[removed]

Your prompt was very good!

Thank you! I'm really happy to hear that!

Very good!

My fav so far.

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You introduced the “wife” as Jennifer and then klara. But good read. Had my full attention

Just wanted to reply to say I really liked this.

Two Sides of the Disco Ball

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You let out a soft sigh, staring at the pills of homework you have to do. Math, Social Studies, Psychology. It's a bit overwhelming, but you trying to get that perfect score.

You turn towards your computer, typing up some music for the work. You know you couldn't do this all alone without some music.

That's when your mind traces back to what you and your friend talk about this morning.

"Disco is one of the best ways to bring out your inner self, you should try it someday!"

You type up "Disco" on your computer before scrolling down a list of disco music. From Michael Jackson to Boney M, it was like an endless pile of music.

Finally, you found a video that mixes up all the disco music into one. Clicking play, you could instantly see the Lights fricking around the wallpaper.

You tap your foot to the rhyme while looking back at your paper. You felt ready enough to start your work. But then, you heard a little electric sound coming from the video.

The hair on the back of your skin stood up as you instantly look back at the video. It was still the flashy light wallpaper, but it felt a bit...good.

Slowly standing up, you begin to move your arms around. People are embarrassed by this, but you love it.

Your body slowly begins to move. One step, two steps, three steps. Then you realize, you were dancing to the music.

Deep down, you know you supposed to be doing your work. But this feeling of music reaches deep in your heart before those lane books did.

Your lips begin to move to the lyrics, your hips begin to shake and turn, your arms and legs start to move all over the bed. You even stood on your bed and begin dancing to the music.

You can put work to the side at the moment. Right now, you want to get your Groovy on.

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WPC: 330

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I came to in pitch darkness, lying in a bed entirely too large for just a single person. My head hurt something fierce, and my body felt like it was RKO'd by a semitruck. Even with that being the case, I had woken for a reason; nature called. It took me a bit to find the bathroom, guided only by the small slivers of moonlight that peak between the nearly-closed shades. I entered the bathroom and closed the door behind me, losing even that tiny bit of light I had before. A rookie mistake. There had to be a light switch around here. Flip.

The lights came to life, and I came face-to-face with myself in the mirror. Or at least, that's who it had to be. For some reason, I couldn't seem to remember things very well. The person in the mirror looked unkempt and wild, and his eyes looked cold. Was I an unkempt person? My head started to spin; I grew dizzier and dizzier until I unceremoniously plopped down onto the toilet, thankful that the seat had been left down. Where was I? Who was I?

Quickly, my breathing grew shallower and shallower as my heart began to pound. What was going on? My eyes caught on black lettering etched onto my forearm. They read, "You have Alzheimer's. You love your wife. Your name is Keith." Keith. That answered one of my questions, but I didn't understand why I was alone in that room, nor why my head hurt the way it did.

I needed explanations. Perhaps it was my fortune, or maybe divine providence, but it was at that moment that I found my next clue. On my opposite hand, scrawled hastily in what appeared to be black sharpie, was, "THE TATTOOS ARE A LIE." And all of a sudden, any semblance of understanding that had begun to build shattered.

Still sitting on the toilet, I heard a dull thumping. It grew louder, and louder, and louder until it just... stopped. A knock at the bathroom door. "Honey, are you alright in there?" a feminine voice asked. "You've had a rough night."

The wife. "Yeah, I'm just fine. I had to use the restroom."

"Okay. I'll be right out here waiting for you, honey. Take your time." She walked away, and by the creak of the bed, sat down on the bed. For the life of me, I couldn't remember what she looked like. Her voice was unfamiliar. Everything about this place was foreign. And a part of me refused to believe that Alzheimer's was the answer.

My instincts were screaming at me. The tattoo seemed entirely excessive for a reminder about Alzheimer's, and the scrawls on my hand looked as if they were written with haste, the last letters written even more poorly than the first ones. Something wasn't right.

I got up from my seat and, as quietly as I could, began to root through the bathroom. Maybe something would jog a memory or help me understand. For the life of me, everything seemed reminiscent of what a normal bathroom would look like, barring that none of it rang a bell for me. Then I got to the cabinets below the sink. There were empty containers of just about every painkiller imaginable, along with things he'd never even seen or heard of.

"You okay in there? Do you need some help, hun?" my wife called.

My heart beat fast. "I'm good!" I responded with as measured a tone as I could. What was this? I tore through the cabinet as quickly as I dared, but when I reached the back, my heart - which had been beating so fast - froze. It was a picture of me, along with a list of what I presumed to be my daily routine. A 7:00 AM run, an 8:00 AM grocery run, and everything else I did leading up until the evening. This... this I remembered. Vaguely, but there was definitely something there.

This was not the schedule of a man with Alzheimer's. I tried working through the brain fog that had defined my working memory up until that point, but I was drawing blanks. I turned the page to see if there was anything on its back. And there was. Written in very detailed steps was the process of drugging someone to the point where they could hardly remember a thing.

"Oh shit," I mumbled.

"What was that?" my 'wife' got up from the bed. "Okay, I need to make sure you're alright, hun."

As hastily as I could, I got to my feet and locked the door. I needed to get out of there.

"And did you, Keith?" a scrawny boy asks. I look at him and gesture to the grey walls that surround us and the little metal trays that contain the last vestiges of whatever slop we had for lunch earlier.

"No, James, I didn't."

But does it have a yellow frame? Surronding the eyehole

Thank you so much for your feedback! I am new to reddit and this subreddit is wicked. Thanks for reading :)

JAILHOUSE LOCK

[Author Note: This response has turned into a novel "The Brink of Oblivion" and I'm posting it on my profile as I write it.]

The creature watched me from just beyond the tree line, shadowed in dark, inky blackness. I couldn't make out its shape or anything else about it really. All I could see were its bright yellow eyes. I took one step towards it, and then two, and then I was running, branches whipping past my face, tearing my skin. But the creature was too fast and the forest was its domain. I was nearly at it, my hand almost able to reach its back when-

I opened my eyes to an inky blackness of a place void of both light and feeling. Or was I the one void of light and feeling? I blinked as a white walled room slowly came into focus.

Who am I?

I sat up in bed with my head in my hands. A woman and a dog were lying beside me, both sound asleep. I couldn't remember either of them. The dog opened its eyes and wagged its tail lightly as I stood up and looked at a room I felt I'd never seen before. The woman didn't move.

I stumbled into the bathroom and leaned against the sink. I felt sick, off. My face felt strange, as if it didn't truly belong to me. It was the face of an older man, in maybe his sixties, but I didn't have any of the memories of life to accommodate such an age. I tried my hardest but I couldn't recall any memories. Nothing from childhood, adulthood, or anything in between. It was as if I came into existence only this morning as I opened my eyes. I knew deep down that something was wrong but I couldn't figure out what it was. My arm was itchy and when I moved to itch it I noticed the tattoo. It read: You have Alzheimer’s. You love your wife. Your name is Keith.

Keith?

Why didn't that feel right? I flexed my arm and as I did I noticed the scribbled, quickly written words on the palm of my hand.

THE TATTOOS ARE A LIE.

I turned on the water and glanced back at the sleeping woman. She turned over but remained asleep. I didn't feel anything when I looked at her, but did that mean loving her was a lie? How could I possibly prove that?

I splashed water on my face, did my business, and then wandered through the bedroom and into an open concept apartment. It was cozy and cute, full of pictures on the walls of me and the woman, Keith and his wife, and other fragments of what looked like a happy life. On a bookshelf was a dog tag and an old photo of a different dog named Max. How long have I been with this woman? What was her name?

"Good morning," a voice said from a doorway. "How are you Keith?"

I turned to see a young woman, about twenty, leaning against the wall dressed in her PJ's and a robe. She was holding a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to me.

"Uh, hi." I said, reaching for the cup. "I'm... okay I guess."

"The mornings are usually the worst," the girl said. I shook my head.

"I'm sorry," I said, "You're talking to me like I know you really well and I feel like I should know who you are but-"

"It's ok." the girl said abruptly, her cheeks filling with color. "This is my bad. I should've been more gentle. I forget sometimes. It's hard to talk to you like you're not my, uh, nevermind. Go through that door over there and I have breakfast ready for you. Call me Claudia."

"Beautiful name." I said. She smiled and turned down the hallway.

I walked through the door and entered the kitchen. The lighting in this home felt off, duller than it should be. Was my vison going now too? How scary the world would be if I was navigating my mind and body blind. There was a plate of food siting on the counter. As I pulled it up a piece of paper tumbled down from under it.

I put the plate back and went to read the note when I head the dog running and a woman's voice. I put the note in my pocket and took my plate to the table.

"And Dia," the woman said as she walked into the room. She gave me a wide smile, "Don't forget to call me after so we can-"

"Mom I know!"

"Okay, just last time you didn't and I-"

"This isn't last time. Goodbye!"

The front door slammed and the woman turned to look at me as the dog scratched at my leg, his hungry eyes watching my fork.

"Good morning Keith," the woman said, "My name is Jennifer."

"Hi Jennifer," I said, feeling an strange wave of anxiety flow through me. "I'm sorry."

"What on Earth are you sorry for?"

"Forgetting," I said, "I know I love you and I know we're married, but I feel like... my current experience of you is as if I'm meeting you for the first time."

"It's okay," Klara said, "I like when you look at me for the first time. And each day I get to watch your eyes change until the next day."

"When did I get Alzheimer's?" I asked. Klara began to make herself some food as she considered my question.

"It was about three years ago, but the onset was quick." she said, "It started off with you forgetting little things, like where you put your keys, and then one day you couldn't remember where the house was. We have been doing okay though, and sometimes you remember things and I love hearing about that."

"Oh," I said, "I feel like I lost a whole life."

"Sometimes," Klara said, shooting me a wide smile, "You find comfort in looking at our photo albums. You'll sit in there for the better part of a day looking through our old pictures. Sometimes that can spark your memory."

I nodded and finished up breakfast. Klara treated me kindly but I could sense that she was working hard to keep her distance. Like Claudia, there was a far more familiar tone to her presence than made me comfortable.

After breakfast I sat on our comfortable couch with a stack of photo albums. I started with one of just Klara and myself. We were friends as teens and there were lots of pictures of us growing up together with our families. I have two brothers. I saw Klara go from a little button-nosed girl and into an awkward teen. She had braces for a long time.

The next album was one for Claudia. It started with her birth certificate and her first picture. She was red and all squished down. In her second picture her black hair was very messy and her nose was so little. I was about to turn the page when I remembered the note. Glancing towards the kitchen and not seeing anything I opened the note.

"This is not what you think it is. Everything is a lie. This isn't real. You are a prisoner of a powerful warlock. Await your next instruction. Destroy this note." My heart began to beat wildly as I searched for a match. I found one beside our fireplace and I quickly made a fire and used the note as kindling. As I worked I thought about what it said. If I were truly trapped how could I even begin to get out?

-End Part One

Wow terrifying. I love your unique vocabulary, and especially the phrase using a comparison to God for physical features in the negative.

My only critique is that the first scary phrase is "are you ready for the last part?" Versus the end, "are you ready for the second part?" I feel like those should match, but maybe you have a reason. I feel like second part is scarier personally.

Well done!

My brain and body ache as I drag myself out of bed and slide my feet into a pair of navy blue slippers. I really need to piss. I stumble into the bathroom and flip a switch, allowing the light to flicker on, letting a meek glow settle onto my weary face. My eyes adjust to this newfound light, and fall onto a strange set of sentences etched upon my skin. I rub my arm, attempting to scratch them away, they won’t budge. The sentences read, ‘you have Alzheimer’s. You love your wife. Your name is Keith.’ The strangest part of that, is I dont recall having a wife, however my name is Keith… perhaps its a two truths one lie, or two lies one truth? I have no recollection of having Alzheimer’s…

I turned my arm, searching for more information, something to heal this growing pain of unknowing, and then, like I had been kissed by the devil’s fowl lips, another mystery befell me. A second message, this time, however, it was messy, and done in thick black ink; that of a marker pen. The words jumped out at me, ‘THE TATTOOS ARE A LIE.’ My stomach churns, my brain desperately searches for answers. Nothing. I don’t remember anything.

No longer in need of a piss (the panic must have wiped it clean from my mind) I head back to the bedroom. In the bed, a woman began to stir awake, “Keith? What are you doing up?” She says, forcing herself into an upright position. “Oh… erm, I just needed to pee.” I responded, awkwardly scanning her face, trying to gain any sense of familiarity, still, I could remember nothing.

[I got bored so sorry about that 👍]

A thousand punches rained down on me from above. As my defenses weakened, each became more damaging than the last. Suddenly, they stopped. I dropped the protective arm from my face and looked up in anguish. Scalding, sharp, stinging pain was my entire existence as I felt my face becoming inflamed in real time. Bleeding on the bathroom floor, she towered above me with her back now turned. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned around and revealed her face. A cheshire cat mouth, filled with pointed, sharpened teeth and frigid, expressionless eyes.

“Are you ready for the last part?” she shrieked, and let out a piercing cackle as she savored my reaction. As I tried to scream for help, she lunged at my throat and —

As my eyes opened slowly, the light poured into my consciousness and cleansed me of my fear.

Have to find a way to know I am dreaming before it's over.. I thought as I resentfully and painfully pulled off my warm covers. Nature was calling, and I had long since accepted that I was subservient to nature. As I departed from my now empty slumber nest, I glanced outside and saw that it was still snowing. How many days in a row is that? I wondered to myself airily.

Stumbling down the hall on my way to the washroom, I could tell that I wasn’t yet ready to face the day. The overwhelming, familiar, amalgamated gremlin of weariness, dysphoria, and lamentation was wrapped around my knees. Sometimes I was lucky and it was hanging onto a part of me less strictly necessary for locomotion, but no matter what it was always present and pulling. Pulling, pulling, pulling. Pulling me down with perpetual and indubious dedication.

Despite the rote familiarity of this sequence, by the time I had finally trudged all the way to the washroom I was feeling worse than usual. Anxiety was in the midst of a terroristic hijacking of my train of thought, and, having already expended my willpower just to make it to the toilet, I gave it the free reign it demanded.

After finishing, I flushed the toilet and looked in the mirror. I looked terrible. My pasty white skin was nearly translucent. It looked like God himself, that ineffable prankster, had used liquid white-out to coat my skeleton. My eyes were swollen, and I could still see the bruise on my left cheek and accompanying scar across the bridge of my nose from the week before. Never again, I promised myself emptily.

As I was about to embark on the migration back to my bedroom, I felt a frightening, electric sensation shoot down each vertebrae in the xylophone of my spine sequentially and in rapid succession. Without knowing why, I held out my left arm and looked down. There was a large tattoo, written in dark capital letters with beautiful calligraphy:

YOU HAVE ALZHEIMERS. YOU LOVE YOUR WIFE. YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIE.

A small motor in the pit of my stomach jump-started. As it continued to accelerate, I felt tingling in my fingertips as I slipped into the terror like a weighted vest.

I stopped in place and waited. All I could hear was my heartbeat, which now sounded like it's origination point was inside my head.

I peered into the hallway, and waited. Did I just hear the front door? The lines between reality and paranoia were blurring again, and I tried to remember what the doctor had told me about maintaining a militant divide.

I stood there for a long time, waiting. Nothing was happening, and my terror was proportionately dissipating.

Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and whirled around.

“Are you ready for the second part?”

##Ruins of Disco

“The fact that they’re still operating is a crime against humanity.” Franklin spits into the microphone. His face is red. “Who do they think they are, doing the electric boogie or whatever trendy dance those idiots think is cool.”

Rebecca is standing in the sound room with her arms crossed glaring at him. In her right hand, she has three pictures. The technicians and producers do their best to ignore her for fear of provoking her wrath.

“We’re seeing a decline of disco’s popularity nationwide, but for some reason, it refuses to die in our city.” He grabs at his collar for dramatic effect even if the listeners won’t be able to hear it. After a few quick breaths, he calms down.” With the power of rock and good taste, that’ll hopefully change soon enough. This is Franklin Smith with TKPY signing off.”

When he exits the studio, he lights a cigar and takes a large draw from it. He spots Rebecca out of the corner of his eye and perks up. His smile dominates his face as he approaches her with an arm outstretched. The lines around his eye show that it’s genuine.

“Rebecca, it’s so nice to see you. I haven’t seen you since Miguel’s party. How’ve you been?” he asks.

“Cut the crap, Franklin. Explain this.” She shoves the pictures to his chest. The pictures are of a brick building with the words “Emerald Haven” in a neon sign above the doorway. On the right side of the door, someone spray painted, “Disco Freaks Must Go.” On the other side, the phrase “GO AWAY” is written in all caps.

“My word, this vandalism is horrible. Have you contacted the police?” he asks.

“We both know you’re the one who caused it.” Rebecca says. Franklin looks around ashamed.

“Can we talk in my office?” Rebecca shrugs and follows him. Franklin’s office is an excuse to cover his walls with the famous people he met. His desk has no drawers, and the chairs are cheap. Rebecca’s back begins to feel sore the moment she sits down.

“Every day, I play a character that hates disco. Staying Alive is one of my favorite songs; it creates a sense of euphoria in me. People are embarrassed by that feeling, but I love it. Unfortunately, I have bills to pay and condemning an entire genre is how I do it. Market research shows that-”

“And what about the people?” Rebecca interrupts.

“What do you mean?”

“Screw the market. What about the people who are losing the only space where they felt like they belonged because you keep demonizing us. I’m barely staying afloat right now. If you keep up the hate, I’ll go under.”

“It would be a crime to lose the Emeraldy Haven. History is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes. You’re a great businesswoman; I’m sure you’ll bounce back,” Franklin smiles. Rebecca stands.

“You know. I actually prefer the character you play on the radio. At least he has convictions, you’re nothing more than a spineless greedy bastard.” Rebecca storms out of the radio station.

Later that night, Rebecca is bartending for her nightclub. There are ten people on a dancefloor designed to hold forty. The tip jar only has spare change in it. It’ll take a miracle for her to keep the lights on for a month.

“Why are you so sad? You’re killing the vibe of your own business.” Gloria’s face brightens the other side of the counter.

“I just had a meeting with Franklin today. That lowlife is killing our business, and he doesn’t care. He’ll lead an angry mob if he thinks it’ll get him higher ratings,” Rebecca says.

“Why do you care about him?”

“I don’t. This is the only place where people can escape their problems on the dance floor. Where will they go if I close?”

“That sounds stressful. Why don’t you listen to your own advice and dance?” Gloria grabs Rebecca’s wrist.

“No, I can’t. I have to oversee the bar.”

“Tyler’s here too. Take a small break.” Gloria drags Rebecca from behind the bar to the middle of the floor.

Rebecca sways to the rhythm for the first few moments. Then, her arms and legs start to move. Before the first song is over, she fully embraces the moment. Franklin is not even a memory to her. Her club is no longer in debt. The entire world is confined to this small space created by the infectious four on the floor beats.

After a half-hour of dancing, Rebecca returns to the bar refreshed. The club may close, but Rebecca will survive. Everyone will survive. Because that’s the power of disco.

r/AstroRideWrites

<3

Hm, i wonder... starts jamming a hotel keycard into the door

Loves the mystery behind it!

Isn't this just Memento?

[THIS STORY TAKES PLACE IN NANTES, FRANCE, IN THE YEAR 1978]
 

  You wake up in a large, vivid room, painted white with chips in the paint, with no windows and a single purple door. Once you stumble upon the door, you notice 6 different key sitting on a short, dark taupe colored table. Each is a different shape and color. The first key is red, that has a heart on the end of the key. The second key is orange, it has the shape of a phoenix on the end of the key. The third key is yellow, the end of the key has the shape of a star on it. The fourth key is green, along the bottom is a leaf.  The fifth key is blue, the end of the key has a butterfly on it. The last key is the color purple. However, the last key is rather different from the other ones. It had a shape of a flower on the end. But engraved on the purple key says… “WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT USE THIS KEY”.
    After reading the engraved message, you take 2 steps back and look at all the keys. You have a puzzled look on your face and start to try to find another way to exit. You sit down and ponder on ways to get out of this empty, lifeless room. Out of nowhere, A note slips under the purple door you observed earlier. You think to yourself, “I haven't seen this note before…” Before reading the note, you look around the room to see if any other people are around you, Then you read the note. “THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY OUT OF HERE.” You fold up the note and throw it away from you as far as you could, and go right back to the keys on the table. Now, you notice another note. “Each key does a different thing for you, it could be either good or bad… You can only use ONE key if you don't want to be confined in this room eternally.” You look at the shape of the keys, you analyze all of them for hours, Finally you decide to pick. Without thinking about the message, you pick the purple key. You think to yourself,  “When have flowers ever hurt anybody?” 
   You open the door and finally leave the room. All you see is a natural flower garden with a long stone path. There is a sign, but you do not care to read it. The sign reads… “DO NOT TOUCH THE FLOWERS.” You walk down the path, and you notice a bee hive, and bees taking nectar from the flowers and back to the hive. You reach the end of the path, and you observe the flowers… Furthermore, you go up to a purple hibiscus flower and smell it. “It just smells so lovely!” You say out loud to yourself, then you pluck the flower from the shrub, and the atmosphere goes silent.
   It starts to rain, and you look around, you see bees. The bees aren't in a good mood. There are more bees than your fear level at that moment. You were fearful of the bees, you stood still in the rain. Then, the bees attacked you, after they are done, you lay on the ground and wake up the next morning. You go down the path again in search for the purple door. Unable to find the door, you continue to walk back down the path, while you sob. You approach vines with spikes, you keep walking down the path ignoring the vines, but suddenly… You feel the spiking vine come through your mouth. Not only that, but you were impaled. The vines return to their rightful spot, with your lifeless body still though the vine. Nobody ever found you. 
   Your lover files a report to the police that you haven't come home in about 48 hours. From the years 1978 to 1997 they tried to investigate your disappearance, But gave up after finding no evidence whatsoever of where you could have gone. In the year 2022, the public still wonders of where you possibly went. 

&#x200B;

{This is my first time actually doing creative writing so if you could critique me that would be a great help!}
   

Pick! The! Lock!