurts. Then again, he might have something in that one.

Some background information on Ann, before we go much further: Ann’s family are wealthy. Not stinking rich, otherwise they’d already be well acquainted with the boss, but recklessly well off in a good, honest way. Ann is the youngest of six, five girls and a boy. That boy is a sickly, god-fearing simpleton if I ever saw one. Ann, however, was different. She had pizzazz, chutzpah, zing – the girl had style. She could weave her way through crowds and have them part like oceans for her. She never worked a day in her life, regardless of the job title. When she found the box on her desk, she didn’t even question it – obviously a gift from an admirer, she had had several recently. They say the devil is in the detail – well those devils are the equalisers. Ann never questioned any aspect of her life, that’s how the boss knew she’d be perfect.

We have big plans for Ann. We just had to get her to our side first. That’s where I came in.

I have somewhat of a reputation for the soft sell. Ann was no fool, but she had a taste for the finer things, and she was damned if her tastes were going to be neglected for anything. That drive, well, that only helped me if I’m honest. Ann’s family have always had something the boss wanted. Their purity of spirit was like a homing beacon or magnet, the boss kept dancing around it. What was worse, each time he saw Ann it was like someone had sucker-punched him. That girl weaves a spell on him like you wouldn’t believe. Even the guy upstairs underestimated her draw. It’s too late for that now though, I have her. I’ve been working on that little grain of malice and evil we all have in us with her for weeks, and she’ll never pass the entry requirements upstairs.

There’s very little genuine magic left in the world. We mined most of it years ago to get us through the French revolution. I told the middle and upper management at the time that it would be a costly mistake, but I was young and they thought I was just green. We mainly make do with smokescreens and fancy mirror work these days. Ann didn’t need any of that hokey. She was astute, she knew how the world clicked together. She was a bit of a talker though, we’ll have to work on that once we dry her out and get her down to the basement. As always, she was a bit vain. That’s not even listed as a mandatory requirement anymore, it’s so implicit when we’re given the task.

Desire does funny things to people. The boss will do almost anything to get Ann. With Ann’s corruption comes the corruption of her entire family. I can taste the tang of that success on my tongue, and I wonder how much it must really mean to the boss if it’s that pungent to me. Their drippy positivity and dedication to good will be especially palatable to him in light of the fact that they wanted her upstairs before we got to work on her. It does him good to feel the success of victory occasionally.

My desire is overwhelming too. I wasn’t lying when I said that Ann is, or should I say was, really something. Not only intelligent, funny and accepting, but easily moulded too – my perfect woman.

Just between the two of us, Ann won’t be going all the way to the bottom. I’d be foolish to give something so precious away without a fight. Instead, we’ll be finding a placid middle ground, somewhere I can take a break and get the rest of my plan together. Before she’s fully dried out she’ll be a bit malleable mentally, a bit of a golem.

The mist rises and flows towards my hands, outstretched to the lake. Ann drifts on the mist, precious cargo suspended on low lying cloud, and is placed in my arms. I hold her closely and whisper to her “You’re home now.”

Don’t take me for a fool! This isn’t Twilight, no fairytale prince will come to rescue her now. I’m serious about holding her in the middle ground, a political hostage if you will. Let the heavens and earth collide, Ann is the fulcrum on which they pivot. I am merely doing the job I have been commissioned to do. I play music softly in the car, as I prepare to leave Ann’s lifeless body drifting and floating on the edge of the shoreline. Within hours she will be found, and the public outrage will fuel a duel between the heavens and hell that has been unforeseen. Even the most imaginative cannot fathom it. There’s an air of prophesy in that.

Reluctantly, I take the lacquered box from my pocket and place it in Ann’s hand, awaiting discovery in the cold winter morning that will spell the next chapter in Ann’s existence.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Ann stepped off the lift and walked into the office. She passed Gretchen's desk and noticed that she was still wearing that ridiculous hat. That would be the topic of smoke break one. Jenny hadn't arrived yet so Ann sat down and got her cigarettes ready. Dropping her lighter onto her desk Ann noticed the box for the first time. It was about the same size as a Rubiks cube, only made out of shiny wood. She picked it up and shook it, something was inside. She set it back down and was trying to figure out where it had come from when her phone rang. It was Jenny. She answered it "Hi, are you not coming in today?" she asked. She paused as Jenny spoke, her mouth spread into a smile "Shut up!" she said. Jenny sounded totally panicked, she was really throwing herself into this one. "Alright, alright" said Ann through her giggles, "I'll do it now." She reached out, took the lid off the box and lifted it up to look inside. What she saw made her scream and drop the box back onto the desk. "For God's sake" said Jenny as she tumbled out onto the mouse mat, "I told you to be careful."

Ann clapped both hands to her mouth as Jenny stood up and brushed herself off. She was no more than 2 inches tall but she was spitting mad. "Thanks Ann" she said waving a broken mobile phone at her "I can't afford to get this fixed until next month." Ann was too shocked to speak. She reached out a finger and gingerly poked Jenny in the stomach. "For God's sake" said Jenny "I need your help so you'd better get your head around this." "But what happened?" said Ann "Why are you so small?" "I have no idea," said Jenny "I got in the lift last night and I don't remember anything else. Someone must have shrunk me." "I don't know," said Ann "Who would do someth..." "Mary." said Jenny, stamping her little foot for emphasis "Its exactly the type of thing she'd do."

Mary did have the look of someone who would hold a grudge alright. It was something Ann and Jenny discussed a lot during their cigarette breaks. "She just has that type of face, you know?" Jenny would say, pausing to take a drag. "She has a real bitchy look about her."

Mary was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when Ann appeared beside her. Normally she would use this opportunity to make a comment about people using too much purfume but she didn't want to start off on the wrong foot. She moved a little closer and placed the box on the work top. Mary looked down at it briefly but said nothing. "Its interesting isn't it?" said Ann. Mary smiled and went back to studying the kettle. "Have you seen anything like it before?" asked Ann. "Well" said Mary "Its a box." "No" said Ann, leaving a pause for dramatic effect "Its not any old box. But then I think you know that, don't you?" Mary looked at her in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand" she said. "Don't you?" asked Ann, trying to fill her voice with menace. "No" said Mary.

"What was that?" asked Jenny as she climbed out of Ann's handbag "you totally blew it. Now she knows we're onto her." "I don't know" said Ann, chewing her lip "I really don't think it was her, she didn't have a clue what I was talking about." Jenny sat down next to the keyboard and looked out the window. "It was someone in this office, but who else would do this?" As she was pondering this Jim walked past. Ann watched as he loaded the printer with paper. "Jim" she muttered. "Creepy Jim" said Jenny, her head turning towards him.

"Jim!" called Ann from her desk. He sighed and made his way over. "Could you help us out for a minute?" she asked. Jim looked over her shoulder to Jenny's empty desk and then looked back at Ann. He was about to say something when he felt a sharp jab on the back of his hand. He looked down to see Jenny gripping a pencil in both hands. She prodded his hand again before hissing "Thats right, I'm down here." Jim grabbed his hand and rolled his chair back a few inches "What the hell?" he said. But before he could say any more Jenny ran along the desk towards him. "You'd better fix this Jim" she said "because I swear to God if you don't I'm going to HR." Jim's mouth dropped open. "I can't fix this" he said "I wouldn't have a clue where to start." He rubbed his hand "But..." the girls looked at him hopefully "if you want I could log it with the helpdesk."

Jenny sat at the back of the desk with her knees drawn up to her chest. She looked defeated. "Oh hey, I know what will cheer you up" said Ann "Gretchen was wearing her hat again today." She saw a tiny smile appear on Jenny's face. "The fur one?" she asked in a small voice. "No" said Ann "the tall black pointy one that you love." Jenny's head snapped up.

"Hello there" said a small voice. "Gretchen looked up from her work to see a 2 inch high figure standing beside her coffee cup. "You're not as surprised as I thought you'd be" said Ann as she moved Gretchen's broomstick aside and edged closer. "What's going on?" asked Gretchen. "Thats what I'd like to know" said Jenny, planting her hands on her hips. "I got into the lift last night and this morning I woke up in a box." "Shrunk" added Ann. "Well" said Gretchen scratching her long nose with a green finger "that is odd." The three of them exchanged looks for a moment. "Aren't you going to say anything else?" asked Ann. Gretchen looked confused. "Aren't you going to change me back?" asked Jenny, her face redenning.

"Wait a minute" said Gretchen "you think I did this?" She pushed her chair back, clanking it against her cauldron. "You know what this is?" she said loudly "its racism."

A number of heads turned towards them. "Hey, hey" said Ann "lets not go down this route" "Then why do you think its me?" asked Gretchen. Ann scuffed her shoes against each other and said "Well somebody shrunk Jenny, and you're...." she couldn't finish the sentance. The people nearby looked from one to the other. "I'm what?" asked Gretchen. Ann and Jenny looked at each other. "You know what?" said Ann "this is just a misunderstanding." Gretchen looked down at Jenny. They stared at each other for a moment until Jenny's resolve broke. "Thats right, a misunderstanding" she said.

Ann sat at her desk, the box sitting in front of her like it had that morning. Around her, people were starting to leak away for the day. Mary walked past her desk leaving a trail of perfume wafting behind her. "Does she shower in it?" asked Ann, hoping for a response from Jenny. But the only response she got was from Mary who spun around and walked back towards her. "What was that?" she asked. "Oh nothing" said Ann "I'm just talking to...myself." She paused awkwardly. Mary eyed the box and made a grab for it. "This belongs to me" she said, stuffing it into her bag. She turned and swished out the door. "I knew it" shouted Jenny, running out towards Ann "I knew it was her." Ann watched the closed door, unsure of what to do. "What a bitch" she said.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Each Thing in its Place

Ann's mobile rang just as she glided over the threshold into her office. In a well-practiced dance she kicked off her Pradas and slipped off her Givenchy overcoat with scarcely a ripple in her decaf skinny soy cappuccino. She checked the time. It was two. He was supposed to ring at one.

“And?” she said, snatching the phone to her ear.

“The photographer's late,” James sighed, the bustle of the studio floor echoing behind his voice on the other end.

“How late?” Ann asked, her chest tightening.

“Another hour, maybe two.”

“Jesus,” she rolled her eyes, “What is it about a little snow that people forget how to drive?”

“Relax, Ann,” James replied calmly. She narrowed her eyes. He was lucky to be across town, she thought. If he'd said that to her face, she'd have melted his off him with a torrent of invective. Call it a 'trigger'.

“Have you looked outside lately?” he continued, “It's absolute mayhem – I'm dreading the trip tonight. My poor Ronnie's down with flu, and I don't even know how I'm getting everyone up to the grandparents for the long weekend.”

“You should be so lucky,” she said with a hint of laughter, but not a trace of humour, “Just have the proofs on my desk by six.”

She held the phone away while he rattled off his usual litany of assurances. Then she noticed something.

“...even if I have to pose myself, I'll –”

“James,” she said abruptly. He stopped dead. “What's this package?” she asked.

“Package?”

“Yes,” she said, “The one on my desk with no label...” She stepped closer to the well-worn cardboard box sitting square in the middle of her desk. There was something off about it. She sniffed. “The one that smells of sick,” she said, turning away with a grimace.

“I have no idea Ann, honestly. I'll check with Pete in receiving, and let you –”

“Do,” she said, stabbing a manicured nail into the end call button, adding as an afterthought to the dead connection: “Please.” Taking another glance at the box, she tossed her coat on the hook and headed back into the hall to see about getting it removed.

* * * * *

Between studio and location shoots, the holidays looming, and the general nightmare of navigating the city during a blizzard, the office was a wasteland. Ann peered into every office and cubicle she passed, finding only stacks of half-finished layouts and bylines, all thoroughly marked by her trusty red pen. Having nearly completed the circuit back to her office, Ann's face began to flush red. Regardless of circumstance, there were deadlines to meet, and she was beginning to suspect she was the only one who could be bothered.

Finally she came to James's office, right beside her own. At least he had an excuse, she thought, wondering how the shoot was going as she sauntered in the open door. Plucking some papers from his desk, she relished the familiar texture of the office letterhead – a fine weight, a crisp feel, and a silky off-white sheen. She'd chosen it well.

Ann turned to the door. The pages fluttered in her hand as it brushed something cold and hard at the edge of James's desk. Glancing over, she saw a picture frame teetering on the edge, lunging just in time to avert catastrophe. Planting the picture firmly on his desk, Ann's eyes glided over the smiling faces staring back at her through the frame. She never got to see James like that any more, she thought. Not since the promotion. Not since he'd found... her.

She smoothed over the crinkled pages in her hand as she counted off the steps back to her office. Scanning the rows of empty desks, a thought struck her. To most of them this was just a job. A temporary inconvenience. But for her, this was it. There was no one to go home to at the holidays, no vacation, nothing. This was her life.

As her thoughts drifted to the bottle tucked neatly in her bottom drawer, a piercing, unfamiliar sound echoed from her office. She stopped and listened, detecting nothing but the drone of fluorescent lamps and the air recirculation system. The sound echoed from her doorway again. This time it continued, drilling into her brain like a Texas oilfield.

Ann couldn't believe what she was hearing. A baby crying? Impossible. She dashed into her office, trying to locate the source of the offending racket. The sheer volume of it made her dizzy; it seemed to be coming from right beside her. Yet everything in her office was in order, exactly as she'd left it: exactly as it had been the day before. Except for one thing.

Cautiously, she approached the box. The sound grew louder. Placing an ear as near the battered cardboard as she could bear, she quickly pulled away again. That was it. She made a quick circuit around her desk as she pondered what to do. It was about the right size for a baby, she supposed, and it did smell terrible. But how did it get here? Whose was it? How long had it been sealed up in that wretched box, and what on earth would she do once she'd opened it?

Her mind racing, she scored a line into the packing tape with a fingernail. The cries stopped as suddenly as they'd started. Ann stood back, stunned. As the ringing in her ears subsided, she briefly heard cooing in the distance, and then nothing. She hefted the box gently. It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it should have been. It had to be a joke, she thought. Maybe a tape recorder or some other contraption. She picked it up and shook the box more vigorously: not so much as a rattle. Setting the box on the floor, she slumped into the chair behind her desk and threw open the bottom drawer.

* * * * *

When James blew back at the office in a gust of arctic air, Ann was still lost in her work. She scarcely looked up as he dropped off the proofs for the day's shoot and discreetly scuttled back into the frigid night without a word. Thumbing over the pages approvingly, Ann glanced up to the space on her top shelf reserved for her next award.

Yet the incident earlier still gnawed at her, even after immersing herself in the business at hand, with a dose of gin besides. The box sat exactly where she'd left it, not emitting another sound, but presenting a mystery she simply hadn't the time to unravel. But with the proofs in hand, and the day's business nearly concluded, Ann finally relented.

Taking up the box, she cleared a space on her desk and set it down gingerly. She inspected every crease and stain, looking for any clue to its origin. Worrying a nail into the mark she'd make earlier, she slit open the tape sealing one edge.

Prising it open, a faint odour of peanut butter and burnt toast wafted out. Ann looked closely at the opening, shocked to find a light emanating from inside the box. Peering into the slit, she fully expected to see the same weathered cardboard, perhaps with a pungent smear of unpleasantness soaking into the bottom flaps.

Instead, she found herself peering out on a chaotic domestic idyll of tacky porcelain and children's toys screened by a haphazard web of tinsel and string lights. At first there was silence, but gradually she heard the sound of tiny footsteps thumping closer, followed by a shrill scream brimming with exuberance:

“Daddy's home!” a little girl shouted in a blur flashing across the scene. Ann followed it to a surprisingly familiar figure: James. Now perched on his arm sat a snuffling little girl, swaddled in pink pyjamas and bunny slippers. A smile crossed his face, identical to the one in his photo. Ann's gut wrenched. She wanted to pull away before... before she showed up.

“How was your day, dear?” a familiar voice called. Wait, Ann thought. That wasn't her voice. That wasn't James's wife. That was –

Ann's brain sparked like a blown fuse as the speaker became visible. It was Ann herself, but denuded of the confidence and style she'd come to pride herself on. The woman walked over to James and he embraced her tenderly, before she scuttled back to some quiet domestic toil, leaving James to imperiously narrate the events of his day. Ann pulled away from the box, her head reeling.

Ann took another look around her office, at her awards and accolades and all that she'd built and worked for. Then she looked back at the box – a sad, soiled article cluttering her desk – and pondered what to do with it. When she finally picked it up it was light as a feather. She hoisted it up to the empty space on her top shelf without difficulty and, dusting her hands, Ann set back to work in earnest.

Phantasos

VERSION 4

I voted for 1 and 3, but honestly they were all really great! Such diversity!

Story 1:
Loved the Sliding Doors idea of how a split second can change the events of a person's day/life. Love how Ann conveys her anger in one outcome, while you can feel it bubbling beneath the surface in the other one. Great idea.

Story 3:
Liked the dystopian world where TV and celebrity culture have taken over. The suspense was killing me and I was thinking "OH MY GOD OPEN THE BOX ALREADY!" and you really drew me in.

Story 6:
While I didn't vote for this one, I thought it was utterly ridiculous in a funny way - very Alice in Wonderland. Good job!

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Fantastic level of story this time around! I dithered a bit before going with versions 2 and 3. Each of these stories was gripping in its own way but these two had that extra level of tension.

Version 1 - A neat trick, and I had to re-read it to get it when I got to the last paragraph and understood the importance of the formatting. The scenario is recognisable to anyone who's worked in a call-centre as were the minor characters. Well captured

Version 2 - I loved this one. The style, the story, the main character all felt really professional and I was all set to pick this as an outright winner before even reading on...

Version 3 - ...which would have been a bit silly, I realised, about 800 words into this as breathed for the first time. This one perfectly caught the "what's in the fuсking box??" theme and the slow revelation of the caller being the good guy was perfectly executed.

Version 4 - nice enough story and well-written but the ending was fairly predictable and not quite shocking enough (I don't think I was the only one expecting a head ). Suffered a bit from being placed after the previous two.

Version 5 - you lost me after the third instance of "the water's surface" in the first paragraph. Try as I might I couldn't quite make sense of what the story was about thereafter. I wanted to like this for its macabre, psychodrama tone but ultimately I was just left confused.

Version 6 - a nice bit of comic relief while tackling the thorny subject of casual racism and the sad reality of superdiminutisation. I felt the end disappointed a bit and if there had been a few more jokes this would have stood out more as a contender (Mary could have been a 'contractor' for example, or Ann could have been in sessions with Jenny's psychiatrist ('I saw her shrink')...).

Version 7 - I think I may have missed something on the first read of this but I didn't pick up on it during the second either. Was the box real in some partly-magical universe? Was it her imagination? A drink-fuelled psychosis? I've a feeling I should have enjoyed this more than I did, if that makes sense.

Hrududu

VERSION 4

I voted for number 3. I really liked the world that was painted and the tension that was evoked in such a short space of time. When I finished it I wanted to know more about the main character and the world she lived in. Great story.

The first couple of paragraphs of story 5 really sucked me in and I was really enjoying it. But then it seemed to change tack and I'm not really sure I got what it was about. The mention of Twilight at the end threw me a bit. But I really liked the picture painted in the first couple of paragraphs.

Oryx

VERSION 4

Every story above is beautifully written. So for me this time the vote came down to whether the story grabbed me or not.

Some, like number 5, drew me in immediately, but then I really lost track of what was going on. Yes, I figured it was the eternal battle between good and evil, and some of the phrases were clever, but the story was confusing in parts and trying to figure it out pulled me out of the story.

Number 7 I just didnt get what was meant by the scene in the box. I didnt fully get what Ann felt about it. Lucky escape or secret aspiration? I would have preferred to see her get sucked in and trapped there if she hated it.

The others were clever, but for whatever reason the stories didnt leave me with a smile or feeling shocked, or emotional really, which the best ones always do.

So Im only voting for one, and thats number 3. This was the one where I was speed reading down the page going 'cmon! whats in the box!' The suspense was beautifully created and then satisfied with the conclusion. Touches of V for Vendetta about it, but still, a wonderfully tense tale.

Insect Overlord

VERSION 6

I voted for stories 3, 5 and 7.

Version 3:
Has a realistic, dystopian feel to it. Reminded me of 1984 (Orwell) and The Vandal (Ann Schlee). The suspense was nicely built and the heroine was convincing.

Version 5:
Atmospheric, with a decent descriptive opening paragraph (I'm willing to forgive the trio of "water's surfaces" even if Pickarooney isn't ) Gives an interesting background to each character. Falls down in its deviation from from the theme, with the complete absence of a phone-call or even a reference to a telephone. I like the magical twist though.

Version 7
Was on its way towards being my favourite with its strong opening section. Some parallels between Ann and Glen Close's character in The Devil Wears Prada. I found it well-written, and I reckon it was probably edited/polished at least once. However, the twist in the middle disappointed me. I'm no feminist, but I found Ann's fall from powerful and successful entrepreneur to sad alcoholic who longed to have been a housewife off-putting.

Version 3 is my top pick, with 5 and 7 getting honorable mentions for being well put-together.

Blush_01

VERSION 7

I actually loved 6. It charmed me. Cute twist too! It was the one I really remembered, having gone away and come back.

There are some great stories there though!

Next time I enter, I'm writing with enough time to edit, and not just flinging it on a PM without re-reading. I'm looking at mine and kicking myself for the basic, stupid mistakes. Apologies everyone!

angelll

VERSION 7

I loved 6&7. Six a bit more but had to vote for seven too. I guess personal taste accounts for a lot but for the rest
Number 1-I really didn't get it...what was with the cat? I didn't get why the last line was sort of repeated,but then again i didn't understand why it was there in the first place..Maybe there was too much detail for someone that hasn't worked in a call centre,i hadn't a clue what half of it meant.
Number 2-It was a nice little story,but a bit boring. I was waiting for her to answer the phone and it would be someone telling her her appt was cancelled as the woman had died,meaning she had developed psychic powers and was seeing a ghost...
Number 3-I really didn't get it either? Who was the guy,why was she so terrified of the canturbury tales? I thought maybe it was a future society that had banned books but the fact that her fellow employees had posters from magazines up messed up that theory.
Number 4-I liked this story,it just me a few mins to 'get' what had happened iykwim. I had to reread a few times.
Number 5-Interesting...but was squashed into too few words i think,would do better as a longer story.
Number 6-just loved it,so funny! Would love to read more.
Number 7-Did enjoy it,loved that the box was showing what could have been if her life had gone another way...and the fact that she understood what it was and ignored it

pickarooney

VERSION 4

angelll wrote: »

Number 1-I really didn't get it...
Number 3-I really didn't get it either?
Number 4-I liked this story,it just me a few mins to 'get' what had happened iykwim. I had to reread a few times.

Bit of a theme developing there

angelll

VERSION 7

:eek: U calling me slow??? Feck off,lol. I just thought the others were harder to 'get' !

fona

VERSION 4

I voted for 3. I loved the view on the dystopian future revolving around the cult of celebrity. I thought the writing kept the tension going beautifully. I found myself reading faster and faster to get to the reveal of the situation.

I was initially going to vote for 5 too. The story intrigued me at the start but I thought the end was too quickly laid out. Maybe better fare for a longer story?

Antilles

I voted for 7. Will post my reviews after voting ends

--amadeus--

VERSION 4

Another vote for 3. Interesting how many of the stories had a threat or something ominous in the box. Cheerful lot, aren't we!

Wantobe

VERSION 5

I voted for 3 and 4.
I didn’t understand version 1 until near the end, then I went back and re-read it. Good idea and nicely written but lacked that extra bit.
Really liked the way version 2 was written, the ending fell down a little but found it well written and interesting.
Version 3 was probably the best complete story and a good idea. I voted for this.
Version 4 got a vote, thought it was very well written and a great story.
Version 5 had some fantastic sentences and descriptions but didn’t have enough story.
Version 6 was quite funny, I liked the humour and it was well written, again not quite enough story there

Mr E

VERSION 4

1 and 3 for me.

As said by others, the sliding doors theme of the first one was very clever, and it was well written.

The first time I read 3, I read it faster and faster just to see what was in the flippin' box.
(Then I read it again properly!)

Well done to all... some great variety.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Poll is closed and it'll be no surprise to anyone that version 3 has won in a landslide.
Now, should I announce the winner or wait until he's on line?

Oryx

VERSION 4

pickarooney wrote: »

Poll is closed and it'll be no surprise to anyone that version 3 has won in a landslide.
Now, should I announce the winner or wait until he's on line?

He he. Clever. You really let the cat out the box with that one.

Congrats to the winner on a pretty convincing victory.

Mr E

VERSION 4

Congrats Antilles.

--amadeus--

VERSION 4

Congrats

Antilles

Thanks everyone Quite surpised my story did as well as it did!

Oryx

VERSION 4

Well done again.


Can I just say thanks to Wantobe. Saved me from the disgrace of nul points. Mine was box number 4.

pickarooney

VERSION 4

Congratulations Antilles. A well-deserved win and one of the best stories to have been entered in VOAT.

--amadeus--

VERSION 4

Yep, a well crafted story and worthy winner.

I did story 1, not sure what to think of the sliding doors comparisons, I hated that film! I think I tried to be too geeky clever (Erwin Schrodinger was the Austrian physicist who created the quantum cat in a box paradox) at the expense of writing an actual story. Ah well, live and learn!

Phantasos

VERSION 4

Well done Antilles!

Mine was Story 2, the tarot reader with the guilty conscience.