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Present Day
Jess sat at her kitchen table at 2 AM, surrounded by notebooks.
Seventeen of them. Three years' worth. Every day documented. Every memory preserved.
She'd started keeping them after the accident. The doctor had said memory loss was normal with traumatic brain injury. Write things down, he'd told her. It helps.
So she had.
Every entry began the same way: "I remember..."
It was supposed to make her feel secure. Grounded. Like she was holding onto herself.
She opened the oldest journal. October 2022. Found the entry she was looking for.
I remember my college roommate. Her name was Sarah. We lived in Henderson Hall, room 304. She was pre-med. She snored. We stayed up late talking about everything.
Jess stared at it.
That wasn't right.
Her roommate's name was Amy.
Wasn't it?
She was certain. Amy Jacobs. Pre-law, not pre-med. Room 304 in Henderson Hall—that part was right. But Amy. Definitely Amy.
She'd never had a roommate named Sarah.
Jess set down the old journal and grabbed one from last month. Flipped through until she found an entry about college.
I remember my college roommate Amy. We lived in Henderson Hall, room 304. She was pre-law. She played violin. We stayed up late talking about everything.
Her breath caught.
The same entry.
Different name.
Different details.
But the same handwriting. Her handwriting. Both times.
She checked the dates. The second entry was from last week.
The first entry—the one that said Sarah—was from three years ago.
Jess pushed the journal away.
Pulled it back.
Read it again.
Sarah.
Amy.
Two versions of the same memory.
She knew which one was true. Amy. It was Amy. She remembered Amy's laugh, the way she played violin at midnight, how they'd—
Did she remember that?
Or did she just remember reading about it last week?
Jess opened another journal.
Started reading.
Looking for more discrepancies.
She found them everywhere.
Six Months Ago - Journal Entry
I remember my tenth birthday party. Mom made chocolate cake—my favorite. My best friend Emma came over. We played in the backyard until dark, catching fireflies in mason jars. Emma stayed for a sleepover. We fell asleep watching movies in the living room.
Jess read the entry twice.
Then closed that journal and pulled over the oldest one again. Flipped back through the early pages until she found it—another entry about her tenth birthday.
I remember my tenth birthday party. Mom made vanilla cake—
She stopped reading.
Vanilla.
Not chocolate.
We played in the basement, not the backyard.
Emma left before dinner because she got sick.
The entry went on. Different details. Different party. But the same handwriting.
Jess stood up. Walked to the kitchen sink. Ran cold water. Splashed her face.
Came back to the table.
The entry still said vanilla.
"I wrote chocolate," she said aloud. "I remember writing chocolate."
Did she?
She remembered the chocolate cake. Rich, dark, with buttercream frosting. She could taste it.
But the journal said vanilla.
And she remembered vanilla cake too, now that she thought about it. Light, delicate, with her mother's special cream cheese frosting.
Both memories felt real.
Both memories felt true.
Only one of them could be.
Jess grabbed her phone. Scrolled to her mother's contact.
2:47 AM.
She put the phone down.
Opened another journal instead.
One Year Ago - Journal Entry
I remember meeting David at the coffee shop on Fifth Street. He wasn't watching where he was going and spilled his entire latte on my laptop. I was furious. He was mortified. Offered to buy me a new computer. I said he could buy me coffee instead. We talked for three hours. That was three years ago. We've been together ever since.
Jess smiled despite herself.
She remembered that day. David's horrified face. The coffee dripping onto the floor. The way he'd tried to mop it up with tiny napkins, making it worse.
Their first date.
The beginning of everything.
She flipped forward in the journal. Found entries about David. Their first real date. The first time they made love. All of it documented.
All of it safe.
She set that journal aside and grabbed another from two years ago. Paged through until she found an entry about meeting David.
I remember meeting David at the bookstore on Fifth Street. He helped me reach a book on the top shelf—Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. We started talking about it. Talked for three hours. Exchanged numbers. That was three years ago. We've been together ever since.
The words swam.
Bookstore.
Not coffee shop.
Murakami.
Not spilled coffee.
Jess read it three times.
Then grabbed her phone.
David answered on the fifth ring. Voice thick with sleep. "Jess? What's wrong?"
"How did we meet?"
Silence.
"What?"
"How did we meet, David? What's the story?"
She heard him shift. Bed springs creaking. "Are you okay?"
"Just answer the question."
"The bookstore. You know this. Jess, it's three in the morning—"
"The coffee shop," Jess said. "You spilled coffee on my laptop."
"I... what? That's not—Jess, we met at the bookstore. You were trying to reach Murakami. I helped you. We talked. You seriously don't remember?"
"I remember the coffee," she whispered.
"There was no coffee. Jess, are you feeling okay? Maybe you should come over. Or I can come there—"
"I'm fine."
She hung up.
Stared at the journal.
Both memories were in her head. Clear. Vivid. Real.
The coffee shop: David's embarrassed smile, the ruined laptop, the way he'd insisted on making it up to her.
The bookstore: his hand reaching up, grabbing the Murakami, the way they'd talked about favorite passages for hours.
She could see both.
Feel both.
Remember both.
Only one of them had happened.
Two Years Ago - Journal Entry
I remember my childhood home. The yellow house on Maple Street. Two stories, white shutters, a big oak tree in the front yard. My room was upstairs, second door on the left. I could see the oak tree from my window. I used to climb down it at night when I was sixteen. Sneak out to meet Emma. Mom never knew.
Jess had read this entry dozens of times over the years.
She loved this memory.
The yellow house. The oak tree. The feeling of bark under her hands as she climbed down, heart racing, Emma waiting on the sidewalk below.
She could see it perfectly.
She grabbed her keys.
Twenty minutes later, Jess sat in her car on Maple Street.
3:15 AM. The street empty. Porch lights off.
She stared at number 447.
Her childhood home.
Red brick.
It had always been red brick.
She got out of the car. Walked up to the curb.
No oak tree in the yard.
There was a garden. Rose bushes. Dormant now in November, but she could see where they'd been planted. Where her mother had tended them every spring.
Jess stood on the sidewalk.
She remembered the yellow house.
She could SEE it. Right there. Yellow siding. White shutters. The oak tree spreading its branches across the lawn.
But she was looking at red brick.
A garden.
No tree.
She pulled out her phone. Opened Google Maps. Zoomed in on the street view from five years ago.
Red brick.
Ten years ago.
Red brick.
She scrolled through her photos. Found one of her mother in front of the house from Christmas four years ago.
Red brick house behind her. Rose bushes in the foreground.
Jess zoomed in on the photo.
Her mother, smiling.
The red brick house.
Everything exactly as it was.
Exactly as it had always been.
But Jess remembered yellow.
She got back in the car.
Drove home.
Spread all seventeen journals across her kitchen table.
And started reading.
Every entry about her mother.
Every entry about her childhood.
Every entry about who she was.
The pattern emerged slowly.
Then all at once.
Her mother's favorite color: Started as green. Now was blue.
The car they drove when Jess was little: Started as a gray Honda. Now was a red Toyota.
Her first word as a baby: Started as "mama." Now was "bird."
The scar on her knee: Started as "fell off my bike when I was seven." Now was "tripped on the playground when I was six."
Her tenth birthday: Chocolate cake, backyard, fireflies. Then vanilla cake, basement, Emma left early.
Her childhood home: Yellow house, oak tree. Now red brick, rose garden.
Her college roommate: Sarah. Now Amy.
Meeting David: Coffee shop, spilled latte. Now bookstore, Murakami.
Small changes.
Accumulating.
Systematic.
Every memory about her mother was changing.
Every memory about her childhood.
Every memory about who she was.
The changes written in her own handwriting.
Both versions real.
Both versions true.
Both versions impossible.
Jess sat back.
Her hands were shaking.
She wasn't losing her memories.
They were being rewritten.
Overwritten.
Replaced.
By what?
By who?
She opened the oldest journal. The very first entry. Three years ago.
October 15, 2022.
Read it for the hundredth time.
I remember waking up in the hospital. The doctor said I'd been in an accident. A bad one. I don't remember the accident itself. They said that's normal. Traumatic brain injury. Some memory loss is expected. That's why I'm starting this journal. To hold onto what I still have. To remember who I am.
The accident.
The reason she started writing.
The beginning of everything.
Jess stared at the words.
Something felt wrong.
She grabbed her phone. Called her mother.
It rang six times. Seven.
"Jess?" Her mother's voice, groggy. "Honey, it's four in the morning. What's wrong?"
"Mom. Tell me about my accident."
"What?"
"Three years ago. The accident. Tell me what happened."
Silence.
Then: "What accident?"
Jess's chest tightened. "The car accident. Three years ago. October. The one that put me in the hospital."
"Jess..." Her mother's voice changed. Concerned. Frightened. "Honey, you've never been in an accident."
"Yes I have. I was in the hospital. I had a traumatic brain injury. The doctor said—"
"Jess, you've never been in an accident. I would remember. Why are you—are you feeling okay? What's going on?"
"I remember it, Mom. I remember waking up in the hospital. The doctor. Everything."
"Sweetheart, I think you need to come over. We can talk about this. Or I can come there. Where's David? Is he with you?"
"I'm alone."
"I'm coming over."
"No." Jess stood. Paced. "No, Mom. I'm fine. I just... I had a weird dream. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."
"Jess—"
"I'm okay. Really. I'm sorry I woke you."
She hung up before her mother could argue.
Stood in her kitchen surrounded by journals.
Seventeen notebooks full of memories that kept changing.
An accident that never happened.
A hospital stay that didn't exist.
She opened her photos. Scrolled back. Three years. October 2022.
Found pictures from that month.
A photo at a restaurant. David across the table, grinning.
A photo at a Halloween party. David dressed as a pirate. Jess as—
She zoomed in.
Something was wrong.
She remembered going as a witch. Black dress, pointed hat.
But in the photo—
She couldn't quite see the costume clearly. Someone had their arm around her—around the woman's—shoulder, partially blocking the view.
Someone who wasn't David.
Another woman.
Same height as Jess. Same build. Dark hair.
The woman in the photo... was that her?
Jess scrolled forward. More photos from that month.
The woman appeared in three of them.
Always there. Always where Jess should have been.
At the restaurant with David.
At her mother's house, sitting at the kitchen table.
Standing in front of the red brick house on Maple Street, rose bushes in the background.
Living Jess's life.
Jess dropped the phone.
Picked it up with shaking hands.
Scrolled further back. Before October 2022.
Found a photo from that summer. A beach trip.
Jess standing with David. Her arm around him. Both of them smiling.
She stared at the woman in the photo.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Jess's smile.
Jess's face.
Was that her face?
Had it always looked like that?
Jess ran to the bathroom. Turned on the light. Stared at herself in the mirror.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. The same face from the photos.
The same face she'd had her entire life.
Wasn't it?
She touched her cheek. Her nose. Her jaw.
Everything felt right.
Everything looked right.
But did it feel like her?
She couldn't remember.
Couldn't remember what she used to look like.
If this face was hers or someone else's.
Jess went back to the kitchen. Found the first journal entry again.
Read it slowly.
I remember waking up in the hospital. The doctor said I'd been in an accident. A bad one. I don't remember the accident itself. They said that's normal. Traumatic brain injury. Some memory loss is expected. That's why I'm starting this journal. To hold onto what I still have. To remember who I am. My name is Jess. I'm twenty-eight years old. I live on Orchard Street. My mother's name was Carol. My boyfriend's name is David. I need to write this down. I need to remember.
She'd read this entry a hundred times.
Never noticed that last part.
The desperate listing of facts.
My name is Jess.
My mother's name was Carol.
My boyfriend's name is David.
Like someone trying to memorize a role.
Like someone who didn't actually know.
Jess sat down.
Put her head in her hands.
Thought about the changing memories.
Sarah to Amy.
Chocolate to vanilla.
Yellow house to red brick.
Coffee shop to bookstore.
Details bleeding through.
Wrong details.
Or right details?
Jess's details.
The real Jess's details.
Being overwritten by something else's memories.
By someone else's memories.
By—
Jess stood up.
Walked to the mirror again.
Stared at her reflection.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The woman in the mirror didn't answer.
Jess thought about three years ago.
October 2022.
The accident that didn't happen.
The hospital stay that didn't exist.
What had really happened?
Where had the real Jess gone?
And what was wearing her face now?
The answer formed slowly.
Like something surfacing from deep water.
She wasn't Jess.
She had never been Jess.
Three years ago, something had happened to the real Jess.
And something else had taken her place.
Wearing her face.
Living her life.
Writing in her journals.
But not quite right.
The memories didn't match because they weren't Jess's memories.
They were someone else's memories.
Something else's memories.
Yellow house instead of red brick.
Chocolate instead of vanilla.
Coffee shop instead of bookstore.
Wrong details bleeding through.
The original memories—Jess's real memories—fading.
Being overwritten.
Replaced.
By the thing that was pretending to be her.
The thing that was becoming her.
Jess, the thing that called itself Jess, sat back down at the kitchen table.
Looked at all the journals.
Three years of memories.
Which ones were real?
Which ones belonged to Jess?
Which ones belonged to her?
Did it matter anymore?
She'd been Jess for three years.
David thought she was Jess.
Her mother thought she was Jess.
Everyone thought she was Jess.
Maybe she was Jess now.
Maybe the thing she'd been before—whatever she'd been before—didn't matter.
Maybe—
She picked up a pen.
Opened the current journal.
Started to write.
I remember who I am. My name is Jess. I'm thirty-one years old. I live on Orchard Street with my boyfriend David. My mother's name is Carol. She lives in the red brick house on Maple Street. She plants roses every spring. I met David at a bookstore three years ago. We talked about Murakami. I've never been in an accident. I've never been anyone else.
I remember some things.
And I forget some things.
She set down the pen.
Read what she'd written.
Was it true?
Or was this just another memory being rewritten?
She'd never know.
Not really.
Because how do you know you're not yourself when you have all the memories of being yourself?
When you've lived in someone else's skin so long that it feels like your own?
When the line between the original and the copy has blurred so completely that there is no line anymore?
Jess closed the journal.
The clock on the microwave said 5:47 AM.
Almost dawn.
She should sleep.
She went to the bedroom.
David was there.
When had he gotten home?
She didn't remember him coming in.
But he was there, sleeping peacefully, his breath slow and even.
She slid into bed beside him.
He stirred. Mumbled something. Put his arm around her.
"Love you," he whispered, still mostly asleep.
"Love you too," she said.
The words felt right in her mouth.
Natural.
True.
"Remind me to call my mom in the morning and apologize."
"Baby, she died in the accident. Three years ago. Remember?" His voice was soft, automatic, as he turned away.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow she'd wake up.
Check her journals.
Maybe the entries would be different again.
Maybe she'd be someone else.
Maybe she already was.
"I forget," she whispered into the dark.
David's breathing deepened.
Outside, the sun started to rise.
A new day beginning.
Jess—whatever Jess was—drifted toward sleep.
In the kitchen, seventeen journals sat on the table.
The newest entry still wet with ink.
I remember some things.
And I forget some things.
By tomorrow, it might say something different.
By tomorrow, she might not remember writing it at all.
But tonight—this moment, right now—she was Jess.
She had always been Jess.
She would always be Jess.
Until she wasn't.
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This is a very intense story! It’s almost paradoxical. I love the idea of using journals to help Jess (not Jess) try and piece together what happened to her after October 2022 - and I like that you left it up to the readers interpretation. I’m thinking you’ve definitely got a much bigger story here beyond the 3000 word limit. But I like that I keep thinking about what is happening here. Clever story that ticks at least 2 of the prompts! Well done.
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Elizabeth, this comment made my day. You nailed exactly what I was going for with that paradox. And yes, there's absolutely a bigger story here. I've been mulling over what happened before October 2022, and hearing that you want more really motivates me to dig into it.
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Wow. Your prose is really suited to the intensity of your narrative. It reminded me of the film Memento, but with your own unique premise, which I loved. The tone and structure were skillfully created. The use of the prompts was a bullseye. Excellent story!!
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Thank you so much, CQ! The Memento comparison is such a compliment. I love that film and definitely had it in the back of my mind while writing this. That fragmented, unreliable reality where you can't trust what you know is such fertile ground for horror.
I'm really glad the structure worked for you. It was a risk, but hearing it landed makes it worth it. Thanks for reading!
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Such an interesting take on the prompt. Totally original. Memory is a subjective thing. Not always accurate. We all remember things differently. In Jess's case, two timelines at once. Two irreconcilable, intertwined versions. Is she losing her mind? I had to read on. Gripping.
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Kaitlyn, thank you! You're so right about memory being subjective. We're all unreliable narrators of our own lives, constantly rewriting our histories without even realizing it. That's what made this concept so terrifying to explore.
I love that the two timelines kept you hooked. That's exactly what I was hoping for. Thanks for reading and for such thoughtful feedback!
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I really enjoyed your story. It held my attention from start to finish. Great work. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you, George! I'm really glad it held you all the way through. I appreciate you taking the time to read and comment!
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Intriguing stories. Details throughout helped build suspense.
Congrats on your book.
Thanks for liking 'Gold Digger.'
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Thank you so much, Mary! I'm really glad the details worked to build that tension. That slow accumulation of wrong things was exactly what I was going for.
And thank you for the congrats on the book! It means a lot. I really enjoyed "Gold Digger" too. Thanks for sharing your work!
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If interested this mini series started with 'Wind beneath my Arrow' three or four weeks ago.
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Phew, this was quite an intense read! I was hooked from start to finish, I just had to know what was going on for Jess! I wasn’t sure what to expect-sci fi? Psychological thriller? I’m still not sure, but I enjoyed it very much! How can we ever truly trust our memories anyway… Thank you for sharing this :)
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Thank you so much, Pascale! I'm really glad it hooked you all the way through. That genre ambiguity was intentional. I wanted it to straddle that line between psychological thriller and something more unsettling, something you can't quite categorize. Is it in her head? Is it real? That uncertainty mirrors what Jess is going through.
And you're absolutely right. Memory is so unreliable, even without something sinister happening. We rewrite our own histories all the time without realizing it. That's what made this concept so terrifying to explore.
Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts!
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I didn't time to finish your story. not that I didn't want to.
why did you do this structure? I'm new to writing and i"m not sure why how this structure is to be used. so I would like to know why you did it. These short stubby lines
"The words swam.
Bookstore.
Not coffee shop.
Murakami.
Not spilled coffee.
Jess read it three times.
Then grabbed her phone. "
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Hey Frank, no worries about not finishing! I appreciate you taking the time to read what you could and ask about the structure.
I used those short, fragmented lines intentionally to mirror Jess's mental state. As she's discovering these contradictions in her journals, her thoughts are fracturing. She can't process everything at once, so the prose breaks down with her. Each short line is like a separate realization hitting her, one after another, building panic.
It's also a pacing tool. Those quick, staccato sentences speed up the reading experience, making you feel the urgency and disorientation she's feeling. When things are calm or she's reflecting, the sentences get longer and more flowing. When she's spiraling, they shatter into fragments.
Think of it like a heartbeat. Calm moments have a steady rhythm. Panic moments are rapid fire.
Does that make sense? Happy to talk more about it if you're experimenting with structure in your own work!
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thank you for response. I will have to finish reading with that in mind.
I will ask more questions if I have any.
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So captivating...
Thank you for the questions we are free to answer...
I still hope to know your version who is Jess and what had happened before October 2022. :)
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Thank you so much, Erian! I'm really glad the ambiguity worked for you.
Honestly? I don't have a definitive answer about who Jess is or what happened in October 2022. I wrote it with a few possibilities in mind, but I intentionally left it open because I think the not-knowing is more terrifying than any explanation I could give.
That said, I love reworking stories based on feedback, and your question has me thinking. There's definitely more to tell about what happened before October 2022, and I might go back and explore that. Your input really helps me see what readers are connecting with and what they want more of.
Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts. It means a lot!
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Thank you for your deep reply!
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Ohhh wow, I had my breath held as soon as the story's pace started picking up after her call with her mother. This was a ride from start to finish and I really enjoyed it! Especially with how mysterious the end was... I'd love to know what's going on with Jess-not-Jess, but I'm happy to keep thinking about it on my own.
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Thank you so much, C. Batt! I'm really glad the pacing pulled you in like that. The moment after the mom call was where everything shifts from unsettling to genuinely terrifying, so it means a lot that you felt that acceleration.
I love that you're still thinking about Jess-not-Jess. That's exactly what I hoped for with the ending. Sometimes the questions we're left with are more powerful than any answer I could give. Thanks for reading!
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I enjoyed this piece. I like the tones of feeling like it's hard to fit in inside one's own life. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you so much, Elizabeth! I'm really glad that theme resonated with you. That feeling of not quite fitting inside your own life, even when everything looks right on the surface, was exactly what I was trying to capture. I appreciate you reading and taking the time to comment!
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Wow, what a propulsive read! I like the slow, realistic spinning up shaped by the multiple "trials", the short sentences, and the repetition. A couple trials to define the problem, including the natural urge to verify...but it's too late to call mom. Check. Then a real verification from David. Okay now we know there's an objective reality (I guess David doesn't HAVE to be real or telling the truth, but I decided he was!). Check. Then a verification with Jess's own eyes by driving out to the house. Check. I only worried for a moment at the beginning that I'd have to try to remember details and look for discrepancies, but no, you made that easy for me so it didn't feel like a memory test for ME! 🤣 And then the reveal about mom! Didn't see that coming! I'll always love an ambiguous ending, Another interestingly structured tale from N.S. Streets! Bravo!
p.s. I don't know why, but I love "She heard him shift. Bed springs creaking." so real.
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Thank you so much, T.K.! I'm really glad the pacing worked for you. That slow escalation was exactly what I was going for. Each "trial" had to feel earned and necessary, building the dread without overwhelming the reader with too much to track.
And yes! I didn't want this to be a puzzle where readers had to memorize details and play detective. Jess does that work for us, which lets you focus on the growing horror instead of keeping a mental spreadsheet. The discrepancies needed to be clear enough to feel wrong without making you work too hard.
That mom reveal was one of my favorite moments to write. It changes everything retroactively, and I love that you didn't see it coming.
(Also, I'm so glad that bed springs detail landed. Sometimes it's the tiny, specific sounds that make a moment feel real.)
Thank you for such thoughtful feedback! It really means a lot.
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Hi, N.S. 🙋♂️
This was strange and different. I commend you for your effort because it's not easy to write about two sets of memories that don't reconcile with each other. Or two sets of journals that don't match up. It's a difficult "genre", for lack of a better word. It's not easy to write about entries that seem to rewrite themselves, but you gave it a good go--𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.
David is the deal breaker. He's the only real thing in her life. If only he'd said her name at the end, we'd know for sure. We'd have something to guess at. But there's always the brain injury. . .
Keep writing❗ ✍️✍️✍️
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Thank you for reading, Jacqueline. I really appreciate you taking the time, especially with a story that doesn't quite work for you.
You're absolutely right that this is a difficult thing to write—and maybe even harder to read. I was trying to capture that specific terror of not being able to trust your own memory, your own handwriting, your own identity. I wanted the ambiguity to be unsettling rather than clarifying.
David not saying her name at the end was intentional—I wanted that final moment where even the reader can't be sure if she's Jess or something pretending to be Jess. But I hear you that it might be frustrating rather than haunting.
Not every story lands for every reader, and that's okay. I'm glad you gave it a shot. Thank you for always being so thoughtful and supportive of my work!
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Your work rocks! I love seeing you grow as a writer.
Don't get me wrong. There were definitely moments of haunting and terrifying! It wasn't frustrating or even hard to read. It was very engaging, and maybe that's why I needed more closure for Jess.
It's a me thing, not a you thing! 😔
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Thank you so much, Jacqueline! Your feedback means the world to me, truly.
Please don't ever hold back on your thoughts—I genuinely value hearing what works and what doesn't for you as a reader. This kind of honest, thoughtful feedback is exactly what helps me grow. You're not being harsh at all; you're being helpful, and I'm so grateful for it.
I love that you found it engaging and that some moments landed as haunting. And I completely understand wanting more closure for Jess—that's such a valid reader instinct, and it helps me think about how to balance ambiguity with satisfaction in future work.
Your support and willingness to dig into my stories, even the weird experimental ones, is such a gift. Please keep sharing your honest reactions! I need readers like you who will tell me what resonates and what doesn't. It's how I get better.
Thank you for being so generous with your time and insights. You rock too! 💙
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