Thrift Store Time Machine
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WARNING! Do not read this story straight through from beginning to end. Its pages are filled with objects designed to zap you back in time, and the choices you make along the way will determine one of three possible endings. Good luck!
Page 1
There’s something off about this thrift store, maybe in a good way, but good or bad you can’t really articulate what it is. From the outside it looked like any other of your usual spots, tucked into a roadside strip mall, the sign visible from the gas station across the street. You’d made your way over half-expecting it to be closed, calling it kismet when you pushed the door open and a small bell announced your arrival.
Wood-paneled and high-ceilinged and larger than it looks from the outside, you can tell from first glance it's a winner. Telltale L.L. Bean handles peek from a jumble of hanging bags, there appears to be an actual, dedicated record section, and running along one wall is a double-height clothing rack of perfectly worn-in jackets: denim, leather, canvas. Yet there's not a customer or employee in sight…
On one hand: eerie. But Cat Stevens is playing softly in the background, mid-morning sunlight is streaming in through the windows, and you've got time to kill. What's the move here?
Drop a pin to your sister’s phone and grab a cart. Turn to page 6.
Get back on the road…after hitting that bag wall. Turn to page 5.
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Page 2
You're headed for the dresses, intent on giving your full attention to the most scandalous wedding gown on the rack when an employee bursts out of the backroom, arms filled with a large stack of folded Laura Ashley sheeting. “You shouldn't be here,” he yells in your general direction, “it's Time Travel Tuesday and we don't open ‘til noon.” Well that explains a lot, you think. “Are those sheets priced already?” “They are,” he replies, and then the two of you build a fort in the furniture section, dropping in on floral-wallpapered '90s suburbia before he rings up your purchases and you get back on the road. The End.
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Page 3
You don't think you're hallucinating, but it does bear questioning as to whether or not ZyrtecD holds some kind of contraindication with your topical estrogen. Or maybe you're just tired? Stacking the cart with your finds-so-far, you make moves towards the men's denim.
Tucked between pairs of perfectly frayed Wranglers and vintage Gap jeans, the most beautiful button-fly 501s present themselves like a gift. You hold them up to your waist before dropping your final quarter into the holder, slamming the coin slide in to start the laundromat's ancient dryer. The glass in its door reflects broad shoulders, ripped arms, a plain white cotton tee. Shoot, you hear yourself drawl, voice deep, a thick shock of hair swooping over your eyes as you lean down to inspect…is that coffee?…on your otherwise pristine shirt. You pull it up and over your head and sense your torso might actually be rippling; at that exact moment a Paloma Elsesser-lookalike comes sauntering through the door, headed straight for you in a pair of jeans almost as covetable as your own. Leaning expectantly against the double-stacked washers, arms crossed and flexed, you're suddenly back by your lonesome in the thrift store—one supermodel lighter, but 501s still in hand.
This is getting fun, actually, let's go again.Turn to page 2.
You're not sure how many multitudes you have left in you, but you should probably hit the books before you leave.Turn to page 4.
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Page 4
Two dollar hardbacks and $1 softcovers, this is heaven. Scanning the shelves, you note an unexpected lineup of vintage Baldwins and pocket-paperback Didions alongside the requisite Steels and Pattersons and Meyers, with no less than 20 copies of various installments of the Twilight series. You find yourself reaching for Breaking Dawn, gasping at a sudden and sharp fingertip-prick while flipping open its pages.
Rubbing your thumb against the pain, your hands have become unrecognizable: gnarled and veined, thick nails painted the exact red of the pawn on the book's cover. You note the source of your distress—an embroidery needle gone astray—though the cross-stitch in your lap is out of focus and hard to see. Assessing this new self, you find glasses on a chain around your neck, drawing in a breath as the world comes into focus. Wood-paneled walls feature hobbyist oil paintings of what looks suspiciously like a young Kristen Stewart; at the center of a horseshoe of intricate dreamcatchers is an autographed 8x10 of…yeah, okay, that’s Taylor Lautner. Beginning to panic, you look back down and notice you’re wearing a wolf sweatshirt, the lettering of your almost-completed cross-stitch spelling out the eternal question: Bella, Where the Hell Have You Been, Loca? You barely have time to take it all in before the thrift store rematerializes, your hands once again your own and a strong sense of indignance brewing.
That was insane, you think, throwing the book back on the shelf with implied violence, I’m Team Edward.The End.
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Page 5
You know yourself too well—if you leave without the boat and tote it will haunt you for the rest of eternity. Siiiigh. Looping it over your arm, you note vintage Coach crossbodies and suede-bottomed Jansports and—oh, wow—a fawn-colored leather belt bag, perfectly worn-in, zipper still strong and functional. You don't even need to adjust the waist when trying it on, clicking one end into the other as you're momentarily overwhelmed by the smell of Thin Mints.
Caught entirely off guard, you nearly knock over a folding table stacked taller than you are with small rectangular cookie boxes, earning you a dirty look from the eight-year old holding court beneath the grocery store portico. Two more thrust $10 bills in your direction, Hamilton's portrait small and centered—you haven't seen one of those in years. "We need change, Mrs. Lombardi!" Does this make you Mrs. Lombardi? Looking down, you see the belt bag, now pristine and new and presumably stuffed with small bills, worn over a form-fitting skirt suit in Girl Scout green, matching fawn-colored knee-high boots peeking from underneath. Unsure of what's happening but oddly comfortable in this Phyllis Nefler-verse, your hand goes for the zipper as three more girls run up in need of change. Just as you start to count out ones you're back in the thrift store, leaning against the wall and trying to get your bearings.
Are you hallucinating? And should you grab a cart?Turn to page 3.
Maybe that was a portal to the fanny pack's past life…let's see where else this place takes us.Turn to page 7.
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Page 6
Wow, you think, I hope they take credit cards. That jacket rack was the obvious place to start, and you're now flipping through suede blazers and embroidered Harley Davidson vests and barn jackets in every color of the rainbow, each destined to become your entire personality once the weather finally cools off. How are these all your size?
In disbelief at your luck, you pull a fitted leather motorcycle jacket from its hanger, walking towards the mirrored endcap of an adjacent rack as you slip it on. Right arm, then left, then the wind roaring through your hair and a Virginia Slim between your fingers as you shift into fifth gear, engine revving and snakeskin high-heeled boot pressed hard on the gas. Catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes in the rearview mirror, it takes a few moments to realize you’re looking at…yourself? Are you having an out-of-body experience? Because that’s not you flying down this long stretch of blue-sky-backed highway, black jeans and motorcycle jacket fit to your body like a second skin. You flip down the visor for a closer look at your face but catch only the 90-mile-per-hour flailing of a very fresh perm. Slamming on the brakes, the car starts to skid, and in the next moment you are once again back in the thrift store, jacket on the ground, staring at yourself in the endcap with mouth agape. What in the quantum f-cking leap just happened?
It doesn’t matter, actually, because this jacket is $8. Turn to page 7.
No, no, no, nope.Turn to page 8.
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Page 7
You decide to try the record section next. Long gone are the days when you were guaranteed at least one copy of The Big Chill soundtrack (and if you were having a truly fortuitous day, Tusk or The Best of Earth Wind and Fire)—and yet somehow these bins are filled with gold.
You start the requisite inspection of the vinyl, carefully eyeing Side 1 of a seemingly mint-condition copy of The Stranger, and the rush of the ensuing needle drop is so visceral, so all-encompassing that it takes longer than it should to realize you, yourself, are the one who dropped the needle.
It's dusk, and the glass of the window behind the hi-fi cabinet reflects an unrecognizable face: so, so, young; eyes sad but hopeful behind yellow-tinted aviators—slow down, you crazy child. You are no longer yourself, you know this, but why don’t you ree-a-lize, Vienna waits for you? hits you so hard in this unfamiliar body that you know this not-you is in her 20s, flooded with an ache and a longing and an impatience that you'd (somehow, mostly) managed to pack up and put away more than two decades ago: you can’t do everything you want to do before your time. You don't envy her, whoever she is, and the macrame-hung spider plants in your periphery blur out as Billy Joel’s voice is replaced by a local radio ad playing over the store’s speakers.
This is starting to get trippy. Turn to page 3.
One more go, then it's time to call it. Turn to page 2.
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Page 8
Leaving your cart in the middle of the aisle, you hustle back out to your car and speed out of the parking lot. You'll regret not having left with the jacket for the rest of your entire life, but the possibility of getting stuck with its accompanying ‘80s perm and Camaro just didn't feel like an even tradeoff (though for the record, you would have gladly taken the snakeskin boots). The End.
“CYOA: Thrift Store Time Machine” emailed out 9.15.2026 with newsletter-exclusive extras. Subscribe for free here.