I'll work on it, but I've also commented another short story on r/WritingPrompts in which you get to meet Karoun (though she's not named).

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/106i1sg/comment/j3k7vgh/?context=3

The woman talking to Jacques is Karoun. Enjoy that for now.

Post apocalyptic world, but it’s just people getting used to what our modern technology is instead of quantum computing, FTL space travel, and whatever else in a futuristic society you want to reference but not incorporate

Hey, sorry to bother, but would you mind linking that? It sounds exactly like something I want to read.

A drunk person gets stuck in a box- narrated by said drunk person.

When I built my time machine I thought I could finally fix everything. I would go back into my personal history, redoing as much of my lifespan as it took until I found the perfect sequence of perfect days. Any number of loops was worth it if I could find the sequence of events that would make them stay. But they always left me, no matter what actions I took, no matter how many times I fired up my machine and hopped back for another go.

Bereft, I abandoned my own time period and took to wandering. I visited Japan in the 1920s, France in the 1400s, and many other far-flung places and eras besides. Then, in a London inn in 1752, I dreamed of a shining city which had streets that hurt my eyes. I saw the people who lived there, happy and perfected, from every world and time I could imagine. One of them looked right at me and smiled, and I knew the dream was true. My only thought when I woke was to make my way there immediately. But no matter how I searched the past and future, that perfect city was nowhere to be found.

It galled me. By this time I had long since experienced my life countless times over, to the point where my destitution and ruin was just one of many outcomes to me. I had nothing left to see in this world. But my machine could not break through this world and see the other possibilities still to be offered elsewhere. The set of possible timelines I could visit remained confined to the history of the world I had been born in.

Building my time machine had taken nearly a decade of obsessive tinkering and planning. It took me an order of magnitude more than that before I could upgrade it to access all the possibilities of all the worlds that were or would ever be. And with that, I entered the multiverse.

It is useless to talk of the passing of years when you can traverse that span at will. For many repair cycles of my time machine, I explored the multiverse and lost myself to its delights. Why chase a dream of utopia when a myriad of real pleasures lay open to me for the taking?

But the city found me again.

Chronoberg was a legend among the time travelers who had reached the multiverse. Where everyone who had ever lived was subject to time, moving ever forward into the dark tunnel of the future, the architects who built Chronoberg saw time as their plaything and tool. They paved their streets with it. Most importantly, it was the one place out of all the endless possibilities offered by the past and future that our machines could not reach. We only had those tantalizing little hints at the city's existence, a million tiny anachronisms scattered across just as many timelines. Dangled before us like bait on a string, some travelers whispered.

Except I had more than that. I had help, but I had no idea where it came from. The plans were simply on my desk one day. One last modification to my time machine: simple, but so counterintuitive that I would never have thought to try it on my own. Even seeing the diagrams and calculations that proved its veracity, I doubted it would work.

But I followed the plans exactly. And this time, my machine didn't jump forwards or backwards in my own world's history, nor sideways into the histories of other worlds. It went in a completely new direction, one that I had no name for. I found myself outside a shining gate. The happy city lay just beyond, its streets glinting with frozen time.

I would have to drop off those last plans at my own desk someday, I decided.

I stepped through. Here, I knew, there was time enough at last.

I don’t know if time flows normally outside.

I don’t know if I’m some simulation in a computer game where I loop a particular scenario over and over expecting different outcomes.

I don’t know if I’m a sinner who’s sinned to live this cursed moment again and again and again without any reprieve.

I don’t know why this happens. I don’t know how this happens.

I just know that I’ve lived and have been reliving this same memory for a long time.But

It always started with me waking up in the back of a car exiting a tunnel.

---------------------------------------------------------------

A woman’s laughter would reach my ears. ’Sweetheart,’ she would say, turning to look at me. Hearing her voice used to make me happy in the beginning—fill me with warmth.

“Let him sleep, pspspst,” a man would say. I always sit up when I hear him—as I did now.

“But he looks so cute. Don’t you want to squish his cheeks and hope he stays that young forever?” the woman said, wistful. “I want him to stay young. Keep holding him in my arms. Hide him away and keep him safe from this big bad world.”

It used to jar me when she’d say this. I was a grown man. I’d grown tall and strong and… I forgot the rest. I just knew I wasn’t that young anymore.

The man chuckled at the words, gentle, quiet and understanding all in one. “You know the world doesn’t work like that.”

“A mother can dream,” said the woman, prim.

A song would start playing now. I’d started hating it after the first few loops. I couldn’t be bothered now. Love, hate, sadness, anger… they’d all lost their meaning somewhere after the thousandth loop. The woman started to hum. The sound would grow louder and louder, until the man would pinch the bridge of his nose and start singing. It would be off-key, horrible—but they’d laugh.

The man’s singing brought me back to the present. The soothing ever-present pounding of the rain always did add to the dreamy haze.

The singing stopped and I jolted at the sudden silence—this, too, happened every loop. Something about this moment would always make me jolt no matter how many times I’ve relived it.

The man sat hunched over the vehicle, a hand clutching at his chest. The car kept on moving, the woman cried out, tried to help. I lurched forward, but couldn’t move.

I could never change this part—or what was coming. I’d tried countless times.

Time and tide waits for none. I’d heard this somewhere—in the long-forgotten time where I was grown, perhaps—and it struck true, now more than ever. For I could never stop time.

A vehicle—speeding—hit ours. The car flipped, like it did in the movies.

I landed next to the car. Never remembered how that happened, no matter how many loops I’ve been in.

People say you can feel time slow down and see your entire life play out. It always happened in the blink of an eye. Nothing registered.

Things changed here. I changed here.

If I looked down, my limbs would be bigger. Movements come easy. This would be the part where I am given more freedom.

I could save them, I could kill them, I could walk away… whatever change I made would have no effect the next day. I would still wake up in the backseat of a car exiting a tunnel.

I rose to my knees, eyes watching the woman—someone important. I knew not the why, and had stopped caring about the how. The man, too, had been equally important. He was gone though. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—look at him now. I huffed and shifted my focus to her.

I pulled her phone—a small, flip-phone, an anachronism—and called 911, and waited.

I’d been a moody fellow when I was grown. My actions after this point changed with the wind.

Sometimes, I’d hold her hand and help her pass peacefully into the ether.

Sometimes, I’d whisper good-nothings into her ears as we waited for the ambulance to come in. Her life would be saved. But I’d never get to visit her.

Sometimes, I’d be cruel to her, blaming her for everything that happened to me. It was one of the outcomes after all.

Having lived this long, I’d done it all.

But these days, I walked away. There was nothing I could do. Nothing that changed my situation. Something had snapped sometime ago. A string, perhaps, or was it my sanity?

This time around, I watched the life wash out of her eyes. I kept my hands and words and comfort to myself.

There was time enough, was what they all said.

But for me, there was none.

A sentient mailbox

You look up from the sofa to the dining room table and see yourself sitting there. All at once, a memory replays itself before you.

‘Time Stopper 3000’

—-

The holopixel echoed in the vast apartment. Sasha, the Shar Pei, with her crinkly face covered in slobber, lounged on her dog bed, awaiting her mistress’ return.

—-

8:34 PM:

<<Happy birthday, Alissa! Tired of crow’s feet, elevens, and marionette lines? Check out our patented TimeStopper 3000 Wrinkles Be Gone service! For the low, low price of 14 credits per wrinkle per month, we will literally freeze time on the parts of your face that bother you most! Yes, that’s right—targeted temporal stoppage is finally at your fingertips! Contact us now by touching anywhere on this ad!>>

—-

8:48 PM:

<<Alissa, you’re turning thirty-eight today. You really should have begun TimeStopper 3000 ten years ago to get the best results. Luckily for you, we can preserve what’s left of your rapidly dwindling youth. Contact us now by touching anywhere on this ad!>>

—-

9:13 PM:

<<Alissa, don’t miss this one-time opportunity—do a free wrinkle assessment now! Simply touch anywhere on your screen.>>

Sasha stretched before walking up to the holopixel and booping the screen with her nose.

<<Alissa, excellent choice.>>

Beams scan Sasha’s face.

<<Oh. Oh my. I’ve never seen anything this damaged… Haven’t you heard of sunscreen? I’m afraid we can’t help yo—>>

screen goes mute

<<Alissa—good news! My manager said we can help. For only…let’s see…14 credits per wrinkle…carry the one…that comes to 64,342 credits per month with tax. Save an extra 10% with a year-long subscription. Do you accept?>>

Sasha touches the screen with her moist black nose.

<<Fantastic. We will bill you directly to your account. And you’re personalized time freeze starts now.>>

Sasha stands frozen, doll-like. Her brown eyes and nostrils are the only parts that move.

“C’mere girl! Mama’s home! … Sasha?!?!!>>

—-

WC: 292

—-

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

My dream:

Person 1: hey guys, I got a nuke

Person 2: cool!

Me: wtf how

P1: we should use it

Me: wtf no!!! Why do you have a nuke? Why is it handheld? Why did it come in a box that says shortcake?!?

P2: that’s a great idea!

Me: NO!!

P1: okay, I’ll arm it, [my name]has to throw it.

Me: argh!

P1: hands me armed nuke

P1: it’s on a timer

Me: you fuckers don’t get out of it that easy. If I’m throwing the nuke you’re coming with me.

All: run away from bunker

Me: throws nuclear potato

All: book it back to the nuclear bunker

Me: seals door

And that’s it that’s the dream

I hope you have fun with that.

[deleted]

This could be in a published anthology. It feels so polished.

Tremendous descriptions in here.

>I felt like I was walking down an aisle in a church, towards an altar. Or towards a casket.

That line gave me delicious chills. And the repetition of 'There was no one there.' really hammers in the confusion and paranoia.

I also liked the line

>The eyes observed me, simultaneously impersonal and engaged.

because it reminds me of a scene from this short animated piece called Puparia. Check it out on YouTube if you haven't heard of it, it has an otherworldly, abstract mood that I suspect you'd vibe with.

"And you see, that was when the statues started...erm..."

"Speaking?"

"Yes. But...not just that? They erm...well..."

"WHY IS EVERYTHING BEES!?"

The things in his pockets were all the lies he tells every day, and thank you!

All the ways that you described lies were great!

I also liked the overarching uncertainty from the narrator, where it isn't clear if he's stealing things (the things in his pockets?) and the buckets he's buying from Home Depot to store in his closet (because of the leaking floor? To hold the things he's picking up?). You nailed the unreliable narrator aspect, and while I'm not entirely sure what's happening, it's wrapped in such lovely language that the story sucked me in.

Thank you! What are some other images you liked?

If you want more inspiration, listen to the Magnus Archives. I use them for inspiration more than I’d like to admit

Damn this is a good one! I’ve been trying to work on describing unsettling feelings myself and this gave me good insight on how to do it. Great work all around!

>Lies are a lot like that. When I felt the first orange lie slide out of my mouth, I caught it in my hand and slid it into my pocket.

There's lots of wonderful imagery in this, but this is the first one that reached out and grabbed me. This is some great writing!

Thank you for the feedback and prompt! I couldn't *not* reply, it was so great! Lmk if you think of any others like that

Have you ever seen pictures of those flooded rooms, so full of water the floor beneath them warps and forms a hole? There is one picture where the floor is so full of water that it breaks the wood beneath, and protrudes into the basement. They're almost scary to see. They look unnatural. And I suppose neglect is unnatural. It's unnatural to let a problem compound long enough for it to look like a monster.

Lies are a lot like that. When I felt the first orange lie slide out of my mouth, I caught it in my hand and slid it into my pocket. I told her that I just had a little bit of a cold, then I had to turn and catch another lie that plopped into my hand. I loudly coughed, trying to make my feigned illness convincing.

I caught another lie in a paper napkin in my mouth after I told her that her cooking was good. I didn't want to hurt her feelings like the burnt, undercooked fried rice hurt my mouth and throat.

She is special to me; my lies are mundane, routine, even. Each day I come home with bulging pockets full of orange, soft lies, and each day I hurriedly place them in my closet. But lately I have been having trouble closing the door without a couple of them spilling out. For each lie I cram and kick in, another tumbles out.

**

The air conditioning in the Home Depot is too high. Chills caress me as I grow small goosebumps. I pick up a plastic five-gallon bucket. One won't be enough. I pick up two more. The cashier tries to make small talk as I check out.

"Whatcha planning?"

"Just a fun little project." I nod and turn, and a lie falls out of my mouth. It plops as it lands into the bucket. This project was not going to be fun.

**

I'm going to have to get rid of these lies someday. Someday I'll tell her she's awful at cooking, that my pockets aren't full of trinkets I find on the ground, they are full of lies, and someday I'll say to my co-worker that he is an asshole. And someday those lies will dissolve way. But there are a lot of lies that will stay forever. Inconsequential, short interactions, like the Home Depot Cashier, or the barber I went to once and never again (for good reason). And eventually, my lies will pool up, rancid and rotten, and maybe they will form into a terrifying thing that looks like a monster. I mumble that I will deal with it when the time comes. Another lie rolls out of my mouth. I put it in one of the buckets in the closet.

Ooh! Lovely descriptions in there! You did a great job creating that sense of unease and uncertainty! Thanks for writing!

I always felt like I was being observed, ever since I was a little kid. I could feel eyes on me. Adults said it was stress or pressure. I knew better.

When I was a kid I used to naively picture some sort of ghost or ghoul, following my every footstep, breathing every breath with me. I imaged a cartoonish villain, a boogeyman I could point and scream at.

When I was eleven I wanted to see my specter. To make it know what it felt like to be seen. I wandered out into the fields. Tan, rolling hills, as far as the eye could see. The straw-colored grass collapsed under the dusty blue sky stained with dull clouds. It made a little swish, swish as I walked through it. I felt like I was walking down an aisle in a church, towards an altar. Or towards a casket.

I walked for about 30 minutes until it was just me and the hills. I spun around, looking for my audience. There was no one there. There were thousands of eyes on me. There was no one there. Panic seeped into me through my skin. There was no one there. Terror jolted me, there had to be someone there, there had to be someone looking at me, how else could I be watched? There was no one there. The eyes observed me, simultaneously impersonal and engaged. There was no one there. I spun around again and again, then I started running through the hills, frantically searching for what was watching me. There was no one there.

I don't know how long I ran, but it was long enough to make little eleven-year-old me collapse to the ground. I laid on the crunchy grass, looking up at the murky blue sky stained by grey clouds. I decided to stay there until I caught my breath.

No words can describe what happened next. Whatever you are picturing in your head, is not what happened. It didn't close then open, it didn't flicker, it didn't have an eye like us, it didn't do anything you are thinking of right now. The cloud blinked.

I stayed frozen. Time started to melt. I couldn't say how much later it was, but later, another cloud blinked.

They were all watching. All the clouds were watching. The sky was a cacophony of eyes. Constantly observing, constantly watching, silently staring at everything. Clouds were a witness to everything. Everything.

There was no one there, and there were so many watching me.

Nowadays I avoid open spaces. It's easier to cope with being watched if you can pretend someone is watching. I usually wear hoodies or hats, but I know it doesn't make a difference. The clouds will see me no matter what I do. They have to. I can't go to my car, go to my office, go to the grocery store without them knowing. They bear witness to everything we do. Everything you do. They know all of us.

The clouds have eyes. And they're watching.