It is not a bad omen to write the 13th episode of Genres Not Included on Friday the 13th. At least, that is what authors Joe Nelson and Eva Newcastle assumed when they put pen to paper. But a crawling sense of dread and terror might come from the most innocuous moment, such as waking up in the morning to go to work. See how Eva starts the unsettled ride and witness how Joe concludes it this Friday the 13th.
Tonight, we gather amidst the ruin of our own making.
It’s Friday, which means it’s time for @EvaNewcastle and myself to regale you with #GenresNotIncluded, the Best Typewriter Improv on the Planet!
5 posts apiece. 1 story! Take it away, Eva!
— Joe Nelson, September 13, 2024
He overslept. Good ‘ol Friday the 13th. A late night turned to morning. Morning got away from him. And that, he would learn, was an understatement.
He called into work but no one answered. Traffic was light. When he arrived, the shop he’d worked at for fifteen years was gone.
He double-checked himself. Yes, yes, he was standing on the cracked sidewalk where North Prospect met Cherry Street. But instead of Music Zone, the best in vinyl and cassette, there was something called…The Weeping Bean?
It looked like a coffee bar.
It was very wrong.
1300 hours. He checked clock on his phone, which he’d set to military time to impress the girls. That never worked, but still. He checked the date: Friday the 13th.
“Friday, right?” he joked to himself.
He checked the shifts app to confirm, but the app had been removed.
He pocketed the phone and walked into the establishment. It was crowded with excited 20-somethings. They were talking about some big event. He assumed a concert or sporting event. He passed them for the barista.
“Hey,” he snapped his fingers to get attention. An obnoxious trait.
The room feel silent. Every head turned. That obnoxious trait must have sounded an alarm. Eyes glared.
“Sorry,” he let out a rare apology. “Where’s the hardware store?”
“The hardware store?” A customer laughed. “There hasn’t been a hardware store here in thirteen years, pal.”
The hardware store was a vacant lot…and the hipster record store was a hipster coffee shop. That seemed on point.
He backed up and checked the phone again.
Friday the 13th…but the year said 2037.
Either he’d been Van Winkled or the absinthe was the good stuff.
He felt strange, an uneasy sensation. He tried to call a friend, but no one answered. Nothing made sense. That wasn’t the absinthe. His veins felt cold as ice. His face burned. He broke out into a sweat.
“Who’s messing with me?” he asked the crowd. “Come on.” He inched back.
He bumped into someone trying to enter and neglected to apologize.
“Dude, move it, huh?” The young man who had a weird familiarity to him. Like the ghost of a memory.
He was frantic now, trying to call up any number he could remember, trying to find a lifeline to his reality.
He burst through he front door and into the middle of the street. The sun was blaring down on him but should have been lower in the sky.
He didn’t recognize a soul. Every storefront had changed. When was the last time he worked in a hardware store? That was yesterday. No. Wait.
Relief! A friendly face approached.
“David, thank god you’re here! Everything’s gone nuts!”
“What did you expect? It’s Friday the 13th.”
And David gently led the way back to his van. The Shady Hills Rest Home decal was worn and faded, but at least it was familiar.
Fin.
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