As you may know, I was deliberating about whether I should continue publishing literary games each week or respond to one of the weekly fiction writing prompts published by The Inkwell. I'm still deliberating, but I decided to try something different. This week, I combined Literary Game No. 11 with The Ink Well fiction writing prompt.

The following flash fiction story was inspired by this week's fiction writing prompt posted by The Ink Well writing community. If you're here for Literary Game No. 11, you'll find it below the story.

An Uncanny Writing Solution

Imagine my surprise when, upon awaking one Monday morning, I discovered a ransom note attached to my fedora, sitting placidly upon the hat rack beside my bed, the same of which I have worn everyday for the past twenty years. Yes, that fedora—my favorite—an icon of my wardrobe.

Now, I am not one to trifle with insignificant details, but I took the note in my hand and began to read immediately. I had not yet had my coffee.

To my dismay, the first thing I noticed was the note had been written by my own hand. My first thought was, what cruel literary prodigy would go to such length to play this joke on me? Who knows me well enough to copy my handwriting? I could think of no one. But then it occurred to me that no one had entered my apartment all night. No one except for me.

The door was locked. The windows were latched. And I have no chimney. By what ingress would an intruder enter? And why had they not taken a single valuable?

All alone, I began to think, to question, to remember—where had I been and what had I done? The last thing I recalled was removing my fedora from my crown, tossing it onto the hat rack as I do every evening, and slipping into my pajamas before crawling into bed. Of course, I said my prayers as I do every night before slipping between the bedsheets— because what kind of man would I be if I didn't give grace back to that which has given grace to me?

In case it isn't obvious, it should not be left unsaid that the last thing I saw before drifting into slumber was that fedora. And it was as bare of add-ons as it had ever been when my last wink said its good night.

As a man of rational mind, I could draw no other conclusion than that which I am sure you, dear reader, have now drawn independently of your accord. I had written the note myself, with my own hand, and using those same mental faculties which I now use to implore you not to hold it against me. The note simply read:

If you wish to see the owner of this fedora again, bury $100,000 in small bills beside the big oak tree across the street in the city park before midnight tonight.

Naturally, I began to wonder where I would get that kind of money. And what fool requests such a large amount of monetization in such small denominations? But as I prepared my morning meal and my sole cup of coffee for the day, it dawned on me that I did have that amount of money on hand, and just that amount, filling the mattress upon which I slept each night. And, as coincidence would have it, that exact amount of money was denominated in the very units the ransom maker was demanding. But why?

For that, I had no answer.

Repeatedly, I read the note to myself, sometimes aloud and sometimes in silent contemplation. But each time my eyes hit the words on the page, I came upon the same old roadblock. Who was pretending to be me?

Alas, I could not think of a single soul who would want to be me—other than myself, of course. And, even then, I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to me. Certainly not at that moment.

All morning, I wracked my brain, thinking of that note. I grabbed my fedora, rushed out the door, rode the subway to work, and sat at my desk for two hours wondering who would be so crass, so audacious, as to demand that I pay my own ransom? Was I being held hostage in my own home, or my own skin? Certainly not! For the note did not come with shackles. I was free to move about, go to work or to the grocery store if I needed to replenish my food sources, or step out on the balcony if I so wished. But what, I wondered, would be the consequences of inaction? What would the author of that note do should I not meet their demand?

I shuddered even to think about it. Was that person a violent one? I certainly wasn’t, for I had never thrown so much as a fist at another human being, let alone would I consider murdering one.

But money can do so much to turn a good man into one only half as good. Had it done so to me?

Ah! Then it occurred to me: someone had witnessed where I had come upon that money. It wasn’t mine, at one time. Then it was—when I shoved it into my mattress. Was that person now demanding that I return it? Was my conscience getting the best of me? Was I, in my nighttime dreams, demanding that I undo what I had done so rashly when no one else was looking?

The clock had yet struck noon when I ran from my cubicle, sprinted to the subway, and returned to that abode which, before that moment, I had felt entirely comfortable walking into and keeping company with myself. I rushed to the mattress where I had hidden the money I had taken from the very employer that now I was shafting with my absence, reached into my pocket, withdrew my knife, and sliced the mattress into a million pieces. There, mixed with the feathery innards of said mattress, were the small denominations of greenbacks that had been demanded by the unseen, unknown intruder of the night. And I stared into the abyss of my own soul with one thought in mind: should I return it to its rightful owner or fulfill the demands of the dastardly devil holding me hostage?

Literary Game No. 11

This week's literary game is simple, yet involves a twist. Write a story between 500 and 1,000 words that involves a hostage situation. Write your story with the following two stipulations:

1. In your story, do not use the word "hostage"
2. Make sure the "hostage" situation is not a typical hostage situation where a person is held for monetary ransom by another. Play loosely with the word hostage while insuring the reader understands that the person being held hostage is caught in a situation involving circumstances beyond their control and where it is clear they cannot escape that situation unless someone else takes some action that frees them (but doesn't pay money; the "ransom" must be some other action).

Now, for the rules:

1. Upvote and reblog this post.
2. If you haven't already, follow me.
3. Write and publish your story on your Hive blog using any Hive frontend.
4. Tag your story #literarygames.
5. Deadline: Tuesday, August 19, 12:00 UTC
6. Read and comment on other participants' stories. Upvote the ones you like.
7. No self-voting!
8. Post to any writing community, following that writing community's guidelines.
9. Drop a link to your story in the comments below.
10. Have fun!

The prize for this story will be 2 HBD. My choice on the winner. Now, go and create!

@lauretb93 @luchyl @ozd @babygirl888 @mrnatty @alwaysonyi @esbat @reportercee @favouragina @sugarfix @alonicus @tengolotodo @tengogaming

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