It was just another day in town for me when I chanced upon the poster. Getting high on caffeine at the local coffee shop while trying my best to force out words that weren’t there, staring at the blank digital pages as if I could intimidate them into spewing out poetry. Frustrated, I walked out of the coffee shop for fresh air. Leaving my laptop behind.
Oh God, the shame. I can’t even describe it.
Two minutes. I left for two minutes, and when I came back, it was gone. The coffee shop was empty. The barista had gone out for a bit, maybe to take a smoke, I don’t know. When he got back, the laptop was gone.
“Damn it,” I cursed, kicking dumpsters and banging my fists on the wall once I was a good ten minutes away. The barista wouldn’t appreciate it if I strangled him to death. And I really didn’t need to get a restraining order from my favorite coffee shop. Not when I was this close to finishing…
“Fuck!”
The data. All of it. Gone. The whole manuscript had been stolen. All because I hadn’t been able to control my fucking temper and fucking stay at the fucking coffee shop. I could’ve carried it with me. I could’ve stayed there for a few more minutes. I could’ve done anything but leave around eighty-thousand words on a table, ripe for the taking.
“Okay Sam,” I muttered. “What now?”
Call the police? Who cared about some dinged-up old laptop?
Find the thief myself? Maybe if I’d done some digging when I got back, but by now they were probably a good distance away. Probably skipped town. That’s what I would do.
Tell my parents? I sighed, imagining the conversation. Something like this, I’m guessing:
Mom: “And why were you at the coffee shop?”
Me: “Studying”
Mom: “Your schoolbooks are right here, young man. You went to work on that stupid novel of yours again, didn’t you? I told you it’d be better for you to study. But no, you just have to write that novel. It can’t wait until after your exams are done. It has to be now. I swear I have no idea why God gave me such an ungrateful son. Your father works every day to support you, but do you show gratitude? No. All you do is…”
I’d rather pluck my own teeth out.
Well, at least dad’s not gonna be home for the week-
“Hello there!” a voice chimed.
I tried not to jump out of my skin or fall into the dumpster. Whether or not I succeeded at either of these things is up to you guys. But I’ll just say one thing: dumpster diving is not for the faint of nose. Or lungs in general.
I should write a guidebook. Dumpster-diving 101. At least people would actually read it.
“Ooh, that’s a good idea,” the voice said, apparently unconcerned with the fact that I was covered in trash and smelling worse than my dad’s cooking. “I bet I could help you with the project. I bet I could help you with any project, in fact.”
Wait, what?
“How did you-“
I fell into the dumpster again. This is my second time if you’re keeping count. Two times more than any seventeen-year-old writer should experience in his formative years. All in one night. All because of my laptop and that stupid talking poster.
Life isn’t fair.
Once I’d successfully gotten the banana peels off of my face, clothes, and hair, I managed to keep up a semi-coherent conversation with the poster. Starting with the ever-so-famous ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?!”, I tried my best to note down its features in my mind.
The poster itself was movie-sized, with a solid black background. Taking up the vast majority of the space was a bone-white comedy mask that looked to have been inspired by the Greeks. Except, as far as I knew, those masks couldn’t speak.
“Are you done ogling me?” the masks asked. I felt blood rush to my cheeks.
“S-sorry,” I muttered. The mask laughed.
“Don’t be. It’s not every day that you see a talking poster you know? Savor the moment.”
I exhaled, thankful I hadn’t offended my new friend. Now to start asking more questions. Like whether or not I was having a psychotic break.
“Why is it that everyone who sees me thinks that? It’s insulting. Even our manager, bless his poor, dead heart. Always asking me questions about things and getting shocked when I knew the answers. He thought I was a hallucination too.” The mask said, still wearing that smile. Its eyes were narrow crescents that must’ve been cut by a very precise knife.
Or created using photoshop. That works too, I guess.
“Where did you come from?” I said, wondering whether or not I should touch the thing. Would it be considered rude? Unfortunately, poster etiquette was a subject my parents had neglected to teach me (and if you’re wondering why I didn’t teach myself, stop asking good questions).
“Oh, behind that brick wall,” the mask said. “Your yelling caught my attention.”
“Oh, that…” I winced, sheepishly rubbing the back of my neck as I tried to justify my position.
“I know your situation, Sam,” the mask said. “And, if you want, I’ll help you out.”
I recalled what the mask had said before my fall from grace. “You said you could help me with any project?”
“Yes,” the mask said, positively beaming by this point. Its eyes curled up even more, and its impossibly large grin grew. It should’ve been creepy, but some part of me felt strangely drawn to him. For whatever reason, I felt comfortable in his presence. He radiated compassion.
He wants to help me, I realized. He-
It. I apologize. Slip of the tongue. It wanted to help me.
“What do you want for it?” I said. The mask’s grin curled downwards. A pang of guilt hit me like a brick. I didn’t-I hadn’t meant offense. Oh god, what had I done?
“You think I want something from you?” the mask said somberly.
“Oh, my boy, I desire only to aid you in your craft. I will take the words directly from your heart. With every bit of love I find within, I will create the greatest works of literature ever to be read! Do not fret about prices, my friend. The works of your heart and soul are all I need.” He said.
His smile was like the winter sun breaking through the cold night. It warmed everything around me.
“We’ll need to get my laptop back first,” I said. “It has everything I’ve ever written.”
“It shall be done,” the mask promised. “Come back to me once you’ve retrieved the device, and together we shall begin.”
I left after that, my mind spinning with promises and hope. It was finally gonna happen! My big break! Now everyone would know how good I am. I’d finally leave my mark on the world!
My parents kept asking me why I looked so happy at dinner. I just told them I was glad to be with them. They wouldn’t understand my happiness. They never did. I bolted upstairs and tried my best to go to sleep after that.
The next day, I woke up to find blood seeping through the gap underneath my door. My heart began to speed up. Time seemed to slow down. Blood pounded in my ears as I opened the bedroom door, slowly walking towards the kitchen.
With each step I took, I felt more and more numb. Like my mind was trying to prepare me. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw.
I couldn’t even recognize them.
The police say that they died while I was sleeping. A full eight hours before I woke up. A full eight hours, in which I heard nothing, smelled nothing and felt nothing. Nothing but guilt.
This is all your fault, I thought. It was true. I could’ve done anything but sleep. I could’ve washed the dishes. I could’ve watched a movie with them like they’d asked me to. I could’ve cuddled up in their arms as I used to when I was five. Anything except leaving them alone to fight for themselves.
I shook my head. No. I couldn’t think like that. I couldn’t. This wasn’t my fault.
That was when I noticed something. My bedroom. A strange flash of color. I walked towards the door. There it was. My laptop stood on the table; a single post-it note plastered onto the top.
“Midnight. Bring the laptop ~ Orpheus”