Microstory 33: Livewire (True Story III)

In third grade, I lived in the same town as my grandparents. Before that, we lived in a different state. After that, we moved about an hour away. My sister and I would spend a lot of time at their house, especially after school. One day, my grandfather and I were walking down 7th Street to get some ice cream. I hear some sort of loud noise and look up. An SUV is flipping over, twisting to its side, and crashing into a utility pole. A power line breaks away from its connection and swings down to the ground, landing about ten feet from us. It sparks and shakes around a bit. My grandfather shoots his arm out as a useless barrier between me and the wire, but we don’t move back from it. Looking back, I can’t imagine why we didn’t run. It quickly died and stayed in one place. I can recall only bits and pieces of what happened next. At some point we left, but I remember seeing the aftermath from the same vantage point the entire time. The man in the sedan opened his door and stuck his bleeding leg out while waiting for help. The two women in the SUV that had crashed into him and hit the pole had to be removed through the sunroof, and carried away using backboards. I distinctly remember thinking how lucky they were that their car even had a sunroof; and being sickened by the knowledge of an alternate reality where they didn’t, and died because the rescue took too long. I don’t think we ever discussed this with anyone afterwards. I can’t be sure we even ever told my parents. But I do think about it every once in a while, and mourn for the alternate reality where we left for ice cream five seconds earlier, only to suffer the wrath of that livewire.

Microstory 32: The Cop

There was a cop that I used to see, sitting in various speed traps, while I was out on my walks; the only exercise I would ever get.  We would speak for a few moments each time. I learned that he’d been on the job for the better part of a decade, had a son from a one-night stand, and was planning on proposing to his boyfriend. One day, I decided to walk straight east, towards Stateline, through a not-so-great neighborhood. Up ahead, I could see Officer Pender. Instead of sitting in his car, he was standing on the corner with his radar gun. I waved up to him, and as he smiled and waved back, I heard a pop from the left. Pender twisted a little from the force, but remained upright. A series of crackling noises followed; an automatic weapon sending him to the ground. A car screeched away and disappeared behind the hedges. I ran to Pender and reached out to him on instinct. It was obvious that many of the bullets landed in his vest, but there was still blood. At least a couple of them made contact. He was coughing and struggling to recover, and I tried to put pressure on the wounds but there were too many. I heard shuffling behind me. “Back away,” a man said. “This doesn’t involve you.” I could practically feel the gun pointed at my back while he continued to walk closer. I looked down to Officer Pender’s face. He was admiring the clouds sliding across the sky. He was losing too much blood, and the life was draining from him. I could only think that if I ran, he would die, and if I tried to talk the attacker down, I would be wasting precious time. The threat needed to be eliminated. Pender’s eyes darted over and met mine, as if he had heard my last thought. There was no time to argue. I pulled out his sidearm, spun around, and shot the attacker. He was close enough that it landed in his face. It was the first time I had fired a weapon, but it wasn’t my last. A year later, Officer Pender and I became partners.

Microstory 31: Burning

My phone rings in the middle of the night. Face firmly planted in the pillow, I flail my arm about, succeeding only in knocking my nightstand over. By the time I tumble out of bed and pull the phone from the rubble, I’ve missed the call. It’s dripping with orange soda, and damaged from the fall, with a cracked screen blinking in and out. I manage to select the voicemail, but it’s garbled and hard to hear. All I catch is something about a payphone on fifth, the word burning, and the word alone. At the end of the message, the phone basically explodes and sends a shock through my whole body. It dies, so I am unable to return the call, or contact emergency services, for that matter. My friend, Dave lives in the area mentioned, so I throw on my clothes and race out the door, worried that his house is on fire. I battle with the slippery streets, hydroplaning a couple of times. When I finally make it to the payphone that the voice talked about, I see no one around. I certainly see no evidence of a fire. But the phone rings.  I pick up the receiver and try to answer it, but hear it continue to ring, as if I was the one who had made the call. The thunder and rain is so loud that I can’t hear the voice on the other end. I yell into the mouthpiece, “I’m at a payphone on fifth street! I got a call from here, but I don’t know why! I thought there might be a burning building, but I see nothing and I’m alone!” No one responds, at least not that I can tell. There is a bright flash from above, and I feel another painful shock throughout my body. I am all of the sudden back in my room, holding my cell phone. It explodes and I am all of the sudden back at the payphone. I'm blinded by a bright light, and feel a sharp pain. I am all of the sudden back in my room, holding my cell phone. And it explodes...

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: March 24, 2017

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While Mateo was slipping time for a year, the girl who had thrown up on him at the hospital managed to track him down. She arrived at his house with an apology casserole. For more than one reason, she was disappointed about not being able to speak with Mateo directly, but Carol managed to comfort her and relieve her of all guilt. For the first year that Mateo skipped, he was officially declared missing. For the following years, his parents had to claim that he was building schools and clinics in developing countries. They had to fudge his tax forms. The authorities were suspicious of this, but eventually let things go. There were witnesses at the hospital, so that helped to close the investigation. Unfortunately, their lie could blow up in their faces at any moment, and he would have no way of being around to help them.

The people who had been with him in the cemetery for his first jump had been the most freaked out about it. He spent his one day in 2017 going around to all of his friends to assuage their anxiety over the matter, proving to them that he was alive and well. Obviously, he had to exaggerate the part about being well. Kyle, the lawyer who had been looking directly at him during the initial jump had ended up in a mental institution. Mateo’s reappearance to him didn’t help anything at first. He became worse, assuming him to be a hallucination sent to torment him. Over time during the visit, however, things were able to get better. He even let Mateo hold him tightly and sing him his favorite classic rock songs. Kyle was kind of a jerk in his old life, and an apparently smarmy defense attorney, but he didn’t deserve this. Afterwards, Mateo took some time alone in the chapel, and prayed for him with his birth mother’s rosary.

He had always believed in God, and possibly even more so since the timeslipping problem started, but he had never prayed before. He didn’t like the idea of asking God for any more than he had already been given in life. But he wasn’t so much praying for God to help. It was more about asking for forgiveness. Even though he was not in control of the timeslips—at least not consciously—he felt responsible for the problems they had caused the people around him. At some point, he might even have to fake his own death. On the other hand, if he keeps going at this rate, he’ll quickly outlive everyone he knows by centuries.

His last stop was at his parents’ neighbor’s house. One of the girls from the cemetery, Frida lived there. She had moved back in with her parents to take care of her ailing mother who passed two years ago. She was now taking care of her father, and he wasn’t looking very good. When she opened the door, Mateo could see the teeneager from the hospital behind her. Evidently, Frida and Leona met in the front yard last year when she came by with the apology casserole. They soon became friends, bonding over having both lost their mothers. Frida was also her mentor, helping with math and college applications.

Frida was in the middle of a conversation and hadn’t seen anything at the cemetery that night, so she wasn’t as traumatized as some of the others. In the following months, she had been there for his parents, providing a shoulder to cry on when she wasn’t busy with her own family issues. She had always been kind and accommodating to others, even as a child. She didn’t let other kids push her around, but she never felt the need to win an argument or prove herself. She and Mateo dated for several weeks in high school but ultimately decided they were better as friends.

He tried to shake hands with Leona, but she seemed to be incredibly shy around him. When she left for the bathroom, Frida informed him that she had developed a crush on him. They talked about him probably a little too much, and the (made up) stories his parents told about the amazingly noble things he was doing for the kids in developing countries was doing nothing to change her feelings. He had a fleeting thought while Frida was explaining the situation. In only a few days from his perspective, Leona would no longer be too young for him. A handful of days after that, she would be too old for him. Not too much later, she would be dead. They would all be dead. Everyone would be dead by the time he had a hankering for Chinese food again.

Mateo shuddered and ran back home. He wept and complained in his parents’ arms until he fell asleep on the couch. It was nearly midnight before he awoke again. He jumped up, worried that they wouldn’t get to see him one last time. But they were sitting across from him in anticipation. “I’m so sorry,” he cried.

“We will be here when you return.” And they were. Exactly there. Midnight struck. Mateo jumped forward in time while looking at his parents. They were sitting in the same places as before, even wearing the same clothes, giving him hope that he hadn’t actually jumped this time. But no. They weren’t in the exact same position as before. And they even looked a little older. “Welcome back,” Carol was finally able to say to her son.

“Bit of a problem,” Randall said. “That girl, Leona saw you through the window last year.”

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Short Story: Hydrosis

Ainsley Rigby lifts her leg to the bench to finish tying her shoe, drips of partly chlorinated water fall from her hair. She hardly had enough time to shower, much less dry it out completely. She has just stepped out of the locker room when she realizes that water was beginning to soak her white tee-shirt. She reaches into her gym bag and covers herself up with a green zipper jacket.

Once outside, she realizes that she needed the jacket anyway. It has gotten much cooler in the evening hours. A strong breeze overcomes her so she rings out her hair in a desperate attempt to stay warm. It doesn’t work. It seems as if it’s getting darker by the second as she tries her best to jog across the parking lot. Strain from the two mile swim is taking hold of her body. She shakes and stops under a streetlight to find a candy bar to quell her diabetic issues. But no candy is found and it reminds her that she gave it to a young boy in the park earlier that day. In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have done that. Hopefully his mother taught him better after that.

Giving up and hoping to reach her house in a timely manner, Ainsley steps onto the grass. It must have rained during her workout. More water, still settling on the surface of the ground seeps into her shoes. The combination of the cold and weight makes it feel like icebergs attached to her feet. Another strong breeze comes from the side and a rolled up sock falls out of the tear in her bag. Plans for fixing it have been on the agenda for only a few weeks. She’ll surely get to it tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, however, she needed to get home. An important job interview awaits her in the morning and sleep is a necessity.

Reaching down to pick up the now muddy sock, something catches her eye. It’s an indiscernible figure, coming toward her, still in the parking lot. The darkness prevents her from being able to see detail but judging from the build and the way the figure is waving its arms at her, it is most certainly a man. She’s not sure if she knows the man but since he isn’t trying to call out to her, she assumes he is crazy.

Ainsley stuffs the sock back into the bag and turns to run up the hill. The wind grows stronger and tries to keep her from moving but she is determined. Whoever this man is, he doesn’t look friendly. She rotates her head back every once in a while and sees every time that he is just as determined. Frustratingly, the grass becomes more water-soaked. She slips on blades of grass, rocks, and mud. It’s a struggle just to keep her footing and finally she falls to her face. Because of the incline, it isn’t that far of a fall and doesn’t hurt that much but it causes her to slide down a little and slows her escape.

The man is still chasing her. She stands up and continues, the low blood-sugar worsens. Upon reaching the top of the hill she is able to move faster. She uses this opportunity to search for her cell phone. Her hand scrambles within the bag, always grasping something else; a comb, a washcloth, and something she doesn’t quite recognize by touch. Her goggles slip through the tear but she doesn’t take the time to retrieve it. Any swim gear who falls behind is left behind. She pulls her hand out, thinking she’s found it but it’s just her deodorant.

The waning moon that was giving her partial visibility fades away as clouds move in front. The crack of thunder shocks her. Where was the lightning? Still moving as fast as possible, she comes to a grouping of trees and ducks behind one, hoping that her pursuer didn’t notice. With her back pressed tight up against the bark, Ainsley breathes deep through her nose to calm down. But panic returns as she thinks she hears the pursuer coming up on her. The thumps of her heart fill her ears like drums, causing more panic. All she can do is blend in as best she can and hope her heartbeat doesn’t give her away. Beads of water trickle from her forehead and into her eyes. It stings. Somehow, even with the pool, shower, rain, and cold she’s perspiring.

A few seconds later, the pursuer appears several meters away, scanning the area for her, thoughts of violent rape no doubt fluttering around his brain. A drop of rain lands on her overexposed neck. A split-second of fear leads her to believe that she’s been shot or bitten and she screams, “ouch!” She covers her mouth, disgusted with herself for being so careless. A miracle, the man has not heard. He doesn’t even react. She gives credit to luck, assuming there was another strike of thunder that she either didn’t hear or quickly forgot.

Microstory 30: The Job

I had been looking for a job for months, about to run out of unemployment money, when an interesting ad catches my eye in the newspaper that says only, Cool job. I call the phone number listed. An automated voice directs me to an industrial zone. I wander around for a while before settling on a parking garage. Only a handful of cars are scattered throughout, but none of them appear to be in working order. I do notice a semi truck parked neatly in a corner. My instincts compel me to open the side door to the trailer. It smells awful, but still I feel the need to move on. I walk to the back and through the wall of the garage. Using my phone’s screen as a flashlight, I see many doors, but choose the one that feels right. It’s locked, but I see a glimmer on the ground. It’s the key. It opens up to a room with a flickering fluorescent light. I knock on the door on the other side but no one comes. On a lark, I take out a punch card for a sandwich shop rewards program and swipe it through the card reader. The door opens. The next door has a keypad. I punch in my birthdate followed by my social security number. Next to the fourth door is a screen. What looks to be nothing but a random scribble appears on it. For some reason, I associate the image with my right hand thumb and my left hand ring finger. I place them on the screen and wait for it to complete the scan. The fifth room contains dozens of eye scanners. I let my instincts continue driving me, choosing one that seems random to me. It turns out to be the right one. I lean gently towards the microphone in the sixth room and say my name, followed by the code word Madea. The door opens. I find the secret compartments in the seventh, eighth, and ninth sections; providing my spit, skin scrape, and blood sample respectively. I pull the giant helmet from the ceiling in Section Ten and engage the machine. A woman opens the door and leads me into Section Eleven. “How did it go?”

“It didn’t work,” I reply. “No matter what, we cannot erase my memories completely. I always find my way back to the base.”

Microstory 29: Stash

You struggle up to the door and knock on it faintly, leaving a bloody handprint behind. A man opens it and instinctively pulls you into his house. “I’m sorry,” you say through gasps. I’m empty and need to get my old stash.” He tries to call the police but you stop him. “No cops. Just get me something to stop the bleeding.” He goes to the kitchen and retrieves some hand towels. You press them against your stomach and head for the bedroom. You laugh when he says something about never having found drugs when he first moved in. You gather your strength and kick through the drywall, revealing a black bag. Before you can pick it up, though, unconsciousness overcomes you and you fall to the floor. When you wake up, you find your stomach patched back together. The sewing kit you had left in the wall is sitting on the bed next to you. “Where’s my bag?” you ask. The man returns the bag to you and says that he doesn’t want any trouble. Unfortunately, he has no choice. You pull the gun out and point it at your target. “After I defected, I have no idea why they continued to use a safehouse that I already knew about. But my new employers want you gone.” You squeeze the trigger but nothing happens.

“No,” the man says. “They want you gone.” He lifts the other gun from your stash.

“Why did you sew me back up if you were going to kill me anyway?”

The man walks towards you, revealing a scared and teary-eyed woman standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water. “This isn’t a safehouse anymore. It’s just her house. And I said they want you gone. I never said I was going to kill you.” He leans down until he’s at your level, and shoots the woman in the head. Then he removes your shooting gloves, revealing latex gloves underneath. You can hear police sirens in the distance as the man walks out.

Microstory 28*: (Excerpt from my novel)

*This is an excerpt from my novel, entitled The Last Refuge. Chris and his friends have just met a man named Gavix. They get off on a bit of a tangent once he reveals something special about himself.

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“You’re immortal.” Chris’ darkened eyes widened.

“That’s why they call me The Only.”

“You're not the only one, though. So is Peter Fireblood.”

“Yes, but he's different,” Gavix agreed, evidently pleased to hear such a thing. “And I'm sure you've noticed that only certain people are even capable of recognizing how long he's been around.”

“What the hell are you two trying to say about Peter Fireblood?” Cody asked in mild anger.

Chris laughed along with Gavix and pointed at Cody as an example. “I've yet to meet anyone else who sees the timeline discrepancies.” Peter Fireblood is a famous musician who appears to have no single birth date, and is not tied down to one time period. When two people who have a sufficiently large enough difference in age discuss him, they will refer to his history with conflicting or paradoxical information. Neither of them will notice the variations, as if they hear what they expect to hear, rather than what the other is actually saying. It’s like he lives in this sliding timescale that necessarily prevents him from aging. As far as Chris has been able to work out, Peter Fireblood has been famous for centuries, and no one seems to notice this about him.

Cody and Cordelia shook off the last moments of the conversation. Anyone who Chris tries to explain this to will quickly forget what he said and go back to the issue at hand. “Do you know our situation?” Cody asked.

“No idea,” Gavix said plainly. “You’ll have to get me up to speed. I only arrived a couple days ago. I haven’t been to the islands since they fell asleep.”

“Wow,” admired Cody. “You’ve been walking around out there for the last thousand years.”

He laughed at this. “Yeah. One thousand years. Long time.” There was a hint of sarcasm in what he said.