Saylor’s left knee hit the deck just before his elbow, quickly followed by the temple on ... his left? His right? He was so utterly discombobulated he couldn’t tell which side of his head took the blow.
The last 20 seconds were a blur of madness that would take some doing to unravel.
The photos he was protecting were now launched across the helipad. Some mid-air, others finding places to hide in crevices or rudely fluttering overboard.
The masked pursuer leapt over Saylor’s sprawling mass to snatch up what he could. His desperation was palpable. Why did he want them so bad?
Saylor's eyes blinked heavily to compensate for the concussion. At least he wasn't visualising the bright light of heaven - the dawn had broken hours ago and the lake was sparkling.
Fancy that. It wasn't midnight anymore.
Saylor rarely left whichever stateroom was creating the most buzz at a yacht party, so rarely had a clue as to the time of day.
Now he knew. Another party night was over. Normally he’d be downing some uppers to prep for the next, but this lanky punk had kiboshed that tradition.
A flash of lucidity hit him harder than his collision with the deck - this guy had his body shape. Long limbs and a short torso.
Even more peculiar, he was wearing the same shirt.
“Look, I didn’t want to start a fight, but those are my photos and you’re wearing my shirt!” Saylor said with as much force as he could muster. It wasn't a long chase, but he was pooped.
“Shut up,” the thief said as he continued to collect photos, “I told you not to look at these.”
The criminal's voice was deeper than his own, reminding Saylor of every actor from Michael Keaton onward when they become Batman.
He was hiding his identity. THAT’S why he was wearing a mask!
But this was no hero, not even a vigilante. This was a criminal. A thief. Obviously a stowaway. A runaway?
There was something incriminating in those photos he didn’t want anyone to see. What was he hiding?
“It doesn’t matter if you destroy them, I'll print more from the film,” Saylor said with his best cocky bravado.
The thief turned on him, his masquerade mask feathers fluttering in the breeze. “You idiot, polaroids don’t have film. They’re instant photos. Once they’re done, they’re done.”
Saylor peered at the stranger, “do you have Marfan syndrome? You’ve got the same body shape as me. It’s pretty rare.”
The stranger continued ripping up photos, muttering, “it's not that rare.”
“Stop destroying the evidence!” Saylor clumsily lunged to grab anything that was still in one piece, "and while you’re at it, tell me where you got my shirt. It’s meant to be a bespoke Juan Zen, and if he’s been lying to me …”
Snatching one back, he squinted at a photo the stranger was desperate for him to not see. "No way," he said, "it's a double exposure."
In the frame, as clear as day, was Saylor laughing at a joke by his brother Hubble. Superimposed, looking in the other direction, was also Saylor. This one snatching lip balm from his sister Piper. Both slightly translucent.
“If these are polaroids, how can they be double exposures?” He asked the stranger.
“I told you not to look,” the thief replied - in a different voice. This one was much softer, a higher pitch. Although still masked, he was no longer Batman.
Another photo fluttered by, and Saylor snatched it to see ... another double exposure. This time Saylor was posing with a pipe and sherry glass; while a second Saylor was vomiting at the camera.
It was quite an achievement to get that vomit mid-air before it hit the lens, he must congratulate Hubble on capturing the moment.
Strange. Both photos, every version of him was see-through. But everything else was crisp. He furrowed his brow.
“Put them down, go inside, forget this happened,” the gruff Batman voice resumed.
Saylor pondered this familiar stranger. It’s remarkable what a good masquerade mask can disguise. This stowaway thief was quite the conundrum.
“You know, don’t you?” Saylor asked. Not demanded. Strange for him. Maybe Piper was right when said not to overdo the MDMA.
He looked at the first photo again. Two of him, one of Hubble, one of Piper. They were in the second stateroom, the one that had to be repaired after the javelin incident. The stateroom looked fine - but all the people were shimmering.
"There's nothing illegal happening. No reason for you to steal or destroy these - it's just a faulty camera!" Saylor said.
“Can you explain the problem before I give myself a migraine?” he asked.
Sighing, the stranger handed him a torn photo.
“See if this explains it,” he said in his normal voice.
Holding the pieces together Saylor decided painkillers were happening ASAP. There were two of him, two of Piper, two of Hubble, even two of Buckingham who had gone to bed early when they wouldn't let him play "It's Raining Men". It was a messy photo. So many people, duplicated. Translucent.
Wait. There were three of Hubble. “Why's Hubble there three times?”.
With a tilt of the head, the stranger (back in his Batman-figuring-things-out voice) said, “That's when it clicked for me. We're pretty two-dimensional, you and me. I’m the thinker, the creative side. You’re the impulsive side. Hubble - he’s a bit more complex. He's got three distinct personality traits. Negotiator, listener and strategist. That’s why there are only two of us, but three of him.”
“Us? You’re not Piper,” Saylor said.
“No idiot, I’m you,” the thief replied, removing his mask to reveal - Saylor.
The blood should have drained from Saylor’s face. He should have stopped breathing in shock. Many things should have happened, but none of them did.
“What’s going on?” the freaking out Saylor whispered, as if to himself. Because it was to himself.
“I think we’re dead,” the other Saylor replied.
A while ago I had an idea for a group of snobs who wake up dead after a night of opulence on a yacht. I think it’s got enough legs to eventually flesh out to become a book, but for now it was the perfect way to interpret
Great Substack Prompt Celebration for July 2023.Using (what looks like an awesome gift idea) a STORYMATIC CLASSIC box, the prompt of X is in conflict with Y over Z was used in conjunction with the following cards:
ERGO: A person of a different size than most people is in conflict with a runaway over a camera that takes pictures of ghosts.
You can check out more about the challenge here:
For the bean counters, according to the online Hemingway Editor app, it’s exactly 1,000 words. I like to live precariously.
So that’s that. That’s how Strangely Familiar came to be. Hope you like it.
Comment if you did. Stay silent if you hated it.
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I really enjoyed this! I love your snippet of how you came to write it too
I liked it. Very creative.