[ WP ] You go for a quick run to a convenience store and upon returning home you realize you 've been gone for a week .

“ Da-fu—ahhhh! ” 
 
 With an eloquent and loquacious curse, I tumbled flat onto my face. It took me a few seconds to recover, ‘ ph-fahh ’ out the dust that had gotten in my mouth and turn around to glare accusingly at a small, innocent crack in the pavement. 
 
 Levering myself somewhat upright again, I went through the post-tumble routine. Slightly skinned hands from the last ditch attempt to protect my face, sore knee from impact with the pavement. Dirt all over the new jacket. The milk had attempted an escape towards the road, but luckily hadn ’ t spilt. The bread hadn ’ t even gotten out the bag and my little weekly treat of a chocolate bar had been trapped by the loaf ’ s obstinate refusal to budge. 
 
 Collecting my purchases, I continued strolling back to my apartment, albeit with a small limp from the sore ankle. I was pretty much moving by autopilot. I might have passed a couple of people – not sure. My mind was busy constructing elaborate zinger answers to anyone that might question my minor injuries. I was trying to decide between a classic ‘ lost a fight with the ground ’ and the ‘ injured falling from heaven ’ if Georgia asked about it later when I got back to the building. There was no-one at the front desk, which really wasn ’ t that unusual. I took a quick glance over at the mailbox –no mail. There was some poster in the lifts, I think, but I paid it no mind. Apartment 12 was trying to sell their fridge again, no doubt. 
 
 Getting back to my apartment was when I noticed the first thing that snapped me out of my autopilot. My key wouldn ’ t fit in my apartment door. 
 
 I checked again. Yep. Apartment 6. Yep, that was my “ Solicitors will be shot, survivors will be shot again ” sign. Yep, that was my scuffed patch of paint in the top left corner from the time I moved in. But nope, my key wouldn ’ t fit. 
 
 I tried the door anyway and to my surprise it opened. What I saw caused me to drop my supplies again. I ’ d been robbed. My computer was gone. My filing cabinet was gone. The teetering pile of *Star Trek* DVDs was…piled neatly in my shelves? What the hell kind of burglars do that? I mean, even the Season One *Enterprise* DVDs were stacked neatly, and *no-one* likes those. 
 
 Through into the main room, my phone and answering machine were gone, and there was a stack of boxes with my clothes in them. Frantic, I scrabbled through the ( strangely neat ) pile of paper on the bench, No – it wasn ’ t my imagination – there was the rent agreement for another six months. And I knew I had paid yesterday since I was counting coins at the store to ensure I had enough. 
 
 Fridge was cleaned out, completely. Bowl of fruit was gone. No phone – wait! I shot through into the bedroom. Nope. Both the TV and my charging cell phone were gone. Bed was neatly stored against the wall and de-sheeted. 
 
 Everything was looking less like a burglary and more like the slowest eviction in history. 
 Nothing for it then. I went back downstairs. Still no-one at the counter. I shifted the days papers and picked up the phone, noting idly that the receptionist had the wrong day on her Dilbert calendar. The jokes about the Elbonian missiles was next week. So I read ahead. Sue me. 
 
 I phoned my parents. It went straight to that irritating default “ No-one is at home to take your call ”. Scratch that. I tried Georgia. I knew she would be at home – we had a dinner in three hours, and she always joked about it taking half a day to look nice. No reply there either. Maybe the phone was broken. 
 
 I could have called the cops, but it wasn ’ t reeaally an emergency. Very weird slow eviction, but it wasn ’ t like I needed the cops here to get the landlord out of my face. The police station was about fifteen minutes away, and I supposed I could walk there. Besides, the route would take me past THAT stretch of pavement again, and I still owed it another death-glare-of-doom. 
 
 Three minutes later, I was staring at the ground, puzzled. This was the spot – halfway between the Gofez graffiti tag and the chalk-drawing. Right next to number 144 and that low-hanging tree. But no crack in the pavement. It was all one smooth, seamless stretch of asphalt. The hell? 
 
 Thoroughly weirded out, I took three more steps before my autopilot brain again warned me that something was different. There was a poster on the powerpole up ahead. I could see the word ‘ Missing ’, so I stepped over to have a look. Hey, I ’ ve got a soft spot for cats, and if one was missing in the area, it was my civic duty to look out for it. 
 
 But it wasn ’ t a missing cat poster. It was my face. “ Missing since August 4th 2014. Contact local police with any information. ” 
 
 This was looking like the fastest prank in history. I had a look around for the cameras. On TV, this was the moment they jumped out and announced that I ’ d been Punk ’ d. Nope. Birds chirped, wind rustled and cars droned several streets over. Speaking of wind, it was getting colder. I could see the clouds off in the distance. Typical weather service. The storm was supposed to be a week awa-. 
 
 *Oh, hell no. * 
 
 I broke into a run – and immediately pitched flat on my face once again. 
 I angrily pushed up off the ground again, to see that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned-to-an-eternity-in-hell crack again. I stood up. 
 
 The approaching storm was gone. The sun had shifted noticeably west. The Gofez graffiti was gone. I spun – and sure enough, the poster with my face was gone as well. 
 
 I was shaking when I rounded the corner and almost collided with James. 
 
 “ Yo man. Hey, what the hell happened to you? Look like you ’ ve seen a ghost! ” 
 
 ‘ What ’ s the date?! ” 
 
 “ Fourth August, same as this morning. You alright? ” 
 
 I spilled the story to him. Screw sounding weird, the events of the last hour were plain freaky. James just listened, nodding his head sagely, as if he had some idea of what had just happened. 
 
 “ K man, so make sure I got this right – you think you somehow jumped forward into next week? And all your stuff was being evicted out? ” 
 
 “ Yeah – I mean I know it sounds silly, but…. ” 
 
 “ Nah, man. Nah. One way to be sure though. Did you check the papers? ” 
 
 Newspapers. Yes, there had been a pile of them at the receptionist ’ s desk. Why the hell hadn ’ t I checked them for the date? 
 
 “ No – I…there were some, but I didn ’ t look at them. ” 
 
 “ Damn man. You could have at least checked the lottery numbers. Jackpot tonight. ” 
 
 I stared at James. The worst part about it was that he was right. *Shit*. 

