Microstory 230: Perspective Five

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Perspective Four

Ever since that movie came out, I haven’t been able to crankily say that I’m too old for this ish. I thought it applied back then but now, I really, actually, truly am too old. For some reason, when I first became a cop, I didn’t think I would be doing it my whole life. Most people make a career out of this, or maybe they make a lateral move to private security, but it ain’t no steppin’ stone, that’s for sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’ve been doubting my life choices for years now. I’m not gonna lie and say that I was one day from retirement, or some poetic nonsense like that. I’m still years away. Thanks, Obama! That was a joke; I voted for him twice, and I’d vote for him again if I could. And it’s not just because I’m black. I’m a woman too, and I seriously considered the platforms of the candidates before voting, despite what the republicans claim about “the black vote”. In fact, were it not for Palin, John McCain would have been a serious contender during my mind’s inner debate. But maybe that’s just the result of me having trouble focusing on one thing for too long; hence, this paragraph right here. I was assigned to be the partner of yet another rookie recently. I go through them like candy, not because I can’t get along with them, but because the bosses consider me to the best at training new officers. I kind of feel like a foster mother, always temporary until something better comes along. But I’m happy to do it, and I’m proud when one of my former little birds goes on to do something great. This one’s tough, though. He took to the job immediately, evidently a grand departure from his history of starting but never following through on new projects. He’s eager to learn and willing to take on the boring tasks, like paperwork. He doesn’t complain, and he doesn’t automatically think he knows what’s best. No, what makes this difficult is that he was just involved in a shooting. Many law enforcement officers spend their whole careers never firing their weapon in the field, like me. The fact that it happened to him so early is suspicious, at best. I fully intend to stay on this side and show the department my support and trust in him, but I worry it won’t be enough. I wasn’t on the scene at the time, nor was anyone else left alive. He has a long road ahead of him, and I guess for once I’m glad retirement isn’t in my near future, so I can keep fostering him.

Perspective Six

Microstory 229: Perspective Four

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Perspective Three

When I was a child, I wanted to be a scientist. In fifth grade, I caught wind of this branch of science called biochemistry. I latched onto it, not because I had any clue as to what that meant, but because it sounded sophisticated and impressive. Flash forward three years later and I’m failing science class. And wouldn’t you know it, it’s all due to the chemistry section. I had this idea of science in my head, but I didn’t have any aptitude for it. I just kept deluding myself into thinking that I’ll eventually be able to figure it out, and things will just work themselves into place. That was a terrifying moment, looking at the grades hung up on the wall of the hallway. What was I going to do with my life now? I had no clue, but I was determined to find my passion...just as soon as I spent a bunch of years aimless and wasteful. I barely graduated from high school, and had to drop out of college, partially due to money constraints, but also because I was an idiot. I kept myself up with minimum wage temp jobs for a few more years. During my free time, I started taking whatever continuing education program I could find at the community college. Web development, plumbing, EMT training; it was all nice to know, but nothing came of it. I even took a few airplane flying lessons, but didn’t quite have the scratch for it. One day, my mom was forcing me to get all my crap out of her house when I stumbled upon a book. It was dedicated to my grade school years. There were report cards, some of my best assignments, and yearbook photos. Each year also listed what I wanted to be when I grew up. Every year since preschool, I listed policeman. It wasn’t until fourth grade that I changed my answer to some kind of science professional. It was a child’s dream, no better (if not worse) than scientist, but nothing else was working, so I might as well give it a shot. I’m not a month out of the academy when I’m sent out to track down an alleged kidnapper. Finding him is surprisingly easy, and I do everything right, following all protocols. But he’s not well in the head, and after a bunch of nonsense about losing his teenage infant daughter, he insists on blitzing me. I have no choice but to shoot him dead. Maybe I should have worked harder in photography class.

Perspective Five

Microstory 228: Perspective Three

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Perspective Two

I’m still not sure if this was a good idea or not. After I won the lottery, a part of me wanted to do something practical; to invest in my future. Another part of me wanted to do something fun, something spontaneous, something stupid. These two halves of my heart collided and compromised on some farmland. I don’t know what I was thinking, though. After taxes, I only earned a few hundred thousand dollars, and it’s not like I had any experience. I spent my whole life in the city, with my dream of living in the country being created when I was a child and my parents convinced me that my dog went to live on a farm. Even after growing out of that lie, I still yearned for “fresh air”. Whatever that means, I’ve yet to be impressed. I bought some land with a halfway decent barn. All I needed to do was commission a tiny home, build a fence, plant some crops, lease some equipment, find some animals, and learn how to do everything. Easy. Of course, it wasn’t. I hired an extra hand, but I’m not able to pay him much because I’ve yet to turn a profit, and I’m nearly out of my winnings. The only good thing about this plan was that, even though people knew I was a lottery winner, I didn’t seem like a winner to them. The number of people who asked me for handouts were few and far between, especially once they found out that I wasn’t exactly a millionaire. Today, I’m rather grateful for my decision, and almost think God might have had something to do with putting me here. Sure, I’ve been placed in quite a bit of danger, but now this girl who has literally run into my life has a fighting chance. She’s either in late middle school or early high school. She’s been dressed up in one of those terribly unflattering gowns they used to put on babies for photographs two centuries ago. She’s obviously malnourished and exhausted. With barely a thought to consequences, I call the police and tell them what I know. I then take the girl out to my truck and drive off, because there’s no other farm for miles, and this will be the first place the kidnapper looks. I knew there was something off about that guy. A woman can always tell.

Perspective Four

Microstory 227: Perspective Two

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Perspective One

I lived my whole life in a commune. My parents fall on the spectrum somewhere between love-dovey tree-hugging hippie, and paranoid down-with-the-government gun freaks. This sounds like they would be normal people, but they aren’t. We lived almost completely off the grid. We grew our own food, organic of course, and sometimes had enough left over to sell. Before I was born, my family still lived within society, and they started canning food for an oncoming apocalypse. The great thing about being paranoid about the end is that no one can really prove that it’s not going to happen. It’s perpetually in the future, so as long as you don’t focus on a date—like Christian doomsday howlers—you’re safe. Not long ago, my aunt and uncle stormed in with a horde of private security operatives, removing me and the other children from what they deemed a cult. This wasn’t, strictly speaking, legal, but another good thing about my parents being afraid of the government is that they refused to press charges. In the eyes of the law, I should still be sent back to them, but their hate speech and violence during the proceedings were enough to convince the court that theirs was an unsafe environment. My aunt and uncle were extremely rich, so it was an jarring change of pace moving in with them. I had to start school at a preparatory academy, but ended up being dropped to homeschooling because my education up to that point was insufficient at best. Despite all the security my new guardians invested in, they were no match for my captor. He was utterly delusional, and insisted that I was living in squalor. I’m just a kid, so I couldn’t stop him from taking me away. I spent two months in a room. He stuffed me in a baby’s crib and hit me if I ever tried to speak, because he thought I was much younger than I was. I started chewing on my hairbrush as soon as he allowed me to have one. He was having trouble deciding whether I was an infant or a preteen, I guess. I could only chew a little at a time, and would have to hide the sharp handle under a doily when I wasn’t using it. But today, I’ve finished with it, and I’m satisfied with the results. I crawl back into my crib, tuck it under my chest, and wait. When he comes up, I stab him with it and run off. The good thing about the man thinking I’m someone I’m not is that he doesn’t know my parents forced me to run three miles almost every day since I was eight.

Perspective Three

Microstory 226: Perspective One

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I’ve been locked in this life for three years now. I thought college was going to be the hardest thing I ever did, but then again, I said that about high school before that. I’m starting to think that it’s never going to end, and I’ll just continue in this vicious cycle throughout time. Each minor victory is but a brief reprieve from the hell. Whenever I try to claw my way out, I sink in deeper. Every job I get, every project I start; it all leads to nothing. And each time I fail, I lose a little more faith in myself, making it harder to try again. But I have to keep going now, because I have another life to think about. She’s been with me for two months now, and I feel so blessed. Her mother was a junkie who abandoned her, and I don’t regret choosing to take on this responsibility, not for a second. She’s my precious little girl, sleeping soundly in her crib. I reach over and try to wipe a smudge off of the screen, but there’s nothing there. No, what I’m seeing is in her room. The baby monitor isn’t exactly capturing video in 4K, so I’m going to have to go in there and see what the deal is. I walk softly up the stairs, careful to not wake her. But I always forget that seventh step squeak. I really need to get that fixed, but it’s okay for now because she hasn’t move. She really needs to get her rest, and so do I; she was screaming her head off all day yesterday. Fortunately, we live out in the country, and no one can hear her cries. I slowly remove the keys from my pocket, not wanting them to jingle against each other. I unlock the door and peek in. She still hasn’t moved. I walk over to the dresser to see what the “smudge” is. There’s some kind of dust or something on it. I pick up the shavings and let them fall through my fingers. What is that, plastic? As I’m trying to think it through, I feel a sharp pain in my side. Blood trickles out of me and runs down my leg. I instinctively swing back, but she’s already run through the door, screaming for help. I start to go after her, but falter from the pain of the sharpened hair brush, still stuck in me. She shouldn’t be able to get far, but I’m still worried, especially since I don’t know how she got out of her chains.

Perspective Two

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 2, 2056

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Another day, another year. There was nothing particularly different about the second of May in 2056, but it felt like a new beginning. They were finished with the whole Horace Reaver debacle, but due to the laws of time travel, there was no guarantee that he would never return in some way. Mateo had already dealt with Reaver’s bomb in the 32nd century, but he was only there due to a glitch. What would things look like when he actually landed in that time period during his regular pattern? Would the world have changed? How many times? For the better? Worse? Leona told him that they would not find out for nearly three years, from their perspective.

The two of them had been so busy with their problems, that they were falling behind on the news of the times. Rainforests are disappearing, fires are increasing, and the whole planet is getting hotter. Traveling anywhere in the world is as easy as driving to work was in Mateo’s time. Computers have gotten smaller. Babies as foretold in Jamiroquai’s Virtual Insanity were a real thing now, designed perfectly by their rich “parents”. As the mooninite population increases, Earth’s population stabilizes, and scientists are beginning to move out to what’s called the asteroid belt. And soon, The Beatles will be in public domain.

“So, about the same?” Mateo asked, jokingly.

“Yes,” Samsonite replied. “Same same but different.”

“Any plans to go out in a spaceship?”

“No, why?”

“The Head Guard said we’ll be going through space soon.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Mayhaps he was referring to another few decades.”

“Mayhaps.”

“What are you two talking about?” Leona asked, coming into the room. They were living back in Topeka. Due to climate change, many people had migrated to the area, but many more were searching for better conditions towards Canada. Housing prices were relatively low, so they were all living together in a nice multi-family home.

“The long and winding road,” Samsonite explained.

“That I can relate to,” she said.

“What are we going to do this year?” Mateo asked.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve not had a job.”

“The Delegator could appear at any moment and give us one, especially since we’re talking about it.”

They all stared at the opposite wall for a few beats. No portal. Good for now.

“Let’s just all have a nice brunch together and see where life takes us.” And that’s exactly what they did. They had brunch, and then they had lunch, then a snack, and then dinner. It was a day of food. They didn’t talk about the choosing ones, or being salmon. They didn’t discuss global issues, or the future. They just talked. About the celebrities of the day, many of them children of the celebrities Mateo and Leona used to follow. They told jokes and made up stories. While Theo was in the middle of a fascinating anecdote about shrinking fish, Mateo disappeared from the table.

He looked to the sky and found two moons gazing back at him through twilight. He was standing on the edge of a gigantic canyon, probably larger than that other one. An ocean threatened to pour into it from behind him. A few aliens enjoyed the evening on the beach. He felt a little heavier, which Leona said might be expected on a different planet. Great. Next time, Mateo resolved, they would have to have a plan of action. It would seem that as long as they kept busy, they were pretty much left alone. But if they ever grew too comfortable, they would be ripped away and thrown into some new adventure. Rule Number Ten, stay active.

“Do you recognize me?” a man asked. It was The Cleanser. Figures.

“I do. I don’t understand how you’re still alive.”

“The timeline where I died was erased when your pattern was disrupted.”

“But how do you remember that?”

“Choosers always remember.”

“Why do you go against the others?”

“They’re children.”

“Literally, or is there more to it than that?”

“As you know, the child of two salmon will be taken from their family and raised by a certain someone. This someone doesn’t do a very good job, and that child will grow up as, not only a choosing one, but...” he trailed off, looking for the words, “but also as kind of a dick.”

“What makes you different?”

“I fell through the cracks.” He shrugged. “It happens. I was raised different, and so I have a different perspective.”

“Who are your parents?”

He smiled. “Too soon.”

Mateo lowered himself to the ground. He was doing it because it was difficult to stand under his own weight, but he also hoped to give the impression that he wasn’t scared out of his mind at the moment. “You want my help for your...crusade.”

“You’re very perceptive. I’ve not heard this about you.”

“I’ve gotten smarter. My—” he stopped himself, remembering what happened last time they were faced with an enemy. “You stay the hell away from Leona.”

The Cleanser held up his hands in defense. “Hey, I got no beef with her. I’m not in love with her from another timeline, or some creepy nonsense like that. I’m just here to talk.”

“You’re here hoping to indoctrinate me.”

“I killed Horace, and all those guards.”

“You’re not doing a great job so far,” Mateo amended his previous statement.

“I feel bad about it. I felt worse than I thought I would; not about Reaver, mind you, but the others.”

“Go back and stop yourself.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I’ve decided to change tactics. It’ll be a lot harder, but I think we can accomplish something...together.”

“Unless you’re telling me that you’re going to stop killing, we’re already done.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I’m trying to put an end to all this; all this suffering.”

“Your problem is with the choosing ones, so why kill salmon along the way? What did we ever do?”

“You were given bad information. Don’t blame The Delegator. He was one of the first of us, and something went seriously wrong with his brain. I’m not sure what, but his mind is all jumbled. That’s why they made him middle management.”

“What’s the good information?”

“There is no difference between salmon and choosers. We’re more like a subspecies of humans. The only reason we seem to be more powerful is because someone, long ago, decided that Generation Two salmon were pure, and so they were given control of their powers, while other people’s powers were suppressed. Not everyone can travel through time, and salmon are just the ones being batted around like a cat toy.”

“Are you saying that I could will myself to control my pattern? I could go back to 2014?” Mateo was suspicious, but hopeful.

The Cleanser paced a little, trying to figure out how to dumb things down for Mateo. “Right now you’re a prisoner. You could walk through the door...but you need the key. The chooser who is in charge of you has that key. So yes, you could go back to 2014, but you would have to steal the key from your captor.”

“In other words, I would have to kill them.”

“Yeah, but first you would have to find out who it was. And ya know they’re...intentionally hiding themselves from you.”

“But we have encountered choosers before. My half-sister, Reaver’s daughter,” Mateo listed.

“Right, but they’re not the ones in charge of you.”

“But they’re in charge of someone, and I could theoretically relay that information to that salmon.”

He laughed, “assuming you could somehow find out who they’re in charge of, you would still need to find a way out of their proverbial jail cell. And then they would have to break you out of yours. If we were being literal, this would be simple. But it’s nigh impossible. There’s no actual cell, and no actual key.”

Mateo nodded, mostly to himself. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

“I’m not. You are.”

“There’s a chance,” Mateo whispered.

“I’m going to be contacting you again in a few years.”

“Whose few years?”

“In a few days,” he clarified.

“Are you going to tell me your name first?”

“No.”

Mateo jumped back to the dinner table on Earth, at the exact moment he had left. No one so much as noticed. He decided to keep the detour to himself.

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Overwritten: The 2038 Problem (Part I)

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Have you ever wanted to go back in time and change a mistake? Have you ever wanted to change so many mistakes that it would be best to just try it all again? I admit that the idea crossed my mind once or twice. I should have kissed her. I should have gotten there a minute later. I should have chosen the proverbial door number two. I always hate when people say nonsense like, “live with no regrets”. If you don’t have regrets, then you’re either a fool, or you never really lived at all. Mistakes make you who you are. They taught you, not only the kind of person you are, but what kind of person you should strive for. Everything that happens to me in my life leads me to each next moment, and even if I don’t like the moment, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if it changed. There are rules and dangers to time travel. Change one thing, and you change everything. In the end, if you’re given chance to go back in time, choose not to. It won’t turn out like you hoped. It’ll probably be worse. It was for me.

It was the second day of January in the year 2038. I was working as a prison guard, and though it didn’t pay much, I was happy. The hours were steady, the job was secure, and my life was on the right track. I had adopted a wonderful son, and was foster father to little girl named Melly who was a handful of trouble, but brilliant and had so much potential. And of course, because what I’m doing is telling you a story, this is the moment that it all changes. I was checking in on a particularly heinous criminal who was sitting in solitary confinement. At least, it was supposed to be solitary. When I opened the little window on the door, I saw someone else in there. She was holding her arms out like she was performing a magical spell. I triggered the alarm and was setting about getting the door opened when it happened.

I blink and suddenly I’m sitting in a car. Not only that, but I was supposed to be driving the car. I haven’t needed to drive a car with my hands, like a monkey, for years. I swerve and hit the brakes, safely pulling over to the side of the highway. A few people honk at me as they pass by. I grip the wheel tightly, giving myself time to reclaim my breath. Once I’m calm enough, I prepare myself to look in the rearview mirror, but I already know what I’m going to see. I don’t know exactly what year it is, but I know that I’ve been sent through time. My teenage eyes look back at me with disappointment. I reach into my pocket, looking for my phone, but it’s not there. Then I remember that I used to keep it on the other side. So it’s no later than 2017, I know this much. I’m right; my screen displays March 23, 2016. Okay, I think to myself, what do I know about this time? I turned 18 two days ago. I’m about to graduate from high school, and start taking summer classes at the University of Indianapolis pretty quickly. I just broke up with my girlfriend, making things a bit awkward, but not hostile. She’ll still be sore about it, though, so I better stay away.

Today. Today is what’s important. I have to figure out where I was going. The time, 11:55 in the morning. I’m cutting school. Why? Just because? Yeah, kinda. Just because it doesn’t matter all that much anymore. I already got into college, and I entered an accelerated program, so the few classes I’m taking this semester aren’t relevant. But still, it seems reckless. The forty-year-old in me does not approve. I feel so strongly about it that I merge with traffic, and then take the cloverleaf interchange to head back for Hamilton. I can still make it before lunch ends, and no one will notice.

I was wrong, and all eyes are on me as I slip into class ten minutes late. The teacher frowns at me, and in my mind I can hear a growl, but then she just moves on with the lesson. I still can’t pay attention, though. I’m thinking about what I was doing on the highway in the original timeline. I was heading for Lawrence, but why? Something about a convent? No, that can’t be right. A concert! What concert was it? It was a lot of fun, and I remember the artist, it was...Marlin something. Um. It was a jazz concert series, and it wasn’t in Lawrence. It was at the university fine arts theatre. And it wasn’t now. It was later. I was just going to Lawrence first to meet up with some friends and make the day of it. Who am I talking about? I know lots of people in Lawrence, but...why can’t I remember?

“Your memories are being overwritten,” my friend, Brian explains. It was not surprisingly easy to convince him that I was now a time traveler. He’s always been open to things like this. He starts drawing diagrams on the whiteboard in the empty classroom we sometimes hang out in after school. “What year was it?”

“2038,” I remind him. “January 2.”

He writes it on the board. “2038, and you go back almost 22 years to 2016. But not exactly.” He starts working through it out loud, but to himself. “Why not exactly? What is the significance of that day and this one? What’s the connection?”

“It’s not me,” I say.

“How not?”

“I don’t think I was supposed to be the one traveling. I eventually become a prison guard in New Jersey. One of the inmates gets a visitor who magically appears with him in solitary, and I think she’s the one who sends him back.”

“You’re a stowaway.”

“I guess.”

“Who is this man?”

“His name is Horace Reaver. He killed lots and lots of people after his wife died in a car crash.”

“Nothing else interesting about him?”

I think about it for a moment. What do I remember from the future? Ah, yes. “There were conspiracy theories about him being a time traveler. Tons of people testified, not always actually in court, that he saved their lives. Apparently, he stopped bad things from happening, as if he knew they would.”

“That would be a logical explanation,” Brian says. “I mean, it would explain your current condition, not who this woman is, or how time travel is possible.”

“What were you saying about my memories being overwritten?” I ask, knowing that to be the most pressing issue.

“Right, yeah,” Brian goes back to what he was saying, “in the original timeline, you went to some sort of event that you can’t quite remember, in a place you can’t quite remember.”

“Yes.”

He pulls up a website on his laptop. “It’s called Ripple Effect-Proof Memory. It’s when people go back in time, often only with their consciousnesses, with the benefit of foresight. They know what’s going to happen, which allows them to change it. If the lesson is they can’t change it, then at the very least, they’re aware of it. But for some reason, you don’t have this. You’re susceptible to the changes in the timeline.” He holds out his hands like he’s presenting a giant bowl. “You don’t remember going to the event, because you never did.”

“The what?”

“Oh dear, and it’s getting worse.” He pulls up a chair and faces me with purpose. “Right now, you know what’s going to happen in the future, but once that future becomes the present, and especially the past, you won’t know what happened,” he pauses to glance at the words on the computer,  “the first time around.”

“What the hell is the point of that? I mean, if I have no hope of changing the future, and no hope of even knowing about it, why do it? Everything will just go back to normal, and we’ll all end up where we started.”

He sits up straight and raises his chin. “But it’s already changed. You went to an event—and trust me on this; you already told me about it—but you decided not to this time. From now on, we’re in uncharted territory. You’ll only have generalizations about the future. You’ll remember future terrorist attacks, future technological innovations, future movies. Even though you’ll eventually forget what you know about these things, because you know about them now, you’ll be influencing events based on this knowledge.”

“What?” I ask, extremely confused.

“You will be able to change events,” he simplifies, “but once those changes take place, you won’t remember what it was like before. Every decision will overwrite the decision in the original timeline, both in reality, and in your mind.”

“So,” I begin, “what am I supposed to do now?”

“I’ve never heard of this in fiction; not to this extent, anyway. I have no freakin’ clue.”

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Microstory 225: Perspectives (Introduction)

What the hell is happening here?

There is an old expression that goes something like “judge not a man before walking a mile in his shoes”. I say it’s an old expression, and fail to provide you with a proper source, because there does not appear to be one. Many have attempted to pinpoint its origin, to no avail. Regardless of where it came from, there is a lot of wisdom in its words. I was recently diagnosed with autism, and this opened my eyes—not to how I see the world, since I already understand this—but to how others may see me. I’ve always been “the weird one”. I’m extremely quiet and reserved. I generally speak only when spoken to, not because I submit to others, but because I see little reason to communicate unless we’re trying to accomplish something. Whenever you talk about the weather, or your other aglets of conversation, I just cannot relate. I’m not saying that every conversation you have must be all business, or that I don’t want to hear your anecdotes. It’s just that my brain isn’t wired for appropriate response, and my default reaction is silence. Though I did not know my specific mental condition, I grew up having a pretty decent grasp of who I was. I developed coping mechanisms to function in the world. It’s still easy to notice how strange I am, but I can get through a sentence, if need be. I can convey information, if need be. It may be more difficult for me, and it causes a huge amount of stress and anxiety for me, but I’ve become surprisingly good at faking it. Sometimes, I even convince myself that I’m human. If I acted the way my brain is constantly demanding me to, however, I wouldn’t have so much as gotten through middle school.

I’m not telling you this so that you’ll treat me differently, or stop judging me. That’s not going to happen. I’m at this sweet spot on the spectrum where people can tell that there’s something wrong with me, but they still think that I should be able to “get over it” and “act normal”. I’ve accepted this, and I know that the only way I’m going to survive is to pretend to be a neurotypical. I don’t know that I could raise much awareness about this one specific issue, mainly because I’ve not researched it as much as I probably should. Instead, what I’m going to do is spend the next 74 microstories trying to give you—what’s the word...perspective. Each installment is going to be told from the point of view of a different person. I’ve not thought much about the kind of people I’ll be profiling, but I feel the need to note that any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This is still microfiction, and even though I occasionally open a door through the fourth wall, I do not intend to tear it down completely. Except for the 100 stories coming after this series. I’ve not yet decided how those are going to work. Lastly, my Word Origin of the Day entries will temporarily step aside to make room for Name Origin of the Days.

Enjoy, and please...keep an open mind.

Perspective One