# Story intro



## ChristopherOlson (Jun 27, 2010)

The following is an introduction to two different characters in a story I'm currently writing. The two characters at first occupy separate story threads, but gradually they begin to intertwine. I figured I'd share the first fruits of my labours. 


Death clock​
   “Knock, knock.”

   “I’ve already opened the door, Al. You can come in.”

   “You’re supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’”

   Mark Holgate held for a second, and then relented. “Who’s there?”

   “I forget how the rest goes; I got you a present.”

   Albert Buckner tossed Mark a slim package covered in repurposed Christmas-wrapping.

   “It’s an anti-smoking aide,” said Al.

   “But I don’t smoke,” said Mark.

   The silence that followed was broken by Al. “You’re full of shit. Open your present.”

   “I’ve already tried the patch,” said Mark as he tore into the packaging with his nails, pieces of holiday-season wrapping paper piling up on his kitchen counter. “And chewing gum. And hypnosis.”

   “I can’t believe you tried hypnosis before trying this,” replied Al.

   Mark saw the words “ock” in bold white letters, and immediately he realized what it was he was looking at. Regardless, he slipped off the rest of the packaging just to make sure.

   “Al, I told you I didn’t want one of these.”

   “I know, that’s where I got the idea from.”

   “I don’t see the logic in that. Not at all.”

   “There’s no escaping it.”

   “What, death?”

   “No!” Al took the box from Mark and slid the contents onto the table. “Pretty soon these things are going to be built into your microwave oven displays and car dashboards. Whether you like it or not, one day you were going to have your own death clock. Might as well make it when you still have a chance to make a difference.”

   Mark sighed loudly enough so that Al could hear him. “It’s like Pandora’s Box, you know? I’m never going to be able to unlearn my own death date. It’ll haunt me forever.”

   “Relax,” said Al. “Lucky for you it’s not always accurate.” A jocular smile crept over his face. “The only consistent thing in the universe is change, right? The death clock’s predictions are always changing. But get this: only you have the power to change it.”

   “Suck my dick.”

   “I’m serious. You’re going to quit smoking this instant.”

   Mark realized that his arms were crossed, and remembering what the clinical psychologist on the talk show had said about people who cross their arms, he quickly uncrossed them.

   “Okay, how does it work?”

   “Just press the button here, and, oh, here’s where it displays the date and time of your death.”

   “What are you getting me into now, Al?” He shook his head and pressed the button. Nothing happened.

   “Batteries: forgot to put them in,” said Al. The death clock took double-As. “Try it now.”

   The display flashed on the screen, and before Mark knew it, the numbers “17:07:36 26/06/49” appeared.

   Mark’s mouth stood agape.

   “A lot sooner than you thought, huh?”

   “Yeah. A lot sooner.”

   Mark felt Al reach forward and put his hand into his breast pocket. He removed the package of Marlboro’s and placed them on the table next to the death clock.

   “Now that you’ve looked into the future,” said Al, “what are you going to do about it?”

   Mark shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

   “It is that simple. All you have to do is say, ‘I’m giving up smoking.’”

   “I have to say the words out loud?”

   “You just have to mean them.”

   Mark’s pulse, which was already elevated after reading his death notice, beat even faster. He swallowed, attempting to calm himself. If anything was more humbling than this, he didn’t know it. He reached for the pack of cigarettes and carried them across the room. Sliding open the window, he tossed the package five stories to the cement sidewalk.

   “I’m giving up smoking—for good.”

   “Prove it to me,” said Al.

   Mark reached out his index finger and pressed down hard on the death clock. A small beeping noise demanded his attention, and a new set of numbers replaced the old: “03:48:01 9/01/64.”

   “That’s a difference of fifteen years,” said Al. “Good job.”

   “Thanks,” said Mark. “No, seriously. Thank you.”

   “Tell me again how this is like Pandora’s Box?”

   “You’ve given me hope,” said Mark, and he patted his friend on the shoulder, and then drew him into a hug.

​***

   Harold Broussard stretched his muscles, felt the tension run through them like weight tugging on a rope. He lifted himself above the handlebar.

   “Eighty-five,” he said in a dull whisper.

   His body hung from the bar now, his knuckles aching for release. Against his body’s desire for rest, he pulled himself above the bar, felt triumph echo in his words; “Eighty-six.”

   Suddenly his hands, gripping tightly to the metal bar in his closet, began to waver. His will hadn’t wavered, however, and fighting against the might of his own muscles, his chin rose over the bar. His lips parted to proclaim victory once more, but the air that escaped was beleaguered, almost breathless. He counted in his head. He could rest when he reached ninety.

   A calming voice spoke into his ear, congratulating him on reaching this far, but pleading him to stop. There was no shame in falling below your goal, it said. Your body is weak and tired. Give it a rest. Harold answered the voice with his own—although the voice of his conscience sounded fairly similar, he would have to admit—I’ll rest when I’m done.

   His torso flexing uneasily in its attempt, unconscious or not, to aid his imbalance and force him off the bar, Harold Broussard raised his chin once more over the beam, and pride overcoming him, he carefully lowered himself to the ground.

   His lungs drank the air moist with his sweat, and he placed one hand on the wall to more evenly distribute the weight of his body so that all of his muscles in turn could relax.

   Sidling into the bathroom, he turned on the overhead faucet and cooled off in the shower, clearing away his sweat and filling his mouth with nourishing, hydrating water.

   A towel hung over his right shoulder, he stepped onto the bathroom scale, the needle spinning like a weathervane in a hurricane. Finally it stopped, and the date of his death appeared.

   Unchanged, he thought.

   Tomorrow he would do 100 push-ups.

   No. Nothing could change his fate.

   Strolling into the living room, he yanked a drawer from its socket in an antique cherry-oak table, removed a Jericho 941 F 9 mm and magazine. Popping the magazine into the gun, he marched back towards the bathroom scale, his death date resumed on the LCD screen, as though permanently etched in the machine’s memory.

   He placed the gun against his right temple.

   “Change, you mother fucker. Change.”

   Undaunted by the gun’s presence, the death clock reaffirmed the validity of its earlier calculation, as if sensing his own unwillingness to carry out the threat.

   “Change, you piece of shit. Give me at least that much.”

   It didn’t change.

   Putting down the gun, Harold Broussard slowly stepped off the scale, its display vanishing, but the numbers still visible in his mind’s eye.

   He had two years left, at most.

   Stepping into the living room, he fell forward like a tree freed from its roots by a lumberjack. He raising his arms to shelter him from the impact, and then began pushing against the floorboards.

   “One,” he said, lowering himself to the ground and then pushing himself up again. “Two.”

***


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## Patrick Lee (Jun 27, 2010)

Hi, I presume that Mark and Harold had different lifestyles: one is a smoker,  then after he decided to quit smoking, his date of death had reset to a  much later date, then Harold, who is a gym buff, seemed like his own death date had been permanently validated despite of the number of push-ups he made. Interesting 

Though I have a question: how does this particular death clock work? How does it calculate the day of one's death? Where does it come from? Who created it? For what purpose?


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## ChristopherOlson (Jun 27, 2010)

Hi Patrick! 

   If I knew hot the death clock worked, I'd be rich.  Besides, I don't really think it's important that people know how a transporter works to enjoy Star Trek, or the Warp drive, for that matter, although there are explanations you can find on the internet somewhere. I've written another story that takes place within this same universe, where death clocks are also prevalent and almost a fact of life. In fact, I posted it on these boards a few months ago:
http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?111203-La-grande-mort-(Revised)&highlight=

   The death clock is somehow related to quantum physics, and the concept that every time you make a decision, a parallel universe branches off and explores what would have happened had you decided to do something else. Every time you make a decision, the death clock changes to reflect the ultimate outcome of that decision in that _universe_, but if you don't like your fate, you can go down some other path.


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