[ WP ] You write a note to your future self . When you store it , you find another note there- a response from your older self .

The paper crackles in the breeze from the open bedroom window. Faded and crumpled, I press it against the scarred desk in a feeble attempt to smooth it out. The pale blue lines – especially the dashed ones in the middle – bring a smile to my face. A rare kindness this weekend. I close the lid of the He-Man lunchbox that once held the paper, slide the black suit coat off my arms, kick off my dress shoes, and settle down on the corner of my childhood bed. In the silence of the now empty house, I hear the same creaking springs as when I last slept here fifteen years ago. 
 
 The handwriting makes me laugh. Man, when was the last time I used cursive? My pre-pubescent scrawl reads “ Donnie ’ s Things To Do Before Turning 30 ”. My highest goal was apparently becoming a Ninja Turtle. My ten year old self would be so disappointed. As I scan the rest of the list, my amusement turns to sadness, then to a deep sense of failure. Amid the “ go to outer space ” and “ dig a hole to China ” were saner goals like “ get married ”, “ become a famous scientist ”, “ run the Boston Marathon ”, and “ go to college ”. Even simple ones like “ visit Hawaii ” were left unchecked. Not a single goal accomplished. 
 
 I look out the bedroom door to the empty house beyond. What would Dad have left undone from his own list? Nothing, I know. He was a doer. Not me, though. I look at the paper in my hand and swallow hard to choke back tears. Determined, I walk back to the desk and grab a pencil. Crossing out “ 30 ” since that ship has sunk, I write “ 40 ” above it and circle a few of the items. *No excuses this time! * If I can ’ t cross these items off, then I ’ m not making a life worth living. 
 
 I wipe my cheek and fold the paper up, a sense of real determination washing through me. Opening the rusty lunchbox lid to tuck the note inside for 40 year old me, I stop abruptly. Inside the box is a folded sheet of paper where empty space was not five minutes ago. The paper is creased and faded in an all too familiar way. My pulse quickens as I unfold it, suspicions confirmed as it is the same sheet of paper already held in my other hand. Only now there is a hastily scribbled addendum at the bottom. 
 
 “ Don ’ t ask me how this is possible. I have no clue. But listen, Donnie! Do not put on your shoes! There is a poisonous spider hiding in the toe. And it… ” The letters blur and smear together at that point, followed by a single streak that runs off the page. 
 
 Fear and confusion paralyze me. What the hell? I look down at shoes in cautious disbelief. Picking one up by the heel, I overturn it and bang it against the ground. Sure enough, a two inch long spider scurries out, seeking new shelter. I jump, falling backwards over the desk chair, hitting the floor hard. But I scramble to my hands and knees and grab the shoe, smashing it down on the fleeing spider ’ s head with an awful squish. 
 
 As I try to steady my breathing, I climb back up to the desk and reach for the strange duplicate note. But before my hand can touch it, it fades and disappears before my eyes.
