The following is my submission to a prompt from the r/WritingPrompts subreddit. The full Reddit post can be seen here.
Prompt: The aliens came, kidnapped 20% of the human population and left without doing anything else. Years go by, population rebuilds but people notice that something's changed. The kidnapped ones were carefully picked.
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The guitar shop owner leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s the strangest thing. Ever since The Great Vanishing, I haven’t sold a single lefty guitar. I’ve been thinking about it awhile, and I have a theory, I really do. I think they took only lefties. My cousin Jerry, you see, he’s a lefty, or at least he says he is, but he’s still here. I always say, ‘Well then why didn’t they take you, Jerry?’ He never has a good answer. What do you think?”
I nodded and gave a friendly smile. “I think you might be onto something,” I offered to be polite, but in truth, I had heard hundreds of theories over the years. And this had to be one of the dumbest.
I paid for my guitar strings, said thank you, and walked out of the shop. Amidst the winter's chill, the sun shone with fervor, casting its rays upon the city, a burst of warmth in the cold.
As I walked down the sidewalk, my mind wandered back to that fateful day. In the weeks following, people naturally tried to make sense of why one-fifth of the world’s population disappeared. Was it the rapture? Were they the chosen ones? Was it completely random? All the great minds in all the great lands came together to discuss, but no consensus was reached.
People lost hope in ever seeing their loved ones again. The world endured a collective trauma that rattled communities and left an existential question looming over every soul—what if I’m the next one to go?
The thing that people didn’t know was that some of those lost in The Great Vanishing had returned, and I happened to be one of them.
To ensure our secrecy, the aliens planted a chip in our brains that prevented us from sharing our experience. I still had the memory of what happened—the holding cells, the experiments, the hardships of a trapped species eager for answers—but as soon as I tried to articulate anything into words or actions, my mind went blank, as if the neurons were blocked from firing.
Only 10 million of the 1.6 billion that vanished had returned, carefully selected to complete the mission. We needed to locate the 5 Artifacts of Degathor, scattered across Earth millennia ago in an effort to ensure that their power would never be wielded again.
The aliens made a deal with us—find the Artifacts, and they will return all 1.6 billion people back to Earth.
I opened my car door and sat down in the driver’s seat. I tore open the guitar strings box and shook it upside down until the strings fell out. A little note fluttered out too.
I picked up the scrap of paper and flipped it over. This was one of the ways in which those selected for the mission—The Chosen, we called ourselves—communicated in secrecy.
The note read: Meet me on the east side of Garibaldi Park at the entrance closest to Dickens St and Apple St at 3pm on Friday. I think I found something that you’re going to want to see…
I looked up at the clock on my dashboard. It was 2:53pm. With urgency and excitement, I put my car into drive and floored it.
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The following is my submission to a prompt from the r/WritingPrompts subreddit. The full Reddit post can be seen here.
Prompt: The aliens came, kidnapped 20% of the human population and left without doing anything else. Years go by, population rebuilds but people notice that something's changed. The kidnapped ones were carefully picked.
____________________________________________________________________________
The guitar shop owner leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s the strangest thing. Ever since The Great Vanishing, I haven’t sold a single lefty guitar. I’ve been thinking about it awhile, and I have a theory, I really do. I think they took only lefties. My cousin Jerry, you see, he’s a lefty, or at least he says he is, but he’s still here. I always say, ‘Well then why didn’t they take you, Jerry?’ He never has a good answer. What do you think?”
I nodded and gave a friendly smile. “I think you might be onto something,” I offered to be polite, but in truth, I had heard hundreds of theories over the years. And this had to be one of the dumbest.
I paid for my guitar strings, said thank you, and walked out of the shop. Amidst the winter's chill, the sun shone with fervor, casting its rays upon the city, a burst of warmth in the cold.
As I walked down the sidewalk, my mind wandered back to that fateful day. In the weeks following, people naturally tried to make sense of why one-fifth of the world’s population disappeared. Was it the rapture? Were they the chosen ones? Was it completely random? All the great minds in all the great lands came together to discuss, but no consensus was reached.
People lost hope in ever seeing their loved ones again. The world endured a collective trauma that rattled communities and left an existential question looming over every soul—what if I’m the next one to go?
The thing that people didn’t know was that some of those lost in The Great Vanishing had returned, and I happened to be one of them.
To ensure our secrecy, the aliens planted a chip in our brains that prevented us from sharing our experience. I still had the memory of what happened—the holding cells, the experiments, the hardships of a trapped species eager for answers—but as soon as I tried to articulate anything into words or actions, my mind went blank, as if the neurons were blocked from firing.
Only 10 million of the 1.6 billion that vanished had returned, carefully selected to complete the mission. We needed to locate the 5 Artifacts of Degathor, scattered across Earth millennia ago in an effort to ensure that their power would never be wielded again.
The aliens made a deal with us—find the Artifacts, and they will return all 1.6 billion people back to Earth.
I opened my car door and sat down in the driver’s seat. I tore open the guitar strings box and shook it upside down until the strings fell out. A little note fluttered out too.
I picked up the scrap of paper and flipped it over. This was one of the ways in which those selected for the mission—The Chosen, we called ourselves—communicated in secrecy.
The note read: Meet me on the east side of Garibaldi Park at the entrance closest to Dickens St and Apple St at 3pm on Friday. I think I found something that you’re going to want to see…
I looked up at the clock on my dashboard. It was 2:53pm. With urgency and excitement, I put my car into drive and floored it.
