Last year we had a crazy idea. What if we all anonymously wrote a short story, using the same starting line and concept, and then try to guess who’s who? The two-part collaboration turned out to be one of our most successful and certainly very fun, so we figured we’d have a go at it again.
How it works:
All writers at OTF have been given the same prompt in which to write a short scene about. These pieces are all shared anonymously below. After reading all of the pieces, each OTF writer and all readers will have the opportunity to guess who wrote which piece via the Google Form below. At the end of this week, on Friday, the results will be shared along with who actually wrote each piece! So, get ready to analyze and scrutinize the short stories below to see if you can correctly identify who wrote what!
Shelby’s Editor’s Note: When adding these pieces to the newsletter, I have not edited or corrected any mistakes indicated by Grammarly or Substack’s grammar and spelling checker — I didn’t want to mask anyone’s true voice by moving commas around on them. You can learn so much about a person by how they use a comma…
The prompt:
Write a short fiction piece about a person traveling through time, using the starting line:
"How the hell did I end up here?"
Writer 1:
“How the hell did I end up here?”
I held my eyes tightly shut, slammed shut in fact. Eyes wide shut, they say. I was bracing for impact with my entire being. My eyes involuntarily rolled around my skull, like someone had picked up my head and shook it like a snow globe, then set it aside to watch it settle. I was always being watched lately. My lids remained sealed, to the degree I considered I had forgotten how to open them. If I’d ever had them open, to begin with, and I began flipping through my memory — what the hell happened? How do I know I’m in a different spot than before? I just do. One can feel that sort of thing.
I was there, in the classroom laboratory, Doctor Spatzle presiding over, commanding our attention. My glasses were slipping off my nose as I furiously wrote down his every word. My labmates next to me were hardly paying attention; all too common with legacy admissions and kids who don’t care but to float by.
When class was over, he pulled me aside and began discussing a new project. Eager to please, as ever, I heartily agreed to participate and he led the way. At first, I didn’t know where we were going, though I assumed his office. This quickly proved incorrect when we entered a stairwell I had hardly even known was there, and began the descent to the off-limits, need-to-know, research-only labs in the basement. I had, understandably, never been down there.
I was giddy with excitement that Dr. Spatzle thought of me when needing an extra hand with a project. When we finally reached the bottom of what felt like two stories of stairs, I don’t know what I was expecting, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by the concrete labyrinth Dr. Spatzle briskly led me through, checking his watch every few feet. We entered one room, then another, at this point I knew I wouldn’t be able to find myself back to street level on my own.
What seemed like fifteen minutes of aimless walking, we finally enter a large underground chamber. Men in suits and lab coats walk in silence around us, carrying clipboards and notebooks, raw materials or medical supplies. In the center, on a slightly raised platform, sits a surgery table with a giant, metal ring around it, acting as its halo, a metaphorical triumph of science over god.
No one paid us any mind as Dr. Spatzle led me right to the table and its machine. At this point, a man I didn’t know stepped forward, and identified himself as Dr. Spatzle’s assistant. He gestured over to a conference room encased in class behind us, in which stood two military generals, their starchy uniforms and shiny medals juxtaposed the deep gray and dark blandness this place offered. The assistant turned to the machines next to me, and the halo behind the table, and began fiddling with things, turning things on, starting it all up.
“Alright, son, get on up,” Dr. Spatzle said, patting the table like he was my pediatrician, attempting to be friendly before sticking me with a needle. For some reason, I listened. I clambered up the table, laid myself down, and allowed my professor for over three years to strap me down.
“What did you say this project was called, Doctor?” I asked tentatively, as he strapped my ankles into place. My palms began sweating as he tightened each buckle methodically.
“Well, certainly you understand that, with the government involved and all that,” he waved noncommittally at the conference room fishbowl without even looking up, “I can’t give you all of the details, but do know that you are doing a major service for this country and for the science of our world.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Just as quickly as I had seemed to get here, it was “time” for whatever it was time for. Everyone around me, Dr. Spatzle and his assistant, seemed quite excited about whatever was about to happen. I began speculating at this point, understanding I should have been more hesitant or asked more questions before agreeing to do something without knowing anything about it.
What if it hurt? Will this be electrotherapy? Dr. Spatzle studies physics, I noticed the Bio-Chem professor in the crowd that had begun to gather.
A silence fell over the room and I swear everyone could hear my heartbeat. The tension in the room informed me that this was serious, whatever this was, it meant business. I should be proud and honored I was chosen to help out on such a mission, even if the circumstances were a little weird.
With a nod to the assistant, who returned it, and then a nod to the generals standing by, which they also returned, it was ready, whether I was or not. No one gave me a nod.
Dr. Spatzle’s cold eyes met mine and said“You’re doing a service to your country, son,” before reaching for the strap behind my head and buckling it into place, the leather smooshing against my forehead uncomfortable. I went to say something, opening my mouth to protest, the fearful knot in my throat suddenly needing to get out. Before I could conjure up a “wait” or a “stop, please”, my professor shoved a rubber guard in my mouth, tasting foul and situating uncomfortably around my teeth. Dr. Spatzle nodded again to the person behind me, someone I didn’t know was there until they began attaching electric nodes to my temples, neck, and behind my ears. The people around me, including my professor, stepped off the dias I was strapped to and stood away.
A lever was pulled down nearby and an engine sound started, growing louder and louder, it sounded like a jet airplane was behind me. Whatever was about to happen, it was loud. Dr. Spatzle’s assistant began a countdown through a small microphone, the seconds ticking by out loud for everyone.
“Five, four…”
A strap is tightened around my ankle.
“Three, two…”
I strain to look up and see the people
“One.”
I slammed my eyes shut, squeezing tightly with my entire life, as the room erupted in light and colors. Heat, like I was standing in front of a human-sized oven, overcame me and I waited for pain to follow. My body felt pulled in every direction, not just my limbs, but my skin felt like it was being sloughed off my bones. My hair stood up on my arms, my legs, my neck. I felt electricity static around my limp body, crackling loudly, urging me to open my eyes—see what we’re doing to you, it seems to whisper—but I wouldn’t dare. Colors and lightning streaked across my closed lids; a haunting kaleidoscope of technicolor dreams danced violently behind my lids. I was being ripped in half, electrocuted, and set on fire at once, all while being involuntarily pulled into unconsciousness.
Just when I decided I couldn’t handle the pain anymore, I was ready to close my eyes and never reopen them again, it was done.
Everything was quiet. Everything was dark again. Everything was soft and painless. There was a hard surface underneath me, but compared to the horror I was just put through, this felt like a grand bed. My eyes still squeezed shut and I didn’t know how to open them. They involuntarily rolled around my head, trying to find up, trying to find the equilibrium. There were no voices or beeps of machinery.
You’re alive. I thought to myself. Open your eyes.
Wait, that wasn’t my inner voice. That was someone.
“Elijah. Open your eyes,” a tinny voice said, like it was underwater and coming through a speaker. I obeyed and took in the unrecognizable gray room around me. I’m no longer strapped to the table, the rubber guard removed from my mouth. I lay on a padded table, a small, silent machine next to me with a lit-up screen depicting numbers and symbols I have never seen again. There is only one light on, a standing lamp in a corner, setting some ambiance, and a glass window sends cool light into the room.
I roll over onto my side and use my violently shaking arms to lift myself to standing, my legs also wobbly. This room isn’t the room I was brought to by my professor. And speaking of, where was he? Dr. Spatzle, his assistant, the generals—no one is here except a voice coming from a speaker box in the corner of the ceiling.
I felt the electricity again on my skin, but this time, I recognized it as paranoia. Something was horribly wrong, I could sense it, regardless of not being in pain. For some reason, I was called to the window. Look out, see the world something inside me said. Like a baby deer, I strutted over to the window, testing my limbs, before looking through the clear glass pane. Outside wasn’t campus. It wasn’t any
I’m in a city, skyscrapers taller than anything I’d ever seen before cut into the sky. Things that weren’t bird whirled around outside, seemingly on electronic missions. People walked around, entirely engrossed in small devices, wearing clothes unlike I’d ever seen before.
My breathing hitches, panic setting in. “What the fuck is this. How the hell did I end up here?” I demand the empty room.
With a crackle, the speaker turned on again, “Hello, Eli, thank you for your assistance with MK-Ultra. Welcome to 2023.”
Writer 2:
How the hell did I end up here? I thought as I scanned the dusty storage room that reeked of must and something slightly sour that I couldn’t quite place. Something about this room hummed with a familiar energy, but I was sure I had never stepped foot in it before. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hands hoping it would make them adjust to the dim closet light and tried to focus on what I was seeing in front of me - an old shelving unit with assorted cleaning supplies that were ironically covered in a thick layer of dust, a pile of brooms and mops that had been strewn about in the back corner and seemingly forgotten, about five broken, black barstools haphazardly stacked near the opposite wall, and a jug of what must have been some sort of condiment turned on its side leaking white sludge onto the floor…guess that explains the smell.
After gathering my bearings, I tried to remember how the hell I ended up in this closet. I couldn’t possibly have been that drunk that I wandered into a random closet and passed out. Flashbacks and gagged pieces of memories started coming back to me in waves. Dancing at a club in downtown Los Angeles. Not just any club. My club. The mesmerizing flashing strobe lights painted pictures in my mind and I could somehow still feel the heat of a hundred sweaty bodies grinding up on me - one in particular standing out more than the rest. My fiance. Shit, where the hell was Everett anyway? It was supposed to be a night of celebration. A night of partying, dancing, drinking, and celebrating our upcoming nuptials.
Fuck, I have to get married in two weeks.
The thought alone was enough to cause a wave of panic to spread throughout my entire body. I could actually feel the fear spreading from the top of my head all the way down to my feet. It’s not that I didn’t want to marry Everett exactly - I love him; however, he has always been the safe choice. The right choice. The person my friends and family all wanted me to marry. The one who would always provide for me. But he would never be the one who challenged me. The one who kept me on my toes. The one my heart would probably always long for.
Fear suddenly turned to nausea as I tried to focus again on where I was standing. The sense of familiarity was so clear, but nothing about this closet seemed like a place where I would go.
Out of the corner of my eye something caught my still dilated eyes. A rectangle cork board with newspaper clippings and paper tacked on the wall. I staggered over to the board in hopes that it could give me some clues on where I had drunkenly blacked out.
“A New Wave of LA Nightlife Emerges at The Wave” dated January 15, 2001.
“The Hottest Ticket in LA Is Scoring a Booth at The Wave” dated March 20, 2002.
“The Wave Facing Low Tides - Bankruptcy Imminent” dated August 30, 2003…
Why would somebody have old newspaper clippings of my club tacked on a wall? As I scanned the corkboard more desperate for answers, my eyes stumbled upon something I instantly recognized. On the exposed brick wall right next to handle of the door (that could use some TLC) was a brick stamped with the phrase “Est. 2001. For Emily”. Suddenly it all came back to me - why this place felt so familiar. It was my club. No, it was the storage closet in my club.
As I quickly glanced around the closet again, I tried to put together how my immaculate club could have become so run down in the course of an evening. I swear this room did not look like this five hours ago when I first arrived for the evening. It’s like I ended up in a version of my club from before I owned it.
No, I thought to myself. It isn’t possible. How could I have ended up back at my club in a different time? The date was August 30, 2013. The date IS August 30, 2013.
There had always been weird rumors that the club was special. That if you ordered a special drink you could be magically transported back in time, but obviously none of that could be real. What kind of Freaky Friday bullshit would cause me to be transported back in time?
Olivia focus. What is the last thing you remember?
I remembered dancing with Everett, letting the music take hold of my body and mind…until I spotted him in the corner of the room staring. The one that got away. My first love. The one who still occasionally haunts my dreams. The one that 21 year old Olivia fell head over heels for. The guy who shattered my heart into a million pieces. Grayson.
More and more of the previous night started coming back. Seeing Grayson in the corner, feeling all the pain and anger he caused me come crashing back into me like a tsunami wave, then finally trying to run and hide in the bathroom while I waited for him to leave. That’s where I fucked up. I should have just left the club entirely, but no, I decided the best way to deal with the trauma was to have another shot.
The visions are still blurry, but somehow I remember going up to the bar and ordering whatever the bartender wanted to make and that's when I felt it. Well, not "it" exactly. Him. Right behind me.
"Make that two", Grayson said in his rough voice that had a slight country twang.
At that point I was at a loss for words. My mouth had completely gone dry and I just starred at him and the bartender who offered up two purple shooters with a wink. We downed the shots without a word and that's when everything went dark.
The realization that something very weird happened right after those two shots hit me right in the gut and I felt the familiar energy start to hum again in the closet.
The closet of my club, but somehow not? The closet in a club that I now opened, but during a time that had been neglected and cast aside. The closet where Grayson and I met for the first time.
Writer 3:
“How the hell did I end up–” I look around at the sticky, cramped bathroom stall I’m in. “–here?”
I mean, I guess I know how I suddenly spawned into a different location, thanks to the magical time travel powder and whatnot. But…a smelly bathroom? I look up to the ceiling in confusion, wracking my brain for what I could’ve possibly done wrong. I thought I had been pretty clear in my intentions…
“Hurry up in there, man!” There’s a banging on the other side of the stall door. “I’m trying to get back out there and boogie down! My song is on!”
I quickly make for the lock, fumbling as I try to get out of the stall as fast as I can. “Sorry,” I mumble with a sheepish smile.
The annoyed woman sucks her teeth at me as she moves toward the toilet. “Making me miss my Donna Summer!”
“Oh, take a chill pill, Jenny. He’s spinning the 12-inch version. We’ve got a solid eight minutes before it’s done.” She rolls her eyes, smiles, and mouths, “Ignore her” to me. I smile back, taking in the woman’s big, gorgeous hair and sparkly outfit. I’m not sure if I’m smiling due to her charm, or due to the fact that my time traveling escapade seems to have been a success after all.
Although, I’m still confused about the bathroom. More women in ridiculous (or rather, ridiculously amazing) disco outfits stumble in, so I make my way past them. The once faint bassline of “I Feel Love” suddenly becomes all consuming. The music becomes more and more powerful the closer I get to the dancefloor, as do the lights, the smoke, and…the body odor. It’s full-on sensory overload, and I’m not really sure how to feel.
“Focus, Sam, focus,” I mutter to myself, but it’s an impossible task. I stop in my tracks, defeated. There are easily a hundred people here, maybe more. I’ll never find her.
“First time?” I jump a little at the sound of a man’s voice yelling into my ear. He chuckles and takes a drag on his cigarette. “You must be someone special if they let you in wearing that.”
I look down at my T-shirt, distressed jeans, and Vans. Shit. If I had known the time travel powder would bring me to a friggin’ gigantic disco club, I probably could’ve come up with a better outfit. I notice the man giving me an odd look, probably because I’m just staring into space with my mouth wide open. “Umm…” I take a breath and decide to try and play it cool. “Yeah, actually. I am special.”
He looks me over quizzically for a moment, then does another chuckle/drag combo. “Whatever you say, babe.” He leans over to the bar to put out his cigarette. “Wanna dance?”
I look from his outstretched hand up to his face. He’s pretty hot, in a way, I guess. Kind of looks like he could be in Star Wars. But hey, if the platform shoe fits…
I shrug and take his hand, preparing myself for even more sensory overload. The sights and sounds and smells really are a lot, but I start to ease up as we dance to “Get Up and Boogie.” I continue trying to play it cool, mimicking the dance moves I see around me, painfully aware that my casual clothes are drawing attention. Glancing around the dance floor, I see the two women from the bathroom. The friendlier one catches my eye, and we exchange more smiles. My dance partner suddenly grabs my hand, pulling me into some kind of spin move.
Either I’m interpreting this wrong, or both of these people are into me? Damn, maybe I should just stay in 1976.
But then I remember the actual reason I’m here. Once again, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sweaty, intoxicated people in this massive room with poor visibility. How will I ever–
“Hey, do you know her?” my dance partner suddenly says. He responds to my confused expression by pointing to a woman not too far from us. “You look like twins. Except–well, no offense–but she dresses like a stone cold fox.”
My heart nearly stops when I see the “stone cold fox” in question. Yep, it’s her. Undoubtedly.
My mother.
Writer 4:
"How the hell did I end up here?" I thought to myself as I blinked in disbelief at my strange surroundings. I was no longer standing in the bustling corner of Canal and Lafayette where I had been just moments ago. Instead, I found myself in what appeared to be a dense forest, surrounded by towering trees that seemed to touch the sky. The air was thick with an ancient scent, and the only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze.
I looked down at myself, trying to make sense of the situation. I was still wearing the same clothes I had on moments before: jeans, a t-shirt, and my dingy green vans. My clothes were the same, but everything else around me was different – far different. I could hardly believe it, but it seemed like I had somehow traveled back in time.
As the initial shock subsided, curiosity took over. My mind raced with questions. How was this even possible? Was I dreaming, or had I stumbled upon some kind of time-traveling device? My thoughts were interrupted by a distant noise – the sound of galloping hooves.
I turned towards the sound and saw a group of horsemen approaching. They were clad in armor and carried weapons, and their steeds moved with a grace that indicated a great deal of skill in horsemanship. Panic set in, and I quickly hid behind a nearby tree, hoping they hadn't noticed me.
To my surprise, they didn't seem to be hostile. They rode past me without a second glance, their attention focused on something up ahead. Cautiously, I peered out from my hiding spot and saw that they were heading towards a small village, smoke rising from the chimneys of its thatched-roof cottages.
Intrigued, I decided to follow them from a safe distance. As I got closer to the village, it became clear that I had been transported to medieval time. The villagers were dressed in simple garments, going about their daily tasks. It was like stepping into my middle school history textbook I was witnessing a time long gone.
As I watched, I noticed a commotion in the center of the village. The horsemen had dismounted and were now speaking with the villagers. They seemed to be discussing something of great importance. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to edge closer to hear what was being said.
As I strained my ears, I caught snippets of their conversation. The horsemen claimed to be from a distant kingdom, seeking alliances to defend against an impending invasion. The villagers seemed hesitant but willing to listen. The horsemen spoke of an important artifact that could turn the tide of battle in their favor.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This was an actual historical event, and I had stumbled upon it by sheer accident. I silently cursed myself for not paying closer attention in History class to know what event I was witnessing. Watching history unfold before my eyes was both thrilling and terrifying.
Suddenly, a thought struck me. If I was here, did that mean I could change the course of events? The temptation to intervene was strong, but I knew the consequences could be catastrophic. Altering the past could have far-reaching repercussions on the future, and I wasn't prepared to take that risk.
So, I made a choice to remain a silent observer, a ghost from the future, learning from the past. I continued to watch as the negotiations between the horsemen and the villagers unfolded. It was a delicate dance of diplomacy, and it amazed me how human nature and the pursuit of power remained constant throughout time. After what felt like hours, the horsemen finally departed, leaving the village to ponder their proposal. I decided it was time for me to leave as well, to return to my own time and place.
As I closed my eyes and concentrated, hoping to find myself back in the present, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for this unexpected journey. I had been given a glimpse into the past, a chance to witness history, and a reminder of the fragile interconnectedness of time. With a final thought, I whispered to myself, "How the hell did I end up here?" But deep down, I knew that the answer would forever remain a mystery.
Now that you’ve read everyone’s, decide who is who and vote!
Shit We’re Loving: READ
Our Pick: the first edition of this segment, from 2022
The prompt:
Write a short, romcom-esque story beginning with a character saying, “Don’t you remember?”
Here’s what we came up with:
Who Wrote What Part 1 — the submissions
Who Wrote What Part 2 — the reveal
Show Your Support: Global Girl Media
For our final OTF Show Your Support, I’ve chosen Global Girl Media (GGM), which develops the voice and media literacy of teenage girls and young women, ages 14-25, in under-served communities by teaching them to create and share digital journalism designed to improve scholastic achievement, ignite community activism and spark social change.
We change the storytellers so they can change the world.
Global Girl Media empowers young women to bring their often-overlooked perspectives onto the global media stage. By turning up the volume of girls’ voices globally, GGM promotes freedom of expression and strengthens substantive journalism that addresses historically marginalized voices. We do this while also building self-esteem, leadership capacity, and 21st-century skills. Founded in 2010, we are currently active in South Africa, Kosovo, Chicago, Los Angeles, Greece, London, and the Bay Area.
You can’t be what you can’t see. Our media tells us a lot about who we are and the stories we believe about ourselves. Yet, a female POV is under-published, under-broadcast, and under-streamed compared to a male POV. Now more than ever, women and girls of color need a place at the table to change the narrative. That’s where GGM comes in.
In the OTF fashion, we have already donated $200 to Global Girl Media and we encourage you to give and/or promote what you can.
Daily Intention:
Today I choose…
flex a creative muscle I’ve ignored.
Here’s some nifty buttons for you to press, enjoy: