I’ve dreamed of launching an online version of a game called Pass the Story for years. What better time than now, when we’re stuck at home and in need of serious distraction?
For those of you who may have forgotten, Pass the Story involves having one person start a story and pass the baton to the next person, and then next, and the one after that. Your contribution must stem from the entry directly before it. Interactive storytelling at its finest!
The point is to see where the story goes with each person’s input, so please limit your contribution to a passage that’s not much longer than my lead (see below). You can contribute as many times as you want, but only after at least two other people have added to the story since you did.
The only other rules: Keep it clean in terms of language and sex, no violence, and be respectful to others. I reserve the right to delete any contributions I deem offensive. Also, by contributing to the Pass the Story game, you give me the right to publish your portion(s) of the story should the end result turn out to be surprisingly great. Of course, I would only claim authorship to any passages I wind up throwing in and to the lead.
That story lead actually happened to me during a six-week trip to Europe in 2017. The rest, whatever it winds up being, will immediately move this story from nonfiction to fiction.
So here goes. Drum roll, please. Your story lead launchpad:
Airport security had been heightened in anticipation of the pope’s 2017 visit to Lisbon. The Portuguese official studied my passport, flipped to the next page to see when I had landed on the continent, then paused. He looked again, then a third time before nodding to his passport control counterpart and holding out my passport for him to see.
What could be wrong? I wondered. Are they going to let me enter the country? And what happens if they don’t?
Finally, the officer handed the passport back to me. “You arrived in Paris almost twelve months from now, on April 29, 2018,” he said with the barest trace of a grin.
“That’s because I’m from the future,” I replied, offering him a wide American smile.
So there you go. Now it’s your turn. Take your imagination for a whirl, and let your fingers do a jig on your keyboard. Then come back for a return performance and see where this story dance has gone.
The officer glanced down at my comfy Star Wars socks I always wear when traveling.
Rolling and closing his eyes at the same time, he muttered under his breath, “Americans.”
I headed to get back bags, but not before looking back. We made direct eye contact, and the room became very still for what seemed like minutes, likely two or three seconds. Then I waved, chucked, and started to walk away again, yelling back, “Oh, if you only knew.”
As I was picking up my bag I noticed all of the bags were tagged with the letters CDG, and the date 042918 and I thought to myself, “if they only knew.”
If they knew, however, I’d be toast.
Hoisting the bag onto my shoulder I felt the strap dig into the skin next to my bra strap as sweat trickled down my rib cage. I knew I could keep my calm. I’’d done it before but it’d been a while.
As the doors slid open and the cool nigh air wafted around me I acknowledge to myself that the first hurdle was over but the real challenge was about to begin.
Or, had it already happened?
When the sleek, pristine Citrone glided up to the curb and the tinted window quietly slid halfway down, I knew this time, whatever the hell time it was, would be different.
“CDG, really?” In response, the engine revved once. The driver’s seat was empty.
Empty, but for the red scarf left behind.
Seeing the red silky scarf on the seat, as if it had been haphazardly left behind, was enough to make my legs buckle. We both know it was anything but haphazardly left behind.
Just seeing it brought it all back, the confrontation, the words slung like mud, the regret I’ve felt ever since. And now this.
AP News Wire — Paris France April 29, 2016 0930
An American was found dead in the Louvre this morning. The unidentified woman was discovered in the Mona Lisa exhibit by museum security. Police and medical personnel were called immediately to the scene. There is no indication of foul play, or cause of death. A red scarf was found draped around the Mona Lisa painting adding to the mystery. Experts are wondering how anyone could remove and replace the sealed glass that protects the painting without breaking it. Museum security video has been reviewed and revealed an unexplained pause that lasted 10 minutes from 11:10pm – 11:20pm. Updates will be given when available.
The last time I had seen my sister was that Friday.
For a moment, during our lunch, I thought I glimpsed flickering in her eyes; a knowing. A connection. Or wanting to connect? Maybe it was my imagination. It felt like a lifetime of trying to reach her heart. “Talk to me!”, I had pleaded in silence. “I was there! We lived it together! I need you!”
[This is taking it from Linden’s paragraph, where he lets us know he is from the future]:
I tucked my passport back into my breast pocket, grabbed my roll-aboard and headed down the concourse. I then realized that beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. Was it from nervousness that airport security might have doubted the date of my entry into Europe? Or was it fever from the novel Coronovirus I had just been diagnosed with?
I had wanted to go back in time, to a time before the world had been hit with this horrible pandemic. I had always wanted to visit Portugal, and this was my chance. And I knew that no one from back then would suspect I had a very contagious virus.
Picking up from the security guard’s comment about the date on her passport….
My body tensed, ready to run, anywhere. I wasn’t even through security and I’ve already been discovered. What a colossal, rookie mistake. All the precautions to blend into to this time, and we miss the date on my passport! But where could I run? I wouldn’t get ten feet before I’m arrested or worse. He’s grinning. He thinks it’s a funny mistake. Maybe there is a way through.
“That’s because I’m from the future,” I offered, with a wide American smile.
I work up in my hotel room and looked at the clock, 7:42, is that am or pm? I could not tell from the dim light that peaked through the curtain. “How long did I sleep?”
I laid in bed rerunning the past hours in my mind. The empty car at the airport, that scarf, the ride into Lisbon, that security guard.
And then I remembered the strange dreams. A conversation with my dead sister, reliving that experience in airport security and that guard, and something about a virus I caught and a pandemic. I need coffee, or a stiff drink, maybe both.
As I was getting ready to leave my room I kept thinking about the security guard. Why did he look at me that way? Did he recognize me? Does he know who I am? I started to doubt the plastic surgery – did it change my appearance enough not to be recognized? Only time will tell.