The Time Traveler

Note: I wrote this story for a writing contest around Halloween. The prompt was “The mist cleared. My name was on the moss-covered gravestone…” and a requirement was to write it in 100 or fewer words.

What is going on? The gravestone can’t be mine. The date of death is today, when I traveled into the year 2038. The grave is open. Why? I was told I’d appear in a lab, not a cemetery with my gravestone. Will the machine kill me when I try to return? Will I be stuck here? I hear the sound of a boot stepping through mud. I turn around. There’s a man standing there with a shovel in his hand. He growls, “Your time is up.” I feel a blow to my head and fall into my empty grave.

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