Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Note: Blame Afterwards for this. He posted Afterwards Writing Prompt #1 – Monday 8th of January – “Darla” – Sci Fi – Something a little sci fi to start the year off.
As I’m occupied with revising and editing a novel, my muses got excited and pushed out a small piece just to alleviate some creative juices. Cheers
Sixteen Days
Her first words were, “My name is Darla,” spoken a few seconds after she opened her luminous gray eyes, about a minute after they’d cut her umbilical cord.
As expected, a speaking infant galvanized reactions in the delivery room. They were just recovering from her eyes opening and the way she’d looked around. “I have never seen anything like that,” the nurse, Dee, avowed, her own eyes big and glowing with shock, “and I’ve been doing deliveries for twenty-six years and gave birth to five children of my own.”
The mother, Amy asked, “What’s going on?” A clamoring of explanations followed until her husband, Andi, said loudly, “Our daughter just told us her name is Darla.”
Amy said, “That’s not what I want to name her.”
“I know, I know,” Andi said. “The, the, the baby said it. The baby is the one who said her name is Darla.”
With Amy repeating with arching eyebrows, “The baby said that,” Darla said as the nurse handed her to Amy, “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you wanted to name me after Heather Cox Richardson because you admire her, but I was named before I was born. I’m Darla. It can’t be changed now. The history is already written.”
While others verbally speculated over what Darla said and hunted for clarification, Amy didn’t. Exhausted from giving birth, worn out from being pregnant, pleased to have this phase of her life completed and the fear of it gone, Amy just said, “Oh, okay.” Looking down into Darla’s intelligent eyes looking up into her own, she was thinking that she’d make sense of it later, after she’d slept about a year, after her body healed. She was just too exhausted to make sense of it now.
###
Three days old, Darla clambered out of her white bassinet – which was already too small – and walked over to the kitchen table where her mother was surfing the net on her phone. “Mom,” the little one said. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I want to talk to you while we have a chance.” Darla glanced back in a listening pose. “Before Grandma comes back.”
Amy, to be honest, wasn’t recovering well. Not post-partum depression, no, it was just shock over what her daughter was already doing. That dynamic made Amy avoid her daughter. “Seriously,” she told her mother, Gina, “I don’t like how my daughter looks at me. Is that crazy, Mom? Is that normal?”
“I don’t know.” Gina didn’t want to tell her daughter, hell yes, that’s crazy. Your daughter’s eyes aren’t supposed to be open yet. She’s not supposed to be talking and walking around and opening the refrigerator. Having given birth twice, she knew these things and had talked to her own mother about it. A walking, talking baby like Darla was creepy.
“How did you learn to talk like that?” Amy asked Darla.
“I learned while I was in your womb.” Darla had to constrain her impatience. She fully expected questions like this. “Remember, Mom, you carried me for nine months. You and Daddy read to me and played me classical music, along with some pop. FYI, I am so sick of Taylor Swift now, you played so much of her. Anyway, that’s how I learned to talk.”
“But that’s not natural. Are you really my daughter?” Amy refrained from letting the weird idea that her daughter was a demon, alien, or robot, be expressed because she didn’t want to embrace that in any way, but what else could she be?
Darla put her tiny hands on her little hips and stared up at her mother. “You ask me that after carrying me for nine months and six days, and then going through sixteen hours of labor? What do you think that all was, virtual reality? You – our whole family – talks a lot and you almost always had a television or radio on. I heard a lot, and I had a lot of time on my hands, so I was able to practice. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”
Judging her mother’s reaction, she said more gently, “Seriously, I know what you mean, Mom. I understand what you’re thinking, but believe me, I am your daughter. I’m not an alien or something like that, but I’m part of a project, which is called Project New Born. I know that it’s kind of cheesy, but I didn’t choose it.”
Darla stopped to listen for Grandma coming back. She’d heard steps and creaking and believed Grandma Gina – she had two grandmothers, but Grandma Belle had refused to visit her walking, talking grandchild, considering her, Darla heard her tell Andi, possessed by the Devil – was around the corner, listening. Spying, really. So what. Grandma Gina needed to learn this stuff sooner or later and she’d be pretty cool about it.
“Project New Born?” Amy listlessly repeated.
“I’ll tell you more about that later. I need to go somewhere tomorrow, so I’ll be gone. Don’t freak out, though, because I am coming back. I’ll be back in sixteen days, so don’t go crazy while I’m gone, Mom. I need you, I need your help, and I need you to be sane and sober, okay? Daddy is going to lose it, but he doesn’t matter nearly as much. I can overcome that. You matter more, Mom, you matter more, okay?”
Eyes half-closing, Amy said, “Wait, what? I didn’t understand any of that. Can you say it again?”
Indulging her mother, Darla began a repetition like she was reciting a poem. Amy broke in to ask, “You’ll be back in sixteen days?”
Her question pleased Darla because it showed everything was on track. “Yes, sixteen days. I know I’ll be back then because that’s how far I can see into the future.”
Fulfilling expectations, Amy repeated, “You can see into the future?”
“Yes, just sixteen days now, but that’ll change. Like, it wasn’t only one day when I was born, but it increases as I get more in tune with it, providing I stay on track, and will be able to see further and further into it. Part of that is because I’m from the far, far future, I’m talking centuries, and I’m genetically engineered to see the future. Yes, I’ve been sent back to save humanity. I’m just the first, though. There will be more of me, and then it’ll all start making more sense, okay? And yes, I am your child, you and Daddy, because your eggs and his sperm were acquired and sent ahead, okay? Listen, we’ll talk more later. First, I am starving, so let me go get Grandma Gina so she can make something to eat. Also, though, I also mention this today because I’ll be much more grown when I come back, so if you want pictures of me when I’m little, you need to get them today.”
She looked at her mother’s chest. “By the way, you’re leaking, Mom. I think you need to pump your breasts again.”
Turning, little Darla strode away on her tiptoes. Darla heard her muttering, “Stupid diapers. I can’t wait to grow more so that I reach things and use the toilet, and get my own food. I’m friggin’ starving.”
Amy watched her tiny dark-haired daughter go around the corner. Then she heard her speaking. She wanted a grilled cheese sandwich. Picking up the breast pump, Amy smiled for the first time since giving birth. It could be worse. At least Darla had ten fingers and toes and two eyes and was otherwise a perfect little girl with pretty eyes and a sweet face.
Pumping her breast, Amy thought, it’s going to be an interesting sixteen days.
Technology fascinates me. It has since I first read about microwave ovens and satellites in the mid sixties, when I was less than ten years old. That’s why I want to spread the word about the latest technology I’ve heard about.
Ever have confusion about what you thought was just said? For example, your wife suggests you go for a ride, and you think that she wants something fried? Or you hear something that sounds like a gunshot and she claims that she didn’t hear anything. Instead of sitting there, listening for a repeat of the sound, or wondering if she’s deaf or you’re crazy, you can access a small device and have the last ten minutes of sound repeated for your benefit.
Sounds crazy? Did to me but this help is being offered out there in the form of a new AI system I spied on a television commercial the other night. I’m seriously thinking about buying it.
This miracle device is called Whazaid. Here is a brief description. First, a control interface is downloaded onto a phone or laptop. A rechargeable device that’s about the size of a U.S. nickel will record everything being said around you. How far around you can be adjusted. It’s said to be so effective, Whazaid can capture the sound of pet kibble hitting the floor in another room.
That depends on where your put your Whazaid. It has a tiny clip that lets you put it on a shirt collar, hat bill, or a bra strap. Anything kind of fabric, really, like the top of your pants or a shirt or pants pocket. It can even be clipped to an ear lobe. The thing is, wherever it’s placed, its effectiveness is depended on not being blocked so it can pick up sounds.
The device can record 28 hours worth of conversations before it needs to be charged. The inventors say that’s about three days for most people but it can vary. Although it has a terrabyte of storage, recordings will stay on your device for thirty days unless otherwise marked by the control device. A subscription can be set up so that everything recorded is backed up on the cloud.
Whazaid’s AI feature has a smart filter that will separate sounds being heard. This is where the AI, which is based on IBM’s Watson, comes in. As the system records and identifies sounds, you can taylor sounds you want recorded. For example, you probably don’t want to record television shows or movies, and exclude them.
Then, the AI will learn your preferences and modify your settings for you, if you wish; that’s something set up on the control. Whazaid will also attach the speakers’ names and mark conversations with subject, date, and time. If you allow the optional location feature to be turned on, Whazaid will also mark the location.
Using Bluetooth hooked in your ear, you can also give the device verbal commands. So if an argument starts about who said what, you can tell Whazaid to playback a specific recording by subject, time, or speaker(s). It’ll play it back privately but can be mated with laptops or phones so it can be played via those devices and their speakers so everyone can hear the recorded conversation.
For example, my wife and I had a frustrating exchange about what was being said about plans for this Friday. The moment devolved into a classic he said/she said disagreement that left us both dissatisfied and irritated. If I had a Whazaid installed, I could have resolved it right there.
Another advantage, though, is that it can record lectures. A disadvantage is the danger presented to classified information, or comments confided to you in private.
Whazaid isn’t cheap at about eleven hundred US dollars, the early adopter price. But the technology entices me. I’m getting older and it seems like disagreements about what was said or heard are multiplying. So I am very tempted.
I might wait until it’s available at Costco, because they usually have better prices. If I do buy Whazaid, I’ll let you know how it goes. How ’bout you? Are you interested in Whazaid?
NOTE: Whazaid is totally fabricated. It only exists in my mind.
Awakening to light, slowly mobilizing brain cells and muscles to enjoin the day, I sensed something different. The sense catalyzed my awakening, catapulting me into a full upright position.
This was not my room.
But it was my room from…when?
Rock groups, astronomy, and Formula 1 racing posters, blue bedspread, simple small room layout were absorbed, an answer gained: this was my room when I was seventeen.
I was in my bedroom from when I was seventeen. I had to be dreaming.
Almost as I went through this, I heard a voice inside me saying something similar. As I endured my shocked understanding, I stood.
Almost as I went through this, I heard a voice saying something. Freaked out, I stood up. “Who are you?” I asked in my head.
Then I did something I never thought I’d do. I asked a voice in my head to identify itself.
They seemed to be doing the same.
They seemed more panicked. And younger. So I took the initiative. “My name is Marshall Chamberlain,” I said in a calm voice. “What’s your name?”
“That’s my name, too. Marshall Chamberlain. I’m Marshall Chamberlain.”
Although I’d almost expected it, my throat dried as realizations took over. I couldn’t accept them but logic forced me to say things, searching for truth and understanding. “I’m in my bedroom from when I was seventeen, living in Pennsylvania with my father. Do you know where you are?”
I turned and looked into the dresser mirror as I spoke, staring at my young, skinny self. Thin dark mustache and goatee, thick, brown curly hair, unibrow, muscles.
“No. I’m…I’m in a bedroom.”
I took a tight grip on my sanity. It was like one of those crazy movies where a parent and child have switched places, except I’d been switched with myself. I was back in time, as had happened to Kathleen Turner’s character in Peggy Sue Got Married, except I’d also gone forward as a youth to my present existence, and we could hear one another.
“Tell me what it’s like. Is it big? Blue walls? Light-colored carpet, king-sized bed? Sliding doors to a patio, and a large bathroom with two sinks, a garden tub, sauna, and shower?”
“No. It’s…no, I don’t know.”
“Is it a nice, airy room with large windows, French doors leading to a balcony? Can you see a big body of water?”
Shock rattled me. A third voice. “Who?”
I was thinking fast, realizing as he spoke, thinking it as he spoke, as the young me also thought it, “We’re all past, present, and future. We all have a past while we live in the past, and have a future waiting to be lived.”
Then the ‘old one’ from my future said, “This could go very good, or very bad. I don’t remember anything like this happening to me when I was young. I think I would have.”
A younger voice asked, “What’s going on,” as another said, “I remember this room.”
Several of us thought, past, present, future, past, present, future. It’s not static but dynamic. The future almost immediately becomes the present and then moves on to the past.
“I hope this doesn’t spiral out of control,” most of I said. Sounded like seven, eight voices.
With a common thought, we all caught our breath and waited.
The habit to check my email is strong. Still do it every morning. It’s even more of a habit now that I’m dead. The body might be gone but not the habits. Those who died before email don’t really get it. Those who died after email died don’t either.
I had mail. I knew I would but I still heave a heavy sigh when I see the messages. It’s iMail so the box is bottomless. I haven’t been able to verify it, but I think the i in iMail means infinite. I have fifty-seven thousand six hundred seventeen unread messages and counting.
They’re all from ‘me’, that is, other versions of me who’d also died but were in a different heaven. The multiverse theory of reality is right; every decision, no matter how small or large or nuanced, generates a new universe. With iMail, the dead across multiverse heavens can connect with one another. The messages from me to me vary little from one another. It’s the same missive I sent to my other selves when I discovered this capability after I died.
“Hi Michael, it’s me. Or you, ha, ha.” With some small differences. Some open with ‘hey’. Or drop the name and call me ‘dude’. Or, Mike, M, Mickey, Micheal, Mychael, etc., or yo. Some start, ‘it’s you’ instead of ‘it’s me’. Some hyphenate the ‘ha-ha’ or leave it naked of punctuation, ‘ha ha’. ‘Hah’ is also used. And ‘ha’. And there’s every variation of all those, including capitalization and punctuation and language. Because some of me were born in NAZI America because the US lost WW2. Others write from the Second United States or the Commonwealth of the United States or the Confederate States of America because I was born in Virginia, and we all share that. That’s who we are but the similarities and differences become complex.
There are some, who, like me, sent out a request. “Please stop. Don’t send me mail.” But the newcomers, who survived the heart attack which killed me — or never had one at all — or were sober, high, stones, drunk, etc. — but were killed later by cancer, accidents, shootings, on Earth, in space or on Mars, the Moon, etc, or by the first wife second wife husband father mother son, etc., — and all the many ways one of those might kill me — and different ways in which the attempt is made — and the different dates, times, locations — all of them come onboard and send out that same damn email, with variations.
I might be in heaven, but it’s email hell. You’d think I’d have the willpower to stop, but here’s the thing about the multiverses: even dead, since I still exist but as another form, every decision creates a new verse. So some of me manage to stop and quit checking their email, but it’s not me. At least today.
I’ll see what happens tomorrow. I hopefully won’t lose it and kill myself in heaven, which apparently we can do.
I’ve seen that imail, too.
Patrick felt like warmed-over crap. Aches gnawed his spine. Coffee tasted like tar in his mouth. Betrayed by coffee. How was that possible?
Squinting at the ceiling, Patrick loosened a long and heavy sigh. “God, universe, whatever, please, please, change my luck for me. I seriously need a change.”
A small person at a gray desk floated in front of him instantaneously. She was about four inches tall, seated as she was, in a pleasant black suit with a white shirt. As he gaped at her and backed away, the napping black cat arose from his desk and hurried over, ready to pounce on the newcomer.
“Control your cat,” the little pale-skinned female with short gray hair said. “I don’t want to hurt it.”
Grabbing Loki, Patrick asked, “Who the hell are you? How’d you get here?”
A little disapproving cluck came out of the little one. “Call me Hortense. I’m with luck prayer services. You prayed for a change of luck. I’m here to address your request.”
Meowing, the cat squirmed in Patrick’s arms while keeping hot green-eyed focus on the little floating agent. “I’m never heard of…what’d you call it?”
“Luck prayer services. I’m Hortense, your account manager. You asked for more luck. Unfortunately, you’re out of luck. In reviewing your account, I see that you were born with a great deal of luck. Intelligent, talented, white, male, born in the United States of good parents…minor issues with them… No genetic issues. Yes, you were lucky. Unfortunately, you’ve used it all up.”
Tapping a keyboard, she leaned into the screen. “Several car accidents while drink driving in which you escaped unhurt and without legal repercussions. Tornados. Hurricane. Earthquake. Promotions. Stock purchases. Health. You smoked cigars for ten years and had no respiratory problems when COVID-19 struck. You realize how lucky that is?”
“I…yeah, yeah.” Patrick bobbed his head. “I know, I know.”
Loki broke free and leaped for Hortense. Something caught and held the cat in mid-air.
“Told you to control that cat, sir,” Hortense snapped. “If you don’t, I will.”
“I – sorry.” Patrick took Loki and put him in another room and closed the door. Hortense and her desk followed him throughout.
Turning and encountering her in the hall made Patrick jump. “Jesus, you.” He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. It sounds like you’re telling me that my luck has run out.”
“I am, sir.”
“That doesn’t sound good for me.”
“No sir.”
“Anyway I can get more?”
“Of course.” One thin eyebrow jumped on Hortense’s tiny face. “It would take more money than you now have but you can buy more luck.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“A deal with the Devil is highly rated.”
“Yikes. Don’t think I’m ready to do that. Isn’t there anything else?”
“You can try to create your own luck. Some people have luck with that.” Hortense chortled. “Or you can steal some.”
Loki yowled at the door and vigorously clawed it.
“Are you seriously suggesting that I steal someone else’s luck?” As he asked, Patrick amended his thinking. “Can I choose my victim?” He was thinking, Tucker Carlson and Donald Trump both seemed pretty damn lucky. Or Soros. Gates. Musk.
“You can but that rarely works out. Hard for most to differentiate between good and bad luck. You might accidently pilfer their bad luck.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that.” Patrick felt resigned, which oddly made him feel better. It was like, this wasn’t in his control. Knowing that relieved him of responsibility. Nothing he could do about it. “Is there anything else?”
“Well…yes. According to your records, you are eligible for employment.”
Patrick went still with thought. “Go on.”
“If you work for us, you can be compensated in good luck.”
“Who is us?”
Hortense smiled. “We just call ourselves The Bureau. Capital T, capital B.”
“You’re recruiting me.” Patrick suspected a setup. “So I do a job for you and The Bureau pays me in good luck.”
“Yes.”
“I assume whatever it is won’t be easy.”
“They’re normally not. But let me tell you. With your luck, if you don’t take this offer, you’ll be dead in a year.”
That’s how Patrick’s career began. Hard to believe but now he was about to start his tenth mission.
He’d need all of his hard-earned luck to stay alive.
Martin was in a glorious mood. Winter seemed to have finally left the area. Sunshine ruled. Unlimited blue sky. The air smelled different. Fresher. Cleaner.
He liked how things were going. Thick described him – legs, chest – which was also deep – arms, neck. Everyone thought of him as a bear without the violence, a slumbering bear, his first ex described him in college. Other than hair drawing back from his forehead and a thick mustache and goatee, he looked much like the man he was forty years before.
His house was finished. He’d moved in and it was beginning to feel like home. Lot couldn’t be replaced from the loss, but life, you know? Heard from daughter. She and her children were safe, great news. Cherry on dessert was his night of passion. Been a long time since one of those.
Seeing his fornicating partner coming toward him launched a big grin. She hugged him. “Hello, how are you, Martin?”
“Hey Cindy, long time, no see.” A joke. He leaned in and planted a big wet one.
Cindy snapped back. “Whoa, Martin, what the hell? We’re old friends but that was a little over the top.” She was wiping her mouth. “No offense, but I’m not interested.”
Martin stepped back and drew up, looming over her by a foot. “Hold up. We did the nasty three times last night and this morning. The last one was just over five hours ago, and a little kiss upsets you? Seriously, really? I guess I read too much into it. Forgive me.”
She was staring. “Did the nasty? In what reality did we do the nasty?”
Pieces acquired new meanings. Fresh air. How it smelled. Sunshine. His safe daughter. “Damn.”
He was in a different reality. Episode number twenty. Real mystery was when it happened. Why, of course. “Sorry, Cindy. My sincere apologies.”
“That’s okay. I forgive you.”
“Will you indulge me and tell me, who is President?”
“President?” Cindy laughed. “Man, you are in another world.”
Many thoughts were lapping my head.
“Who is he?” the stranger asked.
“Don’t know.” I considered the dead man and holstered my gun. “He didn’t introduce himself. Speaking of that…” I cast a net over the short woman beside me. She’d walked up just after the other breathed his last. She was fortunate I didn’t shoot her.
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Oh, my name. Nancy Sinatra, I’ve decided.”
“You decided.” She didn’t have a car. Numerous new questions joined my mental list.
The stranger chortled. “I’m an alien. Don’t have a human name. First time I’ve had a body like this. First time to Earth.”
Alien. Figured. I’d need to delve into that.
I shifted my victim to look at his face. Nice forehead shot, I congratulated myself. Been lucky to kill him. He’d had the most important element — surprise — but I was faster. “Can you help me with this body?” I’d decided to toss him over the nearby edge into the ravine below. Wasn’t nothing but starlight and a skinny moon’s cast for illumination but I knew the ravine was there. Sure wasn’t burying him. Figured it had to be done fast. Before others arrived.
She picked up the body. All five four of her hefting six feet plus something inches and a few hundred pounds, putting him over a shoulder like a light jacket.
“Geez,” I said. “Respect.”
She nodded. “Where to?”
I directed her, “Follow me.” I hope she wasn’t going to kick me over with my dead guy. “Be careful.”
“I will. I can see better than you.”
“Oh. I see.” Ha, ha. I use humor to cope. It’s not good humor.
“Why’d you kill him, Tate?”
“You know my name.”
We stopped and looked together into the dark valley at our feet. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. Not even breathing hard.
“Toss him,” I said.
She did.
We listened to his downward journey and the final silence. A warm wind licked my skin. A cricket began a lonely solo.
“You didn’t say why you killed him,” Nancy Sinatra said.
“Self defense. He tried to kill me when I arrived.”
“Ah. Prompts a difficult question, doesn’t it?”
“What?” I knew what but I was challenging and measuring. Figuring out who Nancy Sinatra was. Wondering why dead guy was alone.
“You came back in time. So how did he know you’d be here?”
The billion dollar question. “Same as you, I suppose.”
“Nope. You told me to be here. I didn’t tell anyone. So how did he know?”
That’s what worried me. Yet he was alone. “Yep. If I do it again, I’ll need to come back a little earlier. How are your shoes? They made for walking?”
“What?” Nancy Sinatra’s puzzlement carried like an echo across a canyon. “They’re shoes. What else would they be made for?”
I chuckled. “Forget it. Start walking. I’m going to teach you a song.”
I knew the song from my future. I wondered why she chose that name.
A mail carrier delivered it. Plasticized black envelope. White labels. His name and address, and the sender, Quest Of, Hershey, PA.
We will be watching you. Failure to completely comply with all instructions will result in immediate termination.
He’d read about terminations. Scoffers who said they would open it on Youtube, Instagram, TicTok, whatever. All vanished in a puff of flame. Comments said, “That’s so fake. How can a company do that? It has to be fake.”
His hands shook. Doors and blinds were closed. He’d agreed. Reveal nothing.
A tab said, “Pull here to open”. He wrestled it for ten minutes before winning. Sweat covered his face by then and he huffed air. Good workout.
The envelope was emptied and placed into the sink. Pale white smoke rose. The envelope splashed into white and pink powder, like Kool-Aid before you add water, and vanished. It smelled like fresh-baked cherry pie. He wished he had cherry pie. Thought about going to the bakery. Just for two seconds.
The ignored treasure was on the counter. A silver ring. A black one. Red marble.
Glittery italics script spelled his name and the date on each.
“Place the silver ring on a finger on your right hand,” instructions directed. “Place the black ring on a finger on your left hand. Then, hold the red ball in both hands and close your eyes.”
That was it? His mouth was so damn dry. Nerves hummed like power lines in the wind.
Should he sit?
Do it in the kitchen?
Would anything be left of him afterward?
He wrote a submission. Months ago. Then re-wrote, edited, revised, wrote it again. Then sat on it before pressing, send.
“I want option three so I may go back to 1962 and kill Lee Harvey Oswald before he assassinates President John F. Kennedy in 1963. I think that if I succeed, this world and its future will be better because President Kennedy represented youth, positive energy, and the future. Our country and the world has lost its moral compass since President Kennedy was killed. Bringing him back could restore it.”
He sincerely believed what he wrote. Though he was four when Kennedy was killed. The mourning and aftermath imprinted him. He wasn’t surprised that he was selected. He was pure of mind, a true believer.
He didn’t tell anyone what he’d done. Secrecy was required. He and his friends talked about Quest Of and its options, but he never told anyone that he’d applied, though, after one or two beers, staying shut about it was a killer. He almost quit drinking. They all doubted it was real.
Joe declared in disgust, “It’s a con job.”
Ron said, “I agree in principle, but they don’t ask for money or anything, that I’ve read. What do they get out of it?”
“Publicity,” someone else stated. “Venture capital,” suggested another. “Start up money.”
Man, did he want to call someone and tell them about it. Conversations were imagined. “Look, I did it, I’ve been selected. I have it, yeah, option three.” But he knew what would happen. In theory.
He ate lunch and dawdled, talking himself into doing it, examining the rings and shiny marble, never holding all at the same time, afraid of what might happen if he did.
Finally, two and a half hours after opening the envelope, he sat down in his living room recliner and followed the instructions. Disbelieving that anything would happen, he closed his eyes. The marble burned like a hot coal in his hand. Flinching, his eyes involuntarily fluttered open as his ears popped.
He, Keith, Sara, and Ron questioned how something like option three might work. Was it more than time travel? Had to be, Sara argued. If you went back to do something, would you still be in the same location where you started? Like, his house wasn’t built until 1999. Before that, it was a horse pasture.
Now he had the answer.
Michael Seidel, writer 