Kindness War: Book Eight’s short shift

Short Shifts · No. 08 · Kindness War

COMPLIMENT YOUR NEIGHBOR. (Or else.)

The kindness board has been discovered. Every note on it is a compliment, and not one of them is kind. Write six of your own, on the best paper you can find, and see what the block writes back.

Write six notes

The war needs JavaScript to play. Below it, without it: a gallery of finished notes and the whole phrasebook, every tile in every slot.

Warming the water…

How it works

Build a note from four tiles
Post it. The block answers
Six rounds fill the board

The rules, in words

Six rounds of notes against the block. Every note is a compliment. None of them is kind.
Build each note from four preset tiles: who it’s for, what you notice, what you say about it, and the turn at the end. Twelve tiles to a slot. You can’t type a note here: the war is fought in house tiles only.
Before you post, you may upgrade one piece of stationery a round. Paper goes from index card to linen to vellum, the pen from ballpoint to fountain pen, the seal from nothing to wax.
Every note reads three ways, in words and pips from zero to five: Pettiness, Plausible deniability and Elegance. Better paper is more elegant. A fountain pen makes anything sound meant. Wax is unnecessary, therefore devastating.
The block answers every note. A note from across the street mirrors yours back. Frankie helps. Louie’s bots pile on. Ralphie enforces Community Standards: a note too sincere to be a compliment, or too plain to be anything but an insult, comes down for the records. Quotation marks used for emphasis bring a retired proofreader.
After six rounds the board is full, and your verdict is whichever way your notes read most.
Nothing is timed. Each round waits for you.

Back to the board: the game, as you left it

The plain version

From the board

Six notes, as posted. Every word is a tile from the phrasebook below.

To my neighbor through the wall — your handwriting is museum quality. Like a museum. Of sauce.

On vellum, in fountain pen, wax.
To the shop that opens one second after mine — your sauce is so authentic. For your age.

On linen, in ballpoint, no seal.
Dear upstairs — your singing in the shower is the talk of the stairwell. I’ve told everyone.

On index card, in ballpoint, no seal.
To the one who signs for my packages — your confidence is exactly what this block deserves. I mean that. Mostly.

On linen, in fountain pen, no seal.
Dear whoever borrowed my ladder in May — your business plan has come such a long way. Considering.

On index card, in fountain pen, no seal.
To my oldest friend on this block, technically — your taste in curtains takes a confidence I could never afford. Stay just as you are. Over there.

On vellum, in fountain pen, wax.

The phrasebook

Every tile, slot by slot. A note is one of each, in this order.

1. Who it’s for

To whoever lives across from me —
Dear upstairs —
To the shop that opens one second after mine —
To the owner of the loudest fan on the block —
To my favorite person who never says good morning —
To my neighbor through the wall —
To the regular who orders the usual and never says what it is —
To the gentleman on the stoop, all day, every day —
Dear whoever borrowed my ladder in May —
To the one who signs for my packages —
To my oldest friend on this block, technically —
To the tenant with the beautiful curtains —

2. What you notice

your sauce
your window display
your new look
your confidence
your fire escape garden
your singing in the shower
your taste in curtains
your Slurp bio
your business plan
your handwriting
your laugh, which carries
your recycling

3. What you say about it

is so authentic.
is truly one of a kind.
is honestly inspiring.
has come such a long way.
is a lot.
is very current.
is the talk of the stairwell.
is wonderfully low-maintenance.
takes a confidence I could never afford.
is exactly what this block deserves.
is museum quality.
is unforgettable, and I’ve tried.

4. And then

Like a museum. Of sauce.
For your age.
Considering.
Somebody had to say it.
No notes. Well. One note.
I’ve told everyone.
Truly. “Truly.”
We’re all rooting for you. Out loud.
My grandmother agrees, and she agrees with no one.
Very “authentic.”
Stay just as you are. Over there.
I mean that. Mostly.

After hours

For readers who have finished Book Eight, the war has more paper in it, and the last round ends the way the book’s war ends.

SPOILERS UNDER PROTECTION PLUS Opens when you mark Book Eight finished. Coverage: Basic (free). Premium (also free). Platinum Elite (free, but Louie calls you).

At noon, two notes go up on the same very heavy paper, one from each side of the line, each sealed across its fold, carried over by a grandchild and opened at the cork:

To my neighbor across the street—your resilience is inspiring. Never change.

You can’t.

To the woman who thinks she invented tradition—your dedication to the past is remarkable.

The past misses you.

The retired proofreader holds your note up for the whole street and taps every mark with his red pencil:

Quotation marks are NEVER for emphasis!

After the last round, smoke, low at the board’s lower left corner.

A flame, then another, then nobody’s notes at all.

In the morning, where the board hung, a scorch mark in the shape of its frame.

And the cycle continues.

All short shifts