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November 20, 2007

Tuesday

You just stepped from 2007 into 1894.

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The moment the effect faded, I sprinted for the door of the house I'd emerged outside of. I checked the photographs I'd brought from 2007. Yes; this was the house.

The door was not locked, and I pushed through it, allowing the April air of Russia to follow me in. A woman appeared, carrying a newborn, barely a week old. She opened her mouth to scream, but a bullet ended the attempt.

The infant -- the target -- was on the floor, bawling. I put my gun to his head, and prepared to change everything, as per my mission.

"Da svidaniya, Khrushchev."

Posted by: LJ at November 20, 2007 10:32 AM · Permalink

I awoke and found myself a stranger in my own house, as the world was not as it should be and not as it was when I left it that night before. Everything was different; yet, it was still strangely familiar to me, and like a memory slipping from my mind, I find it difficult to grasp how I got here. Is this a fleeting thought or a forgotten memory? How is it that the paper now read 1894 and the front page is of Coxey’s Army marching to D.C.? Whatever the reason and whatever I am, This isn’t my home.

Posted by: Paul Cat at November 20, 2007 12:04 PM · Permalink

The sharecropper’s son was wet three days with fever when his father called the preacher. The berry rash and white tongue dregs were gone a few days later but the vision-fits and seizures came and went 3 months. He saw bright lights and women like they didn’t have in Tupelo, big churches and loud Jesus every day for weeks before dying old in hiding. He woke up from this last fit fever-wet and shaking. On the corner of the bed there was a gift from Reverend Parker. The front page of the Bible said Elvis Aaron Presley in Pentecostal script.

Posted by: Christopher Cocca at November 20, 2007 3:16 PM · Permalink

It took me a couple of hours but I managed to find appropriate clothing outside a small farmhouse.

As I buttoned up the trousers, I looked around at the simplicity of my situation: a lopsided wooden swing, a neat pile of firewood and a tired looking water pump.

After discarding my modern threads, the only physical memory I had of 2007 was what I held in my hand when I was “taken” outside the pharmacy: an empty box of Viagra.

I looked at the small town on the horizon and sighed. Surely woman of this century had more realistic expectations.

Posted by: Rick at November 20, 2007 5:34 PM · Permalink

Good try Paul... one word long though. Sorry

Posted by: Ted Bronson at November 20, 2007 8:41 PM · Permalink