Good timing

I like to dance when I time-travel. In the gap between when I leave the current moment and am traveling to the past or future time when no one can see me, I bust some uninhibited and normally embarrassing great moves!

I also dance when I get to where I’m going to and someone sees me suddenly appear out of nowhere. The other day I traveled to July 4, 1776 Independence Hall. I appeared on the table, standing on the Declaration of Independence. The founding fathers stood around me aghast, pale, mouths hanging open. I danced. One of those arms flailing over my head, tongue hanging out, shaking my hips like an ant on a vibrator. The founding fathers’ heads started bouncing in time to my shakes. Pretty soon they were all letting loose and I leaned down and signed my hip-hop name, “Primary Bee.”

Me and Clouds

I don’t drive a car. Nor ride a bike. I walk but not often. Mostly what I do to get around is ride a cloud. Not one particular cloud. But clouds.

Clouds are pretty much traveling by every day. When I need to get somewhere I look up and a cloud notices my gaze and swoops down and says, “Where do you need to go?”

I give my destination, hop on, and take the soft ride. The clouds never say much. Things like, “How’s it going back there?” “Can I get you anything?”

Clouds know where everything is so they don’t need directions. It makes sense since they spend so much time in the sky and love to look down.

When they get to where I asked, they lower down gently. I step off. They say along the lines of, “I hope whatever you’re going to do goes well.” I say thanks.

When I’m done with what I did, I go outside, look up, and the same thing happens again.

Why me? What makes the clouds so generous to my travel needs? I don’t know.

On the Fritz

I was sitting on the couch in my living room, reading Bickford’s Things to Forget, when I heard the time-travel machine turn on. I looked up across the room to see it disappear. Where could it have gone on its own?

There was nothing I could do. I went back to reading about a man named Mitch who used to sit in his back yard in a reclining chaise lounge and now and then combed his hair with his fingers.

The time-travel machine reappeared. I set the book down. I got up to take a closer look. As I got near it went away again.

I felt the air where the time-machine had been. There was a slight suction like space minus time.

I called Burt who repairs time-machines. I told him what happened. He’d never heard of that before. I asked what to do. He said there’s nothing I could do. I asked about when it returns. He said if it returns. I said yeah. He said he didn’t know.

I waited next to the spot where the time-machine disappeared. It returned. I opened the door and got in. I sat in the seat.

There was a vibration and my living room disappeared. The time-machine was afloat in an ocean. It bobbed. I was nauseous, unrolling the window, leaning out, throwing up. I typed in the time I had left in the time-destination panel, touched the red button, and was back in my living room.

A moth landed on the hood. There was a hum from the time-machine and the living room disappeared.

The time-machine was packed in snow and ice, the moth frozen stiff on the other side of the glass. The glass began to crack. I typed in the previous time. Then I was back in the living room. Wind from the ceiling fan blew the dead moth onto the floor.

I felt the vibration again and swiftly whacked the console panel with my palm. The time-machine remained where it was. The vibration returned, followed by a whack, and the same surroundings. A minute went by.

I got up and returned to my book on the couch. I read about a woman named Beth who went outside.

We’ll see!

I was visited by my future self today. He arrived via time-machine from the year 3352. I asked how I could still be alive after so long. He said robot parts. I asked him to show me. He undid a screw and showed me all the wires and pulleys. They made whirring sounds.

I asked about the energy source. He showed me two AAA batteries. I asked him what happens when he’s out and about and the batteries wear out. He took a spare pair out of his pocket.

I asked him/me why the visit. He said that he wanted to visit me the day before something really really really good happens. I asked him what was the really really really good thing. He wouldn’t say because surprises are the spice of life.

I asked him why he didn’t visit me on the day of the really really really good thing. He said to create suspense.

Frogs

I decided to time-travel to seven-and-a-half years into the future. The amount of time was a feeling on my part. Time-travel is not something you bring exactness into. Time is hazy, creamy and diluted. You got to go with your gut.

I was catapulted into the Sebastopol, California of January 3, 2027. My home was gone. In its place was a small box. I opened the box. Within was a frog. The frog said, “Yeah, what?” I asked what happened to my home. The frog said, “I don’t know. And would you please close back the lid of the box, I prefer privacy.”

I closed the box. I looked around. All the homes in my neighborhood were gone, in their place were similar looking boxes. The air had a green mist that smelled like limes.

The street was no longer asphalt, but was covered with what looked like whipped butter. I stuck a finger in and took a taste. It was the said butter. I took off my shoes and walked in the creamy substance. It was warm and soft due to the strong mid-day sun.

I walked till I got to the end of the street. The perpendicular street was filled with people that appeared to be standing in a stagnant line. I asked a person what they were standing in line for. The person said, “I’m not standing in line. This is where I live.” I said I was confused due to time-travel. The person said, “It’s a long story, but frogs have taken over.”

I walked back in the butter street to my time-machine, got in, and came back to today.

I sat on the couch in my home and looked out the window. I noticed a whip-poor-will on the birch tree branch. The bird looked at me. I looked back. I thought that we must be having a supernatural moment of connection. But then I realized that the bird was staring at its own reflection.