Sign up and log into this forum using your McMaster email/ID. Then, post a ~40-100 word follow-up to the preceding post, adding to the collaborative story (read more about what this means here) that we're developing together. You can contribute multiple times, but just not with one post after another. Feel free to also add your personal artwork or stock images to your post to compliment its contents, so long as they're appropriate and you have the right to use that image.
The story ends either when a collaborator feels as if we've reached a natural point where they can write the conclusion, or the deadline of February 21 has passed—whichever comes first.
What are you waiting for? Adding to the chain should only take a few minutes, and the draw of the prize aside, you'll also be making your mark in a cool, collaborative project that'll act as a time capsule for how the McMaster community connected through our creativity during these COVID times.
To start the story off, the first writer must continue from the following first sentence with a ~40-100 word follow-up, and then we can continue taking turns to tell the story from there:
When I flipped on the radio that night, I couldn’t believe the voice I heard coming through the speakers.
6 minutes. The traffic inched forward at a dead crawl. My nose itched, so I took the left hand off the wheel to scratch it. I could feel my eyes bulging forward in their sockets, although the mirror showed them flat.
"Joe."
It was coming from the radio vent.
"Joe."
Shut it up. Shut him up.
5 minutes.
My palms heated with moisture as I glanced at the passenger’s seat. The knife lay, silver and shining and cold, an answer to a question I couldn’t dare to ask weeks ago.
The knife laid there, beckoning me from the same seat where he sat when we made those promises.
Promises we made as boys.
Now, we could remain those foolish boys, or we could settle this like the men we are.
I peer to my left and to my right frantically searching through the drivers around me as I count down each and every minute. 7 minutes...8 minutes...9 minutes pass as I continuously tap the steering wheel with my finger admist the traffic.
I took a deep breath. I needed to focus. I knew 10 minutes would be more than enough time for him to track me down, but it was more than enough time for me to be ready, too.
Tires squealed against the pavement as I swerved back into traffic, hiding my 2016 Chevrolet Malibu in a forest of headlights. I slid into the middle lane on the highway and relaxed my death grip on the steering wheel. Buried in a sea of identical cars with the veil of the night sky, there was no way he'd find me out here.
But it was only silent static that came through. Moments later, the channel switched back to radio hosts talking about their Friday night plans and the traffic on the 403.
Ten minutes. That's all I could think about. Pray? He should be the one praying.
The hosts continued to talk about the buildup due to a three-car collision. I hoped he was in one of those cars.
I froze, the previous warmth in my cheeks instantly gone. What? Was he - was he talking to me? How did he know I was listening to the radio? How did he know I was listening to this channel? How was he even allowed to say that on air? I held my breath, not daring to breathe as I waited for him to say more.
"You have ten minutes before I find you. Pray that I don't."
It was the voice I never thought I'd be able to hear again in this lifetime. The voice that used to give me joy and comfort. The one that once said "I'll always be with you". l quickly pulled over to the side of the road and turned up the volume to hear what the voice was saying.
It was hard to make out the words but I recognized the voice immediately. The intonation of each word brought back every memory. The warmth heated my cheeks and the voice's smooth tone presented a calm wave over my racing thoughts.