Email

Writer’s Cramp
Write a short story or poem about receiving an email from a stranger. The stranger seems to know a lot about you, but you don't know who they are. What does the email say, and how do you find out who it is?

564 words

Monday… I hate Mondays. Work sucks, coffee sucks, traffic sucks… life… isn’t bad but could be better.

I open my email and see too many to care about, but one catches my attention because there is no name in the “from” column. The subject is urgent, “READ THIS NOW.” Not caring about Trojan viruses or other types, I open it, curiosity peaked.

Carlisle, you must be aware. Watch out for the pink Dalmatian. Don’t go near the bus stop, and for God’s sake, avoid the news at all costs.

The email was signed, Carlisle. That’s me. Carlisle Suresby. CEO of my own company, owner of many nice things including expensive cars. I don’t go to therapy, never had to, and I certainly never write emails to myself, and if I did they would make a heck of a lot more sense than this one.

I hit reply and type:
Who is this and what the hell are you talking about?

Almost instantly, another email appears.

It reads: I’m you.

After that is a laundry list of facts that only I would know. I look around, expecting this to be some joke. This list… only I would know how much money I have embezzled from my own company. Only I would know which cars I’ve made love to various strange men in. Only I would know what color underwear I am wearing today.

I delete the email without responding, only to find that my breath is coming in quick bursts, my heart pounding.

I leave early for the day and find that the first email has stuck in my mind. I see a pink Dalmatian and my heart palpitates. I cross the street to avoid the bus stop. When I get home, I grab the newspaper and head for the trash can in the attempt to follow the final instruction, but the headline grabs my attention.

CEO KILLED IN BUILDING FIRE.

I let the bottom half of the paper swing down and stare into the eyes of my own portrait. I drop the paper. "Avoid the news at all costs," my shaky voice says. Like a flash of lightening, my surroundings change to the charred remains of an inferno, the very inferno that killed me. CEO KILLED IN BUILDING FIRE

I walk through the rooms of my high rise, mouth gaping. The halls are similarly charred. I manage to make my way outside, taking the stairs, and sitting on the sidewalk is the pink Dalmatian I was warned of. The dog stares at me, no, through me, with dark penetrating eyes. She sits near the bus stop, and when the black, double-decker bus comes around the corner she stands, wags her tail, and barks at me. The bus stops, the doors swish open. Death looks out from a dark hood, his gnarled bone fingers gripping the lever that opened the doors. I follow the pink Dalmatian onto the bus.

"Idiot," someone says as I brush by. "You could have lived."

I stop and turn, cold prickles cascading down my body chilling me to the core.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Avoid the bus, watch out for the pink dog, avoid the news... dammit you fool."

"What?" I am flabbergasted. What does this stranger mean?

He turns and shows me his burned, glistening face. Teeth showing through his torn cheek. "You would have been saved."