My teacher glares as she passes me the letter. The class is silent, the whistle of the wind loud, as I stand in the center of the circle near the mound of freshly dug dirt. I take the letter from her hands, feeling guilty but unsure why.

"It seems Suhphy has played a joke," she says loud enough for the class to hear. "Looks like you'll be staying after school to explain how you did it, to myself and your mother."

I nod, embarrassed, then step back into the circle while staring at the standard envelope with my name written across the front in my own handwriting.

"Who would like to come and pull another item from the capsule," my teacher says, "it has been here a hundred years, let's not allow Suhphy's bad behavior to ruin the occasion."

Richard steps forward to pull the next item, seeming nervous, and I look back to the letter. I open it slowly, aware that those on either side of me are watching. Taking out the paper, I unfold it carefully, bending it at the middle in an attempt to hide the words.

Suhphy, this is me...you...again. We should have listened, but we didn't so please listen this time. Do not for any reason go into the school basement. It seems that once we wandered there in curiosity, and now we are stuck in this cycle. I went thinking l could break what I was told I would find. Before me, we went at the direction of a teacher. I am sure there are more stories that were not passed along, because I am not passing along every one I was told. So I will keep things simple. Just stay out of the basement.

There is a scribble, as though the writer had begun to write another line before stopping suddenly. Rebecca is standing in the center of the circle holding a wrinkled pack of cigarettes above her head, the teacher reaching for them with urgency while the other students laugh.

I throw away the letter after reading it again, not because I don't believe it, because I want to even though it feels silly to do so, but because I don't want others to read it. I sit through the after school interrogation. I shrug and remain quiet. My mother allows the questions to continue until my teacher shows unreasonable frustration, at which point my mother stops her and asks to see the letter. The look on my teacher's face appears to be anger, but I know it is embarrassment. She tells us to leave.

Six years later I am a senior, at my Homecoming dance held in the middle school since the gymnasium is brand new and the high school's is worn and musty. I dance with my friends, and allow Essa to dance closer to me, until we risk being scolded by the chaperones.

Essa and I sneak away, finding the stairs to the basement and walking down them, struggling to not allow our giggles to betray us. I remember the letter, but it feels more surreal now, the makings of a child's confused mind. A year after I read it the gym teacher had asked me to go to the basement to get supplies, and I refused. Thinking about this sends a ping of anxiety through me, until Essa takes my hand to lead me.

Our footsteps echo through the corridors. We pass a long hallway, almost running, and I think I see a distant light. Stopping, I return to the intersection, but when I look down the hall it is dark.

Essa leads, making us take three more turns, before stopping and pressing me up against a metal door. We kiss, and time slips away. Essa opens the door, guiding me through it, and we search for a light. I find the switch, and the moment the room brightens I see the figure behind Essa.

I'm not sure what the man uses as a club, but Essa is laying on the floor, and I am backing away further into the room. He has on a janitor's jumpsuit, but one that looks ancient. I expect him to pursue me, but he remains at the door. Blood is trickling from Essa's head, who lays just inside the room near the man's feet.

He takes a step back and closes the door. The room shakes, like an old engine starting up. The light brightens, and continues to brighten, until it becomes almost blinding. I run to the door but it is locked. A humming sound, deafening, fills the room. I pass out.

When I awaken, Essa is dead, and I am cold and disoriented. I try the door again, and it is open. After long terrified minutes I find the exit and escape back up into the school. The halls are empty, and as I near the main entrance I begin to realize the school looks strange. Outdated. Hallways ended where they should have continued, and there was no staircase to a second floor.

In the vestibule I see the time capsule. Looking out the small glass window on the door I see the buildings across from the school are shorter, and built with wood and brick. A long car, with an extra wheel on the side and a canvas roof, eases down the street.

Next to the capsule I see paper, pencils, and envelopes. I try to remember the letter I received years ago, now in the future, and begin to write my own.

I near the end, ready to sign my name, when I hear footsteps. I turn and look back into the building through another small window. The man is walking toward me, his outfit now suited to his surroundings.

I fold the letter and place it in an envelope, writing my name quickly on the front. I drop it into the capsule. Anxious, I try the door, fearing it is locked. It is not. I burst into this old world, running hard away from the school, uncertain what comes next.

I held the letter. Yup. That was my name. First and middle. Not last, though. Odd.

I stepped away from the rest of my class, clamoring around to see the oddities that where placed in the capsule. I had been just as excited as them, but now I was consumed with a different curiosity. I leaned against a tree as I began reading the letter.

To my future daughter,

I don't know what your life is going to be. I don't even know if they'll allow you to keep the same name. But please know, please understand, that you are loved. Even now I'm not sure I will be able to let you go.

I want you to know that only reason I'm giving you up is because I can't give you the life you deserve. I'm in high school, single, and unemployed. I won't be able to give you a roof over your head, regular meals, or anything you're going to need. The agency has assured me that you'll be placed with a good family. A strong family. A loving couple who desperately want a child to love.

You may never forgive me. And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with thinking that way. But I hope that one day, when you're an adult, we'll be able to talk. I hope that your childhood is filled with love and laughter, and that you never have to wonder where your next meal is coming from, or if you're going to have a home when you get out of school. May your life be nothing like mine.

I frown. One, I'm not adopted. And two, this time capsule is 100 years old. No way was this letter meant for me--but that was clearly my name on the envelope.

When I got home from school I showed my mom the letter. She got an odd, sad smile and sat with me on the couch. She took the letter from me and read it. "This is from your grandmother," she said softly. "My adoptive family tried to let me keep the name she gave me, but her parents--well, her parents were not good people. So my name had to be changed, and we moved away."

I thought about that. We'd lived in this town my whole life. "When did you come back?"

"After I graduated college. I came to see how my birth mother was doing. My parents never lied to me about being adopted, you see, and they'd told me that my birth mother had loved me very much and had wanted only the best for me."

I frowned. "But--I've never met your mother."

"No." Her voice was sad, quiet. "You haven't."

Hey doofus. Just a heads-up. You invented time travel. It's not as cool as it sounds.

Travelling back in time gives you massive diarrea. The further you travel back, the worse it gets! You should've seen that time you visited the dinosaurs, Woo-Wee! Oh right, you ARE going to see that. Might as well bring a couple of toilet rolls and clean underwear!

All kidding aside, you're going to do great, kid. Life has its ups and downs. It won't be easy but you'll hang in there! (I just KNOW you will, hehe.)

You'll get married to a beautiful wife, get kids, have your own lab, invent time travel... You won't be a too shabby polka dancer too! Well, you did learn from Anna Slezáková, the ORIGINAL polka mistress.

Just one last tip, always bring a towel (and some clean underwear!)

Cheers,

You

To a future Markson of Bonham Secondary School,

I know not what to write for this memory box, and who knows if anyone will read it. It is a needless effort, a waste of time put forth by professor Ford such that our interest will be more captivated by it than the yearly rituals. It will not accomplish anything more than humor, as we made great fun of it during the fifth period. We will still be raising student undergarments up the pole, as is our honored tradition.

Perhaps one of my children, grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren will be purview to this letter, and this is addressed to them. You come from a good womb, and I wish upon you the same success in your pursuits as my dearest father, who took our family from the dirty streets of Philadelphia to our most esteemed standing. May you be spared the smallpox, which came unexpectedly, the first cases in over fifteen years. Many passed, including a few I held as close friends. Rest in peace William and Simon, your memory will pass unto eternity in this ink, your spirit stronger than the flesh.

My hand is tired, and the weather has finally turned nice, so I am off to play baseball.

Most sincerely,

Milton Markson

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grade: E

I most suspect that you didn't think I'd be grading this. Mocking me and suggesting that you will submit to such foolish activities as raising private garments up the flagpole is grounds for flunking. Your future family will certainly see what a dunce you could be.

-Ford

--------------------

r/StoriesToThinkAbout

I can’t believe what I am looking it, it’s a letter to me, but that doesn’t make any sense. How could the message be to me.

“To Christine Netterman, 415 Augustine Drive, Thousand Oaks, CA”

Maybe there was a chance that there was some other Christine that had been there, I was named after my aunt. But that time doesn’t work out either, that would have only placed the letter maybe 20 years older. The texture of the page clearly feels like its a hundred years old. It’s unlike anything that I have ever had my hands on, the texture is weird stiff and unmoving. It’s also much heavier than any letter that I’ve ever had in my hands.

“I know that this letter is going to find you well, but that you are going to be slightly disturbed by it’s presence. Please remain calm and try not to panic.”

Well that was more than an understatement. Great and now everyone is looking at me, but I guess that makes sense. If you were to open a 100 year old time capsule and the only thing that was still in good condition was a letter addressed directly to you and no one else, there would be a little bit of confusion. The thing that they don’t tell you about time capsules is that when you dig them up most of the contents are completely destroyed. As it turns out we really aren’t good at making things that you can bury for a long period of time without the contents getting reclaimed by nature. But the letter that I have in my hands is the only thing that is not completely destroyed, in fact it doesn’t look like it’s aged a day, despite being over 100 years old.

“I assure you that all of this will make sense in the coming days, but as someone who was standing, staring at you read this letter I can understand and share your discomfort.”

Wait… so the person who sent the letter is standing in the audience right now. But I can’t see anyone that looks like they are our of place, and clearly there isn’t anyone that’s over a hundred. So how can any of this make sense.

“You can stop looking around the crowd, at the time that I was standing there I didn’t know that I was going to be the one sending you the letter.”

I think that who ever sent the letter is trying to make me feel better about the whole thing. But that’s not really helping me at all. Why would any of this be happening, right now it’s just me looking over a group of people expecting me to say something. They are looking for a 16 year old girl from California to explain to them why opening a 100 year old time capsule, there was a letter addressed to me. Maybe if I look deeper into the letter then they will go away.

“I can only assume that you are feeling very awkward about the whole thing. I remember feeling really bad for you watching you on the stage, but I can give you some help. At the end of everything you are going to tell everyone that this was clearly a prank, then run off. Not really sure where you go, but everyone kind of takes it for a cool magic trick then goes along their own way.”

Is it really that simple? All I have to do to make this end is just tell everyone that it’s a prank and then they will go about their lives.

“You do actually have to say it with conviction, your first attempt doesn’t really sell it. But in the end you get away. When you go make sure that you take this letter with you, the contents are important as they will help you to survive the next two weeks. I know that either way you will make it out, but hopefully if you follow these directions you will impact the present as little as possible.”

Okay, this is too weird. But here goes nothing…

“Sorry everyone, it appears that there has been an elaborate prank that’s been played.”

Why did my voice choose that moment to crack, if I don’t believe it then there is no way that I am going to be able to make them believe it.

“Seriously everyone, sorry for the confusion… it was someone trying to create a scene with a little bit of slight of hand.”

Now all I have to do is walk off the stage slowly and disappear into the bushes. I don’t know what’s going on but as soon as I find the person who wrote this letter I am going to give them hell. This isn’t a funny joke. This is clearly going to mess me up for years and Dr. Wright is going to have a field day with this. But what do I tell her, you’ll figure that out just keep walking, luckily it looks like the letter was right, no one is following me. Just a couple hundred more yards and I should be able to ease up a bit. I need to stop gripping the letter so tightly, I’m creasing the paper and I have no idea what is in the contents.

“Okay, I am assuming that you are reading this part after you have left the assembly. First let me apologize, and know that when you were reading the letter I had no idea that I was the one that sent it to you, I was fully convinced that is was a prank walking away from the meeting. It wasn’t until many months later, that I had to send you the message. You see I’m kind of stuck here a hundred years in the past. Based on the way that I think the science works, there isn’t much chance of me coming back. But with that said there are still something’s that we can do to make sure that everyone makes it out okay. I’m sorry that I’ve mixed you up in this, but when you are trying to contact someone from a hundred years in the past you really don’t have a lot of options. With each iteration we are getting closer to equilibrium, for the sake of everyone involved please don’t let apathy win.”

There is literally no way that this is real. The letter is right, this has to be some prank that’s being played on me. They are talking about time travel and I know for a fact that’s not a real thing. I’ve watched my fair share of Doctor Who and that doesn’t happen in the real world, although I could be convinced by David Tennant…

“At this point I can only assume that you are thinking that this whole thing is crazy and that there is someone that is pranking you. But here is the think, in my timeline, I have a letter from you too. Which means that you have to follow through with the plan at least a little bit, the letter says that you should know that ‘Kerry was a jerk’ and that what she did wasn’t right.”

Okay, how the hell does she know that. That happened when I was in middle school in Kansas, I’m not even sure that Kerry would remember the sleepover. Stop and think, there are only three people who could know about that. Weighing the likelihood that one of those three people was trying to pull a prank on me is on one side, the other is that time travel is real. I just have to get to some place safe where I can read the rest of the letter without being bothered. But where to go…

Kevin and his class watched with anticipation as their sixth grade teacher struggled to unearth something in front of them. Giggles and shouts of encouragement rang out as he hunched over using garden tools in the soil. Slowly, he carved a space around a curved piece of metal sticking out of the lawn next to their school.

"Hurry up!" joked a young red haired boy next to Kevin, "we're gonna be the same age as the capsule by the time you're done."

"Ha-ha," Mr. Allen said, "very funny, perhaps you'd like to be the one getting their hands dirty?"

The smile flickered on the ginger kid's face and he fell silent, looking away sheepishly.

"Almost got it. Kevin would you hold the trowel?"

"Which one?" piped up Kevin, inching closer.

"Mini shovel," grinned Mr. Allen, "almost got it now."

Kevin nodded and took the trowel from Mr. Allen. A moment later his teacher was wrenching the time capsule from the soil, dirt clods fell softly to the grass as he held it up for everyone to see.

"Muahahaha!" Mr. Allen shouted, "I have done it! Who wants to go back in time?!"

His students all jumped around raising their hands, hoping to be among the first kids to see objects, tokens, and letters left from previous students a century before.

"First peek goes to the young man with the trowel," nodded Mr. Allen, "go ahead, pop it."

Kevin nodded, trading the trowel for the cylinder. The time capsule weighed more than twice as much as the little shovel. As he clenched the lid and tried to twist it free his teacher suddenly collapsed. Everyone looked up from Kevin, momentarily distracted to see a tall man standing over their fallen teacher. A rock fell from his hand, a tiny patch of blood on the edge where it had struck their teacher.

Everyone scattered, some screamed. The only person who remained frozen was Kevin. He couldn't move. His muscles were locked. He couldn't speak. The man stood facing him, his back to the midday sun. Mr. Allen moaned on the lawn. The capsule was heavy. The smell of recently watered grass was pleasant.

The man's face was half hidden by a baseball cap as he held out his hand expectantly. Kevin obeyed without hesitation or word. The man closed his hand over the capsule, the edge of a scar crept up his thumb and over the back of his hand. Kevin turned his head down to stare at his opposite hand. Same scar. Did it learning how to shuck oysters the previous year.

"Hope you're getting better with knives, kid," grinned the man as he popped open the capsule, "this stuff is mine, but I'll let ya keep this one little thing."

A folded piece of paper landed at Kevin's feet as the man turned and walked away.

"Don't worry about Mr. Allen," he called back, "dumb ass deserves worse than that."

Kevin scooped up the paper and unfolded it carefully.

"What's this a map of?!" Kevin shouted.

"That's your journey," he shrugged, never looking back, "you'll figure it out before college."

80 years ago, I put a letter to myself in a time capsule. I had half-heartedly asked myself about my future- about where I’d go in life. I knew I wouldn't receive it, but not because I’d be old and quite possibly rotting away in a nursing home. I knew I wouldn't make it beyond highschool, at least not very far, and definitely not past 90.

At the time I wrote the letter I was ten years old. I hadn't had a hard childhood, I simply had a boring one. I felt unfulfilled and isolated, although I did my best to appear as though I felt fulfilled. But at school I was never anything of a story, just a passing thought to my classmates and teachers.

I did my best to have a good image to my teachers and peers, to be remembered as a good person but I don't think they even remembered me at all.

I sat near my peers as we wrote letters in bright colored crayons. Scratching on that letter to me with the oily crayon my hand shook. I never made up false promises but this letter was filled with them.

The paper felt thin under my hands, like a sickly delicate lily. My crayon stitched my handwriting into the paper like red threads.

I remember Junior High when I sat in that room. Canceling my plans with a date. I went to bed, my covers warm and pressing onto my frail body.

The school opened the capsule, leaving the letter at my grave alongside the roses that etched their roots around my grave. The red crayon melted onto the grass as rain soaked the letter into the ground, staining the lilies red.

The teacher was less than enthused by seeing this. Half the crowd was having the biggest laugh ever, like they never heard a joke before. Another chunk was looking absolutely confused. Even my teacher beyond her annoyance was bewildered. "I know the world is half dead inside and out, but this was a bit too far for a prank."

This was an alternative school, essentially. As with most, we had a resident good kid. The "prep reject" as it were. That was me. The teacher gave me the letter but asked me to grab something else from the capsule because it was known I wouldn't remove anything for a prank. So I saw a fancy knife with a sheath in there & grabbed that. I let the teacher know I was gonna step away from the crowd to read the letter, because I was confused too. She let me, understanding this wasn't exactly something I knew about either. "We needed that today, sis! Thanks a ton!" one classmate chimed in. It was the first anniversary of The Tragedy, we needed the brevity.

Everyone else was enjoying the time capsule stuff. I was over against the school was still in sight, and I read the letter. "To my new self, I did so much in my life. This time capsule was part of what I did to ensure you did have what I did, and Hell, I did my best to fix your world before it was on the path to my world. So please hold some patience to read this. I had a letter from an alternate me as well at a much older age than yourself explaining some of these details."

I was weirded out my this. My girlfriend came over asking if she I wanted to see her new accessories. I left a mark where I stopped reading. They were amazing! "Oh my gods, sweetie! I'm jealous!" I cried out in pure gender envy, kissing her hands + along her arms.. She ran her fingers along my neck being flirty as usual. I had to turn her down because of the letter being that interesting and bizarre. She understood & settled for cuddles.

"So I'll explain predestined things first," this was honestly interesting. The word 'explaine' was spelled wrong, but I guess it was a weird thing related to the time it was written. "First and foremost, we are always born, we are always transfemme, and several websites will always exist as well regardless of name. A blog site, a site with an alien mascot filled with the weirdest mix of normies + strange folks that puts offline life to shame, and a blue coated F that's associated to old people mainly."

"Babe, this is a really elaborate letter. Who did this?" my gf asked. "They even mimicked your handwriting." I just kissed her forehead & pulled her closer for cuddles. The comfort we had in our relationship was regarded as 'goals' half the time by our classmates. We always giggled at it, but that's just how things were here. Everyone was able to joke about each other, but if any one of us was screwed with wrong, we all were ready for war. It was relatively familial in nature, though there was a clear earned status too.

"But my time travel matters were a bit different. I jumped through time to fix a few things but not by choice. If I could've, I would've stopped Constantine's bullshit. But I managed to do a few things. I managed to defend Native Americans from colonization by giving them appropriate prep time & medicine that I managed to bring with me. There were still some heavy numbers lost, but many more were saved." — Now I really was bewildered. The person who was shown in those photos had clothes that didn't look like anything I'd wear. A green and yellow shirt with a white G on it, black pants that had white stripes on the sides, and leather looking gloves. "There's also an artist you can look up, Adolf Hitler. In the bottom of the box that had this letter is a USB containing a semi-comprehensive list of the atrocities he would've done had I not convinced him to stick with art through everything. I pulled some strings with money I managed to get & sponsor him getting in. The data isn't for the faint of heart."

"I'm sorry? Does that say Adolf Hitler committing ateocities? Wasn't he a batshit dumbass with art skills from the 1950s?" my gf chimed in.

"Yep. That's the guy. Watch this say something about Disney World not having Oswald the Rabbit & Mortimer Mouse as bitter iconic rivals for D'isney,' I replied.

"Richard Nixon thankfully became a blip in history, as did a few TV stars like Ronald Reagan," the letter continued. "Though it does sadden me a little to see Kingdom Hearts became a series with Warner cartoons rather than Disney. Mickey Mouse was at his best when he was a king." — This is something that I had to re-read about 13 times. "I left another USB in there of the whole series for you though, the Disney one obviously." That one I read about 7 more times. The inconsistencies & such made this clearly truthful with what was said, but also had a surreal nature to it.

My girlfriend looked at the time & said we should get going to lunch. I asked her to just bring mine to me. We were in a safe zone after all, and supplies were brought in fairly often.

"Now I expect you grabbed the knife in the box. Use it well when the monsters start spawning. If all goes right this time, you will be able to keep this better world that zi helped you with. The third USB contains all of my writing, and a comprehensive list I can't fit here. Please, enjoy your world. Tell others what could have been."

I folded the letter again & put it back in the box. I went to the rooftop & looked over the landscape of the area. We at least were winning the war against the undead, but I have to wonder what that other me did to cause this. Was it truly a better alternative to her world? I could only know from the USB. This hellscape was saved by my fellow autistics & spoonies, they knew every in and out of surviving this world. I wonder where that other me is too, and if she saw this world preferable. It is 2013, so it couldn't be as bad as that other future. Right?

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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