Story code: ST-000717
Part 1: Declined
The plastic card reader beeped twice, flashing a stark red error message across its tiny digital display. I stared at the word ‘DECLINED’ while the cashier drummed his fingers on the laminate counter of the lumber yard. Behind me, a line of contractors shuffled their dust-caked boots in the Tuesday morning sawdust. This was my last piece of plastic, the final credit card with a shred of an available limit, meant to cover the plywood and two-by-fours for our cavern set. I owed ninety thousand dollars to various banks, lenders, and family members for this film, and the hard limit had finally arrived.
I told the cashier to hold the materials and stepped out of the line, pulling my phone from my pocket to check my banking app. Before the screen could unlock, a text notification slid down from the top.
It was from Clara, my lead actress. We had spent the last six months rehearsing every evening in my cramped apartment, bleeding for this script.
*I am officially dropping out of the production.*
I blinked at the harsh fluorescent lighting glaring off the screen. Another text from Clara appeared a second later.
*Do not try to contact me.*
I stared at the screen, assuming she had sent it to the wrong person or that her phone was compromised. Another buzz vibrated against my palm. This one was from David, my Director of Photography, the guy who had been my roommate in film school and the godfather to my niece.
*Elias, I have to step away from the project immediately. I am so sorry. Please just leave me out of whatever happens next.*
A cold knot formed in my stomach. I hit David’s contact name and pressed the call icon. The line clicked twice and diverted straight to voicemail. I hung up and tried Clara. The call ended before it even began, the automated tone signaling that my number was blocked.
I walked out through the sliding glass doors of the hardware store and into the massive parking lot. The sudden heat of the asphalt radiated upward, making the distant rows of parked cars shimmer in the morning sun. I needed to sit down. My chest felt tight, my breathing shallow as I leaned against the rusted side of my ancient Honda Civic.
The phone in my hand vibrated in a long, continuous spasm. Notifications began pouring in faster than I could read them.
A text from my location manager. *I am pulling the permits. I cannot be associated with you right now.*
An email from the caterer. *Services canceled effective immediately.*
A direct message from my sound mixer. *You are sick. I am sending the drives back by courier, do not ever speak to me again.*
I swiped away the notifications, my thumb trembling so badly I dropped the phone onto the floor mat of the car. I snatched it up and stared at the home screen, watching the little red notification bubbles inflate across my communication apps. Everyone I knew, everyone I had hired, everyone I trusted was severing ties with me in real-time. The messages all shared the same terrifying flavor. They were scared, angry, and treating me like a sudden, toxic threat.
None of them explained their reasoning. None of them cited an argument, a missed payment, or a creative difference. My entire professional network was immolating itself before my eyes.
I unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut to block out the noise of the nearby highway. I opened my mobile browser, needing to see if there was some massive glitch, some industry-wide rumor mill that had caught fire overnight. I navigated to the social media platform we used most for the film’s promotional updates. The search bar sat empty, waiting for input. I tapped the trending topics tab, assuming a studio had collapsed or some major local news had broken to spook my crew.
My own name sat at the number two spot on the national trending list.
It was not the name of the film. It was my full legal name, Elias Thorne, accompanied by a tag warning of sensitive content. The number of posts attached to the trend was climbing by the thousands every time the page refreshed. My mouth went completely dry. I pressed my thumb against the screen to click the hashtag and read the posts.
Before the page could load, the screen cut to black.
The familiar ringtone I had assigned to my mother blared through the phone’s speakers. Her contact photo, a smiling picture from last Thanksgiving, illuminated the display. I slid the green icon across the glass and lifted the device to my ear, expecting her to tell me she had seen the same glitch I was looking at.
Instead, I heard her struggling to draw air into her lungs, crying so violently she was choking on her own breath.
The plastic card reader beeped twice, flashing a stark red error message across its tiny digital display. I stared at the word ‘DECLINED’ while the cashier drummed his fingers on the laminate counter of the lumber yard. Behind me, a line of contractors shuffled their dust-caked boots in the Tuesday morning sawdust. This was my last piece of plastic, the final credit card with a shred of an available limit, meant to cover the plywood and two-by-fours for our cavern set. I owed ninety thousand dollars to various banks, lenders, and family members for this film, and the hard limit had finally arrived.
I told the cashier to hold the materials and stepped out of the line, pulling my phone from my pocket to check my banking app. Before the screen could unlock, a text notification slid down from the top.
It was from Clara, my lead actress. We had spent the last six months rehearsing every evening in my cramped apartment, bleeding for this script.
*I am officially dropping out of the production.*
I blinked at the harsh fluorescent lighting glaring off the screen. Another text from Clara appeared a second later.
*Do not try to contact me.*
I stared at the screen, assuming she had sent it to the wrong person or that her phone was compromised. Another buzz vibrated against my palm. This one was from David, my Director of Photography, the guy who had been my roommate in film school and the godfather to my niece.
*Elias, I have to step away from the project immediately. I am so sorry. Please just leave me out of whatever happens next.*
A cold knot formed in my stomach. I hit David’s contact name and pressed the call icon. The line clicked twice and diverted straight to voicemail. I hung up and tried Clara. The call ended before it even began, the automated tone signaling that my number was blocked.
I walked out through the sliding glass doors of the hardware store and into the massive parking lot. The sudden heat of the asphalt radiated upward, making the distant rows of parked cars shimmer in the morning sun. I needed to sit down. My chest felt tight, my breathing shallow as I leaned against the rusted side of my ancient Honda Civic.
The phone in my hand vibrated in a long, continuous spasm. Notifications began pouring in faster than I could read them.
A text from my location manager. *I am pulling the permits. I cannot be associated with you right now.*
An email from the caterer. *Services canceled effective immediately.*
A direct message from my sound mixer. *You are sick. I am sending the drives back by courier, do not ever speak to me again.*
I swiped away the notifications, my thumb trembling so badly I dropped the phone onto the floor mat of the car. I snatched it up and stared at the home screen, watching the little red notification bubbles inflate across my communication apps. Everyone I knew, everyone I had hired, everyone I trusted was severing ties with me in real-time. The messages all shared the same terrifying flavor. They were scared, angry, and treating me like a sudden, toxic threat.
None of them explained their reasoning. None of them cited an argument, a missed payment, or a creative difference. My entire professional network was immolating itself before my eyes.
I unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut to block out the noise of the nearby highway. I opened my mobile browser, needing to see if there was some massive glitch, some industry-wide rumor mill that had caught fire overnight. I navigated to the social media platform we used most for the film’s promotional updates. The search bar sat empty, waiting for input. I tapped the trending topics tab, assuming a studio had collapsed or some major local news had broken to spook my crew.
My own name sat at the number two spot on the national trending list.
It was not the name of the film. It was my full legal name, Elias Thorne, accompanied by a tag warning of sensitive content. The number of posts attached to the trend was climbing by the thousands every time the page refreshed. My mouth went completely dry. I pressed my thumb against the screen to click the hashtag and read the posts.
Before the page could load, the screen cut to black.
The familiar ringtone I had assigned to my mother blared through the phone’s speakers. Her contact photo, a smiling picture from last Thanksgiving, illuminated the display. I slid the green icon across the glass and lifted the device to my ear, expecting her to tell me she had seen the same glitch I was looking at.
Instead, I heard her struggling to draw air into her lungs, crying so violently she was choking on her own breath.