Jan 28th – As they chatted away, he needed to find a way out

January 28th – As they chatted away, he needed to find a way out.


The walls were closing in on them.

Not in a claustrophobic way: he was sure that the walls were actually closing in on him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the white walls were edging across the white floor, shrinking the white space.

She seemed oblivious.

She talked on, about nothing and everything, about this wonderful installation, and how clever the use of white space was, and how people didn’t ‘get’ modern art because they were afraid to open their minds.

The walls were closing in on them.

If this was modern art, it was terrifying.

How could she not notice? His replies were short, distant, disengaged. Where had they come from? He tried to look behind him, to see if there was a way of retracing their steps, but everything behind was just as white as everything in front, and to the sides. They had been shown in through a door, a heavy door, he was sure of that, that swung inwards into the room, but everything was seamless. If there was a door out, he couldn’t see it, in the same way as he couldn’t see the door in.

She was still talking about white, as a colour, as all colours, of how clever it was to be everything and nothing at the same time.

Yes, he said, for want of anything else to say.

The walls were closing in on them.

Panic was building inside him like a river against a dam. For now he was holding it in, staying rational, aware that they’d got in here and so they could get out of here, and that this was a gallery, of sorts, built inside a disused warehouse, that they’d paid to come in here, to see the art that enthused her so much.

He thought of asking her if she’d noticed anything, if the room felt smaller, if they could leave. She was still talking, though, lost in appreciation nothing while he needed something to hold on to. He reached for her hand. She smiled.

The walls were closing in on them.


Outside, the artist was holding a glass of champagne, talking to a small group who were watching events in the white room on a huge monitor.

The people’s response is my art, he was saying, I merely facilitate.

There were nods, knowing smiles, a raising of glasses. The screen changed to a mosaic of faces, expressions of panic, fear, distress spread across the wall. It changed again to a shot of the room. Wide-eyed terror, and on her face, a creeping uncertainty.


The walls were closing in on them.


Inspired by a prompt from here

And completely by mistake, the switch was made.

It was just one of those things that happens. It wasn’t really anybody’s fault. The technology had been created decades ago and had simply been forgotten about as the cold war ended, the Berlin Wall fell, communism collapsed, and other world events unfolded.

It had been discovered completely by accident, back in the fifties when a scientist working in a government nuclear facility, hidden deep in a bunker in the middle of nowhere, had made a simple mistake with his calculations and there it was, in the middle of the room, the tiniest of holes in the fabric of spacetime. The trouble was, it didn’t stay tiny for very long, it grew exponentially, getting bigger very quickly. Luckily, the clever boffin realised exactly what he had created and managed to do something about it. He couldn’t fix it, or reverse what he had done to get rid of it. This was real life, not the movies, complicated sciency things just didn’t work that way.

However, what he did do, was create another one. This had the effect of sucking the first one into the second one but didn’t stop the second one from growing the same as the first, albeit a little slower as it digested the first one. So, he created a third to swallow the second and a fourth to swallow the third and so on and so forth until the growth of the hole was sufficiently slowed to give him an hour or two to devise a better solution. Which he did, a rather clever one in fact, he sealed the hole in a rather cleverly constructed quantum box. Far too complicated to explain in ten minutes, but suffice it to say, it was a very clever solution and it worked perfectly. The hole in the fabric of space time was contained and the whole of reality was saved from being sucked into it as it grew and grew.

What should he do with it now? The container itself needed containing, so he popped it in on a table in an unused room and put a sign on the door which simply read “DO NOT ENTER”. He wrote a report to his superiors on the whole incident and carried on with his work.

Over time the need for the facility waned, and it was eventually shut down, the bunker was forgotten about and after several decades, all that remained of its existence was a decaying slab of concrete hidden in the undergrowth of the woods that had grown around it, the buildings containing the hidden entrance having long since collapsed into rubble and been pilfered away.

Eventually the slab collapsed, and a hole appeared, it was then discovered by a couple of boys playing in the woods. A hole in the woodland floor with stairs leading down into the dark. The boys slowly descended the stairs, one of them sliding his hands along the damp wall for stability in the dark when his fingers inadvertently flicked a switch and the whole of the underground lair lit up, the decades old self-sustaining power system being still operational. Emboldened by the sudden illumination, the boys ventured on, eventually finding a door with a big “DO NOT ENTER” sign on it. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked, and they ventured in, discovering a very odd-looking box on a table. One of them lifted the lid and peered inside, reached in and lifted out a strange wobbly ball. They played with it for a bit before leaving, promising each other they would come back tomorrow, taking the wobbly ball, which seemed a bit bigger than before, with them.

That night, in the bedroom of Robert Bobfrey, aged 12, of 10 Wilmington Avenue, and completely by mistake, the switch was made. The whole of spacetime collapsed in on itself, turning all of reality inside out as it did so. No one seemed to notice, even though everything was backward, they just carried on doing their thing the opposite way around in their newly created reverse reality. If only the scientist had locked the box.

Prompted by this page


And Completely by Mistake, the Switch was Made – The Writeycorn

And completely by mistake, the Switch was made

So it was Christmas Eve and we were getting into bed all excited and had hung our stockings up and the Christmas tree was covered in presents. The new Nintendo Switch was out and because we had never had any electronic toys (well big ones) before we didn’t think it would be one.

It is Christmas morning and there were two big presents left: one was a Nintendo Switch case and the other was a Nintendo Switch !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Inspired by a prompt here.

And Completely by Mistake, the Switch was Made – Dead Deer

And Completely by Mistake, the Switch was Made

This is where I come in. I was asked to cover for a sick colleague. All I had to do, they said, was stand still in a corner and watch. Which I did. The problem was I didn’t know what I was watching for. So I just watched. People mainly, coming and going, circulating in the party. It was interesting yet unengaging. Little did I expect anyone to approach me.

He was tall and unkempt, but you could see beneath it and in the voice (that voice!) that he was clearly a distinguished person. He asked me an extraordinary question regarding an otter. Unfortunately his accent and smooth (so smooth!) tones led me to misunderstand initially. I thought he was talking about a rotter, which I could not grasp, then I thought the subject was Ray Liotta. I dare not ask him to repeat yet again, it was becoming embarrassing, rude. Was he Ray Liotta? He could be, older of course, maybe in character for a part? I found myself staring.

“Is that a red otter?” was the repeated question. I had no idea, of course, there being no otter in this swanky party I was quite sure. I knew a thing or two about otters,  though, so started babbling about the number of hairs per square centimetre that they boast. This is an astonishing fact, that has never previously failed to amuse and fascinate. Not Ray (sorry, it wasn’t Ray Liotta, I keep forgetting; in my mind it was, and always will have been)

I made my excuses and stuck out my hand to shake it. My temporary works badge was in my hand, I had forgotten. His eyes lit up, and he placed his hand in mine, and put his other on my shoulder. He took my badge. He slipped a gun in my jacket pocket.

Why, Ray, Why?

Today I wrote from 15:21 to 15:31. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here


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