Young Writers Society

“Hello,” you say. I don’t look up. I just keep staring at the book my hands, the small, leather bound volume. You frown and try again. “Hello?” Your voice is a little bit louder this time, a little bit more worried. Still, I don’t look at you. I can’t look at you, but you don’t seem to understand. I want to sigh.

“…Three hundred and sixty five,” I murmur. You raise an eyebrow, the thin line of black forming a delicate arch.

“Excuse me?”

“Three hundred and sixty five days.”

“Yes, that’s how many days there are in a year, am I right?”

“Yes, Lindsay, that’s right. Three hundred and sixty six on a leap year.”

“Why are you saying these things? Is there something wrong?” You look up at me, trying to get me to respond. I shift a little, just to make sure that my mop of white hair is all that you’ll be able to see.

“No, nothing is wrong.”

“What are you reading?” Trying a different approach, hm? I’ve seen this trick used so many times now. I’m not going to fall for that one, Lindsay. Better luck next time. If there is a next time. So many things to do, and I have so little time to do it.

“Oh, nothing much.”

“Right.” Your voice is disappointed, and if I knew what you looked like, I would imagine a crestfallen face. However, as I can’t see your face, I’ll settle for hearing your voice. It’s as good as, in my book. No pun intended, of course.

We settle into comfortable silence, and I enjoy it. I scan pages three hundred and six to three hundred and seven. These seem to be just like the other entries; nothing peculiar about any of them. None of the names mean anything to me.

Jamie Edwards, aged 18. Cause of Death: Car crash. Place of Death: Vancouver, Canada. Time of Death: 18 29, Sunday, 21 December, 2008.

Danielle Parkinson, aged 6. Cause of Death: Drowning. Place of Death: London, England. Time of Death: 18 29, Sunday, 21 December, 2008.

Lindsay Kingston, aged 14. Cause of Death: Broken neck. Place of Death: Miami, Florida. Time of Death: 18 30, Sunday, 21 December, 2008.

I don’t read further. I want to say, “Lindsay, you’re going to die tomorrow at six thirty in the evening. Don’t go to Miami,” but I can’t form the words. I’m not supposed to, anyway. Nobody is supposed to know about their death in advance. You look up me.

“Are you alright?”

“J-just fine, Lindsay,” I force out. I want to look at you, see your face for the first time. Funny. I’ve known you for quite a while, longer than most, and I don’t know what you look like. I resist the temptation. It will be harder tomorrow if I look.

“Alright then. I’ll be going to Miami tonight. I’ll see you soon.” You get off the bench, stretch, and wave to me. I don’t wave back. You turn around and jog away, your figure getting smaller and smaller.

Finally, I raise my head. I see nobody in front of me and a brilliant red sky. The vibrant green of the leaves and grass surround me, the rich brown of the bench, the vivid yellow of the blossoms. The trash can beside me is a shade of blue, the bag inside it black. The sun is a flaming golden disc, slowly slipping below the ground.

I raise an ancient hand, gnarled like the bark of the elm tree to my left. The air around it fades in color, turning black and white and shades of gray. Slowly, the color spreads. First, the bench. Then the grass, the trees, the pond, sky, people, animals, everything. And then me.

The birds freeze in the sky, and the sun stops sinking. The trees stop swaying and freeze in their position. People stop moving, stop speaking. Time freezes. I alone continue to move, flicking another page. Another page of names in print. The world around me is black and white, just like me. But I move, I breathe, I live.

A life in monochrome doesn’t seem so bad.