Dead Society

Allen knelt down and brushed the red earth caking the corner of the battered wooden box. Everyone gathered around him, enthusiasm dancing off the clustered bodies as they awaited the reveal of the hidden contents held within the historical artifact. With a little exertion, the box creaked as the ancient hinges holding the box together opened for the first time since it’s burial. Silence ushered in as all eyes focused on the box’s interior, the shadows dissipating to shed light on several unexpected items bunched in its small confines.

Puzzled, Allen swept his gaze over the crowd, observing similar responses that mirrored his own. Returning his eyes back to the anomalous articles that should correspond to the dating provided by his expert colleague, Allen stared at the one object laying on the very top that afforded doubt to the estimated age of the wood analyzed days prior.

“Are we sure this box was not opened,” Emmanuel asked from his right, gesturing at the oblong black item laying atop a bright pink fabric that resembled a cotton sweatshirt.

“Yes, we are sure,” Derrick hesitantly responded, “we dated a fragment of the wood from the box several times, and it was practically sealed together. There’s no way anyone could have opened it, and not break the box. We meticulously unsealed the container with specialized tools to get it opened…”

Hushed whispers spread throughout the crew, some gesturing in Samantha’s direction, the one responsible for obtaining a sample from the box and Bernard, standing off to the left with his arms crossed over his chest, a hint of menace crossing his features at the barely concealed insults flying his way.

Placing the lid back over the contents, Allen cleared his throat loudly, gathering the crew's attention at once.

“I know we are excited about this peculiar find and that everyone wants to see the entire contents. However, due to the initial observation of oddities that many of us have detected, I have concluded that further analysis will be conducted for verification purposes. We need to know if this site has been debased with fraudulent pieces. Until then, everyone is free to go home.”

An hour later, sitting in a white lab room in silence, Allen sat in a cushioned office chair, debating on perusing over the items in the box. Samantha and Bernard had just left after acquiring material from the sweatshirt and a small sample of paper from a journal to complete their analysis.

The memory of the black reflective item made the decision for him. He slipped on a pair of elastic gloves, eagerness pulsing through his veins. He gingerly lifted the lid from the box and placed it gently onto the desk, careful to leave no major damage to the decaying wood. With the box uncovered, the light caught the reflection of a shiny golden heart locket tucked on the pink sleeves of the folded sweatshirt. Next to it sat the black oblong item that resembled a modern cell phone, except this version he’d hadn’t seen before. Looking for answers, he shifted the sweatshirt to the side, digging out the brown leather journal buried beneath it. Slipping the leather bound journal out from the box, he ran his gloved palm over the rough leather until it reached the embossed name on the bottom corner in an elegant cursive. Emily R. From the pink top to the pretty heart locket, the name only confirmed his thoughts. The personal effects belonged to a woman. However, what it didn’t answer was how these presumably modem objects were locked up in a box for hundreds of years. It had to be a sham.

Unbinding the strip of leather string wrapped around the journal, Allen took in a long breath, relaxing his body and clearing his mind to prepare for the scrawled words of the previous owner. He was greeted with modern day English, another clue to the unequivocal presence of a bizarre discovery that compelled him to keep investigating. Flipping through the delicate pages, he was awed by the intricate detailed drawings of landscapes with some pages focusing more on animal and plant-life. Deciding to focus on the writing, he began to read the entries, each one stirring an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Day 1

I know not where I am. I arrived not that long ago, and have yet to run into the inhabitants of the land. I fear once it comes to pass, I will no longer be among the living. I’ve read many historical accounts of those who stand out from the crowd. To be different is to have a death sentence hanging over your head. It does not end well for them.

Day 5

I’ve managed to make shelter with the knowledge I have, and foraged the surrounding landscape for fruits and berries nearby. With luck, it’ll last until my ride back home arrives. I pray it arrives soon.

Day 30

My ride never came. I don’t know what happened. It should have arrived a week after they sent me. Perhaps the machine malfunctioned…

Day 60

It’s been two months, and still no word. I fear I have been forgotten. I’m fortunate for the training I received before going on the mission. It has assisted me in dire situations I otherwise would not have survived.

Day 100

They’re not coming back for me. I know now I’m on my own. With little choice, I must acclimate myself to my circumstances and seek out the people of this time. Hopefully, the accounts I’ve read won’t happen to me.

Day 367

It’s been a little over a year. I’ve managed to sneak away to write this final message to whoever finds it in the future. My team, for whatever purposes, left me here in this specific time, and I’ve made do with what I could. I found the people of this land and immersed myself in their culture. I thought they would fear me, for I am physically different from them and did not speak their language. Imagine my surprise when they opened their arms to me and welcomed me into their homes. In the year I’ve been here, I’ve learned many things, but the one that sticks out to me the most is humans need each other. I come from a time where we have grown distant, are more self-involved. We hide behind devices with the illusion that we are communicating with each other, but in fact, we are talking at each other with no intention of understanding the words. We no longer depend on each other, instead pushing that duty onto governments, where little is done to help those in need. When the helpless cry out for help, we point our finger to those governments, pushing the blame off our shoulders and blowing a sigh of relief that it isn’t us that needs help. The governments are no longer a tool to help the people’s voice be heard, but are an entity of its own, used by the people to cast the wrongs of the world onto, and it in turn dictates how the people should live. The freedoms are dissipating a little every year, but the people are led astray with misleading fantasies and schemes to drive their anger at each other. A dead society is what we have become. A land of uncaring people that go rabid at the slightest provocation against their own ego, that’ll eat itself if given the chance. I remember my people being enticed with stories of dystopian realities. Little did they know, they were living in one.

With this last entry, I will place the only belongings I have from my time. To whoever is reading, I hope that my words reach your heart and it’ll cause a shift. I pray I am wrong about my people, but I will never know what came of them. I only know I have hope that they will realize the same truth I have learned here. Humans need each other, to depend on and to save us from each other. Do not shun your responsibility onto another when you can do something to help.

Allen’s hands shook as he read the final entry, fantastical thoughts racing rapidly through his mind. This had to be a sham. Grabbing the gold heart locket from atop the pink sweatshirt, he opened the clasp of the heart to see an image of a young redhead, a dash of freckles sprinkling her high cheekbones and emerald green eyes staring back at him.

“Allen!” Bernard came rushing in carrying a clipboard, a bewildered look on his features. “You're not going to believe this… but I just received the results of the analysis. It matched with the date we received prior with the wood scraps of the box. Data ranged from between 1100 to 1200 AD… How is that possible, Boss?”

Allen slumped back in his chair at a loss for words. He wanted to believe this was all manufactured, but the data collected reinforced the unwanted truth. A young girl had been forgotten, sent back in time somehow. Yet she sent a message to her time. A message to remind us to be there for one another. To listen and encourage us to be better.

“A dead society…” Allen mumbled, as he tried to remember the last time he had a friendly conversation with someone and actually listened to what they had said.

Thank you for reading until the end. If you enjoyed this story, please feel free to check out some of my other stories. I kindly ask you to share, like and leave a tip if you want to. Your active participation in reading and liking notifies me that my stories resonated with someone. It is very much appreciated and goes a long way in motivating me to keep writing. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!