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The chosen one

[The Chosen One, 600 words, Genre: Mind Fudge]

* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn

It’s good to have a day off, just to put your feet up and relax. Kick back and not take the world too seriously. These were all on the agenda for Greg’s day off. He was going to get some much needed rest and relaxation. The world had been cruel and in amongst its cruelties were these fine things called holidays. He had been given a holiday, a holiday away from work, a holiday away from life, to put it all on hold and enjoy. The first thing he was going to do was get a coffee from the local strip of shops. And so he did. He walked up to the shops, to his favourite cafe and bought himself a coffee. As he stood there waiting outside for the coffee to be made a stranger had snuck up on him and they were now face to face.

“It’s you,” the stranger spoke.

“Who is you? You mean me?” Greg was confused since he did not recognise this stranger, but it seemed the stranger certainly recognised him.

“I would recognise you anywhere,” the stranger stated, “See, I have photos.” The stranger pulled out his wallet and picked out a fifty cent stamp and motioned towards it, “See there. It’s you.” The stamp did not resemble Greg in anyway, it was a picturesque scene of the Australian outback.

“I’m sorry, sir, surely you have me mistaken.”

“No, it’s you. You, you, you…” the stranger stuttered before managing out the last of his sentence, “You are the chosen one.”

“The chosen one? Right, I think you’ve taken too many mushrooms or something. You should probably get going back home and get some sleep.”

“No, sir, I am not mistaken! It’s you, you are the chosen one.” Once again the stranger gestured to the stamp, and pointed at it whilst holding a fixated stare with Greg. “There, you see. You see, don’t you?”

It was the first time Greg fully appreciated the stranger’s appearance. He had tangles of black hair that cascaded down his face, his face was covered in acne and sores and he wore a trench coat that was well beyond it’s intended wear. “Listen you farkin’ madman, I’m no chosen one or whatever the fark you think I am. I’m Greg and today is my day off.”

“That’s the very reason why you’re chosen.”

“I’m not chosen, I’m Greg!”

The stranger then sat down on the pavement and held his knees into his chest and started rocking back and forth singing to himself, “Sweet, sweet Satan. Sweet, sweet Satan.”

Greg, at this point, realised the stranger had some sort of mental illness. He leant in and said, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The stranger then got up from the pavement and started dancing around Greg. This time he sang, “Chosen, chosen, chosen.”

By this time the coffee had been made and one of the waiters delivered it to Greg in a silent gesture. Greg was still unable to get rid of the stranger, but he decided that any interaction would just further entice the madman into more antics. And so Greg walked back to his home with the stranger dancing around him singing. When Greg finally arrived home, he quickly opened the door and entered his home, quickly shutting the door behind him. The stranger stood outside for a further five minutes before he realised Greg was not going back outside. The stranger then disappeared from Greg’s life. Greg sipped at his coffee and muttered to himself, “There is no such thing as a day off.”


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