Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25477067-20150302182845

This is my rough draft of a story. The main idea behind it is that the man wakes up each morning on the last day of someone else's life, but he doesn't know it. I tried to do it here, but I think t came off ham-handed and clumsy. Please help me rewrite this to flow better together.

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I woke up feeling strange. Not bad, per say, just...strange. Something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt as though I had gotten a haircut. Different. It was strange, but the feeling soon passed. I washed up in the bathroom and went to get a cup of coffee. I wandered into the living room instead. I shook my head in confusion, then turned around. There was the kitchen. God, I was getting so absent-minded. I walked into the kitchen and looked around for the coffee maker. It had mysteriously vanished. As I searched, I got angrier and angrier. My grandson must’ve been messing with it again. How many times had I told him, it was NOT a toy! I was about to haul off and just kick the shit out of the kitchen when I noticed it, neatly tucked away, cord wrapped around the base, above the refrigerator. That ruled out my grandson, there was no way he could've managed to get it all the way up there. I lugged it back down and plugged it in. turned around, and tried to get a bowl. I started to get scared when I opened my cupboards. My entire inventory had been rearranged. The bowls were on the top shelf, next to the pink china cups and the cups were hanging on small hooks in the next cupboard over. I grabbed a cup and drank a quick cup of coffee. As I pondered the developments, A strange sense of familiarity came over me. Of course the cups were there. They had always been there. And the coffee maker was always put away every time my niece came to visit because she played with it too much. I chuckled, drank the last dregs of my coffee and grabbed the keys to my car. I walked out to the parking lot and tried to unlock my car. I clicked the “unlock” button several times, but my car wouldn’t respond. Only the car next to it would respond. The red Toyota became a lot more familiar suddenly, but this time I remained aware. What in the name of all that is holy was going on? First my rooms, now my car, what was next? I got into my red car and drove in a daze to the front gate. I flashed my ID card at the security guard and he wasted no time in opening the gate. However, before I left, he said something very troubling to me: “G'morning, Mr. Johnson.”



I slammed on the brakes and looked at him with an accusing stare. My last name was certainly not Johnson. The guard looked at me in bewilderment and asked me if anything was wrong. I sighed, rubbed my temples and kept driving. Work was even stranger. Everyone at the office seemed to be pulling a prank on me. As I walked in, the secretary looked up and quipped, “Can I help you, Sir?”  I laughed without humor and just flashed my ID Card again. The secretary looked at it closely and then suspiciously said “Sir, are you okay?”



“I’m fine, just buzz me through, already.” I tiredly said.



“Sir, this isn’t an ID card.” she told me, already reaching under the table for the panic button.



I flipped the card over, and she was right. It was a retirement home’s picture card for one “Mr. James Johnson” I smiled nervously and started edging away. The clatter of the guards running down the hallway hit my ears and I sprinted for the door. I managed to escape. Hiding in a back alley, I wept as I looked down at my hands. They were old and wrinkly, not at all like my hands. At the same time, familiarity crept in. These WERE my hands, how stupid are you, James? Get a hold of yourself! I barely managed to keep my identity in the storm of foreign consciousness. I just kept repeating to myself “My name is Robert Turick, My name is Robert Turick! ” After a few minutes, the wave abated and I stumbled out of the alley.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;">

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#d9d9d9;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I went everywhere, did everything, but no matter what I did, friends of his or mine, saw me only as this “Mr. Johnson” I would scream at them, threaten them, try and trick them, but they honestly believed that Mr. James Johnson was standing there before them. I wept. I screamed. I yelled. They took me home in the back seat of an ambulance, thinking I was senile, insane or both. The last thing I remembered was the bus hitting us head on, filling the driver’s window and pulverizing the glass. Then there was a void. I floated for an eternity- or maybe 20 seconds- before snapping awake.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;">

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.38;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#d9d9d9;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I lay there in bed, looking up at the familiar walls I had known all my life. I blinked several times. I thought “Thank God. It was just a dream.” I got up, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and walked out into the living room. I dressed, drank some coffee and went off to work. On the way out, the guards stopped me for a few seconds to check my ID card. He smiled and nodded, then waved me through, tipping his hat and saying “Good morning, Mr. Smith.” <ac_metadata title="New Pasta: Skinwalker(unreviewed)"> </ac_metadata>