Jamie rarely went out with her friends, as they and she were equally broke, but the day of her eviction seemed a special occasion. She ordered lobster for everyone, on her. She saw no reason to hold back.

“My friends!” She said, clinking her champagne glass. “My wonderful friends. Starting tomorrow, I am homeless, jobless, and present company excluded, alone. I have made a wreck of my life without even the convenience of recreational drugs. Thank you for knowing me. This is the beginning of the end. At least it’s mine!”

After a brief defeated cheer, several of her friends spoke up, pledging their support. They would see her through this difficult time. Some had spare couches and amiable roommates. Some had tents they weren’t using. Her friend Stacy had a crystal that could send a person ten years backwards in time, and Jamie was welcome to it, if she wanted.

“No, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Please, I insist.”

Jamie held the gem, a misshapen pink prism about the size of her palm, up to a lamp in Stacy’s apartment. She saw nothing inside it, but it seemed oddly hopeful. She considered the warnings she might give her ten years past self. Relationships to avoid, jobs that had gone nowhere, the administrative nightmare it had been when she’d bought that horrible Volkwagen. Of course she’d research some lottery numbers, invest in Facebook, get on the forefront of the natural foods trends she’d heard so much about. She would do all of that. She would save her life.

“So when you break the stone, you should get about ten minutes with your past self to do whatever you want. I usually just cuddle with mine, but please, go as far as you like.”

Jamie was a little taken aback by Stacy’s hedonistic self-indulgence, but she did not criticize her friend. She held the rock closely. As soon as she finished her research, she would slam it against the ground and invade her old life, leaving details of every advantage she should have had.

Her last night in the apartment was spent frantically googling. When was the market best? What dates specifically? Which stocks jumped where when? She would have to get this information out fast, so she practiced it until sunrise, in terms her twenty-two year old self might possibly understand and remember. The knocks would come soon, angry knocks from a sideways fist. After one last review, she threw the rock down and saw her fifth-year college self.

She was receptive and attentive, more so than Jamie remembered being at the time. Perhaps the shock of seeing the effects of ten years of failure had woken her up, an unlikely circumstance this early in the morning. “Just make sure you make these investments before the end of the year. Please be sure you understand.”

“I’m sure,” her younger self chirped. She was taking this too casually. This was going to fail. As the ten minutes came to a close, Jamie smiled a sad smile at her vacant younger self, while she remained empty in other ways.

The apartment was the same. The knocks happened, and the yelling, just as they were supposed to. She was displaced, a refugee. Reality had finally happened. She left her things where they were. Someone would steal them. She didn’t care.

Elsewhere, in a reality she’d created, another version of herself was eating crepes in bed on the top floor of her estate. “Wasn’t it nice that I made this life for myself?” She swallowed, wistfully remembering, and wished she’d made out with herself when she had the chance.

#change, #ineffective, #parallel-universes, #regret, #science-fiction, #time-travel, #universal-parallels


The waiting room was furnished well enough, considering the circumstances. Despite the man with the cigar’s reassurances, Jeanine did not feel safe in this otherwise sterile facility. She did not remember being abducted, nor did she remember changing into this blue jumpsuit. She couldn’t imagine that she chose it of her own free will. No one so far had had the courtesy to inform her why she was here or what they wanted from her, and the provided coffee and sandwiches answered none of her questions.

“Help me out here,” the man pleaded with her. “What is going on in your life that’s so important? We’re trying to help you.”

Jeanine was hesitant to speak to the man, whose shirt and tie were loud enough to strain her eyes and ears alike. He leered over her expectantly, and she was hesitant to validate his unappealing demeanor.

“I’m doing okay,” she said. “Could be better. I’m not saying anything until you tell me what’s going on.”

“See, our computer says that there’s an 78% chance that we’re here to help you hold onto your credit cards. Does that seem familiar at all?”

Jeanine examined him a moment and shook her head. She didn’t even have a credit card, to her knowledge.

“Now you let me know if you think of something, whatever could be the central problem in your life. My colleague is working your case, and it’s in all of our best interests that we solve whatever crisis you might be experiencing.” He resumed his sideways glance. “You must be so uncomfortable in there, a beautiful woman like you. I got a good look at your body earlier, hubba hubba, if you don’t mind my saying.”

He stood over her, waiting for a response. “Oh,” she said eventually, though she was still bewildered.

“I’m going to confer with my colleague. If you think of anything, please let us know as soon as you can. Otherwise my friend will be trapped in your body forever, and I’m sure you wear it better than he does.”

The door behind him slid into the ceiling, and he turned and waved as it slammed back to the ground. She saw no handle on the door, or any button on the wall. It seemed that he had activated the mechanism with a pocket calculator as gaudy as himself.

As she began to examine the walls, she caught a glimpse of herself in the one-way mirror. She seemed so tall, with such a square and rugged jaw. The jumpsuit actually suited her, in an odd way, with this face and this haircut. She tossed her head back and smiled at the flare of her now prominent nose.

As she practiced her masculine poses, she considered the central problem of her life. The opportunity had never presented itself, and she wasn’t certain she would ever be ready for the commitment and the upheaval involved, but as she watched her new face smile in a way her old one never managed, she was able to feel, as she hadn’t been able for years.

“Have you had any ideas on what we might need to help you with?”

She imagined her reflection trapped in her body forever. A terrible fate, indeed.

“It’s probably the credit cards. You should really nail the credit cards.”

#bodies, #feminine, #masculine, #quantum-leap, #time-travel

Reunion (part 10)

Tracy woke up early, before sunrise. Tom had assured her they could leave at dawn, and she waited for the first sliver of sun as a sprinter waits for the crack of a pistol. She tiptoed down the stairs, arms wrapped around suitcases, and gently deposited them by the door. When morning came, she would rouse her husband with breakfast in bed if that’s what it took. They were leaving.

She’d learned the house well enough that she could navigate in the dark. The stairs creaked, as they do under the strain of desperation. She prepared excuses, “Couldn’t sleep, just wanted to get an early start,” and felt safe knowing that soon she would have a hundreds of miles buffer. As the last duffelbag dropped into place, she noticed an underline of light from the kitchen, and shadows of footsteps.

“Oh hi, I hope I didn’t wake you,” she rehearsed. She muttered the words with different shades of mock surprise as she worked up the courage to act nonchalant. “I thought I could sneak a piece of that delicious chocolate pie.”

She opened the door and acted startled to see the little old man sipping tea and making notes at the head of the table. Her surprise became real as she realized who it was. This was David, her husband’s father. “Oh hi,” she said. She couldn’t say anything more. He said nothing at all.

She didn’t want any pie. She pulled a glass from the cupboard and poured some water from the flap on the front of the fridge. She drank it in a few gulps, and filled her glass again. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. How have you been?”

The man made no reply. He batted at his teabag a little, and resumed sketching whatever diagram or schematic happened to be on his mind. She wondered if he could hear her, or if in his brilliance the passion of his work overrode all senses. “Do you love your wife?” she asked. “Do you love your son?”

He stood up. “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.” He threw his teacup in the sink, breaking it. As he stormed back to his basement workshop, he knocked more plates off their shelves and onto the floor, and slammed the door behind him.

As Tracy cleaned up the mess, a piece of glass found its way in her finger. “I’m sorry I’m so clumsy,” she rehearsed. “I just wanted a piece of that delicious chocolate pie.”

“You should have turned the light on,” her husband said. “You should have done everything different. Apologize to Mom right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Tracy said again. They were words his mother understood.


#absent-fathers, #abuse, #anger-management, #holidays, #misogyny, #preparation, #time-capsule

Reunion part 1

As much as she loathed his family, in the interest of peace, love and calenders, Tracy consented to a week in their moldy old mansion with their moldy old selves. Thomas assured her that they would be on their best behavior for the holiday season, and though she didn’t believe that he had any control over his domineering father or his mother’s infectiously low self-esteem, she didn’t want him to suffer alone. She didn’t want him to suffer at all. Were it feasible to legally seperate him from their bloodline, she would gladly file the paperwork.

“They’ll be fine, I promise. They’ve mellowed with age.”

She would become a notary if it would speed up the process. A quick law degree from a small, local college should be easy enough, if that would help.

“I worry that if I don’t maintain good relations with them, they’ll write me out of the will.”

His mother greeted them at the door and hugged her only son violently, with the full body contortions of a fish accidentally flopped up onto land. She embraced Tracy more gently. “Thank you so much for coming. You don’t know what this means to us.”

“Oh, great,” Tracy affirmed. The woman needed constant affirmations, as she recalled. “Glad to be here.”

“Daddy’s in his study, but I’m sure he’ll be out for dinner.”

She insisted on carrying Tracy’s bag through the labyrinthine corridors of their empty home. With the added weight, she moved slowly, but she would not allow Tracy to take over.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, with a sudden burst of venom. Tracy did not push the issue. She glanced at her husband, but he didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong.

“Aren’t you going to say, ‘Thank you?'” he prompted as his mother dropped her luggage at the foot of a bed. Tracy swallowed and repeated the words, which the old woman didn’t seem to hear.

“Oh and Mom, can you make me a hot chocolate? You make the best hot chocolates.”

#abuse, #christmas, #entitlement, #family, #fiction-in-parts, #holidays, #old-habits


Between the electronic murmurs of medicinal apparatuses, Sandy heard the sound of her own heartbeat. It was not in sync with any of the other noises, nor did it seem to belong to her, but she felt it vibrate across her chest, deeply and firmly like longing. Her grandfather’s heart seemed so shallow in comparison, shrill and underfoot, announcing its presence as a U-boat might announce an enemy ship. He would not die until he wanted to. He would lie here beeping forever out of spite.

She felt that maybe she should grab his hand. She had never touched her grandfather before, but now, when he wasn’t conscious, she thought that maybe she could steal this last bit of life for herself if she gave it a vessel. “You kids have it easy these days,” he had said at every opportunity. “With your social media and your video games, you don’t even have to talk to people anymore.” This could be the first time in ten years he hadn’t lambasted her in a tone of envy and resentment for existing in the modern age.

As her hand brushed against his, his eyes opened widely. He stared up at her without recognition. In a moment, after he had taken in his surroundings and his grandchild, he scowled, choosing one of his ready-made conversations. He had paid his way through college waiting tables. “Why don’t you pay your way through college waiting tables?” He had gotten married at twenty-two to a women he’d talked to twice. “Why don’t you get married? What are you waiting for?” He had beaten and shamed his wife and children at every opportunity. “I want to be a great grandfather.”

Sandy held her grandfather’s hand in her own, as he was too weak to pull away. She let her heart pulse against his circuitry, hoping the vibration would knock something loose, and she would get the apology she and the rest of the family deserved.

“I forgive you,” he said in his final breath. She continued to hold on.

#death, #deathbed, #hearts, #hospitals, #millennials, #old-people, #progression


The letter made its instructions clear. Parents are to drop their children off at X location at Y time, in order to make Z as easy as possible for all of ϴ.

“You should consider yourself very lucky,” they said. “We pulled a lot of strings to get you into this high school, and you are going to make us proud.”

The child waited in the chair, alone, as instructed. The parents left after a brief and dispassionate kiss, which left a dry spot on the forehead still a minute after they’d gone.

“Ah yes! Hello, here you are. Can’t hide from me, now can you?”

The child said nothing as the administrator entered the room, but the man seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I cannot hide,” the child eventually said.

“That’s right! I see why we let you in here.” The man’s jocular smile shifted away as he got down to business. “Academically, you have done well. We feel confident that you will fit right in at St. Ringo’s. However, for your needs, we’re going to ask you a few questions, so you can get optimized attention for your individual learning style. Shall we begin?”

The child nodded, though the man did not look up from his paperwork to notice. “First off, name and gender.”

“Leslie Douglas. Female.”

The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I have here. We’re going to go with Douglas Leslie, male. Next, what are your sexual preferences?”

The child sputtered a moment before repeating, “I’d like to be female, if that’s okay.”

“Very good. ‘Forced Feminization.’ That’s more common than you might think. But I’m afraid I’m going to need more details. Top or bottom?”

The child said words, and accepted the approval they invoked, one by one. There were no wrong answers. He took his seat in a classroom designed just for him and felt proud to be accepted for all his perversions and hangups, designed just for him.

#children, #choice, #education, #gender, #power, #puberty, #self-control


The breakup had been painful for Charlotte, as her life had been tangled up in Greg’s. She wasn’t on the lease and had no legal recourse but to get gone. He was very clear.

“C’est la vie,” she said, and her accent was perfect. She was proud of her French accent, even in more complex sentences.

An envelope tumbled through the street with a gust of wind. It seemed to have come from nowhere, likely escaped from a bag of unsecured trash, but it was printed on a high quality paper, and clearly marked urgent in enough languages that it caught the attention of a polyglot like Charlotte.

The envelope had no return address, nor did it have an intended recipient, and Charlotte, having no address and being not at all the person she had intended to be, decided she had every entitlement to this mail, more than anyone she knew.

The paper was tough, almost leather. The seal holding it closed seemed to be metal, not a familiar one, maybe beryllium? She strained as she tried to to pull it apart. It was hot to the touch, and she had to hold the missive against her shirt. The rip of the stack of papers clanged and echoed in the city around her into fragments on the ground. She gathered them, and held them together:


Every page contained a single phrase, and even though she didn’t know all the languages involved, she quickly flipped through the several sheets of paper, enjoying the Rosetta Stone she had found. She quickly learned several translations of the following letter:


She read through the German version a few times, getting her tongue around the sounds. The grammar seemed archaic, but she felt confident in the phrases, and moved onto the Korean, which she had learned to read in her year abroad. She wasn’t sure if she was getting the intonations quite right, but she felt that a native speaker could probably decipher her accent if she repeated herself slowly and loud.

All the romance languages were interesting to compare, especially the Romanian, which she had never before come across. She hoped they rolled their Rs, because she purred them seductively, and they sounded brilliant. If Greg heard, maybe he would take her back.

“Je suis tellement chanceux,” she said as she ran back to the old apartment. “Fare permisiune.”

#absurd, #hello, #i-missed-you, #moving-on, #self-absorbed, #unimportant, #welcome-back


An alarm clock is ringing. The child it belongs to reaches out to stop it, and yawns herself awake. With a stretch of her arms over her head, she leans over and cartwheels out of bed.

As she skips down the stairs, she nearly slips on various wrappers and old clothes, but catches herself with cushioned giggles. Bits of lumber have fallen out of the bannister. Pictures of family that once lined the walls now line the floor. She kicks and shatters one with her last descending step, and jumps over her parents on the way to the kitchen.

Standing on a chair, she takes the last bowl from the cupboard and slams it on the counter. She fills it with bits of various cereals — Fruit Squares and Chocolate Zeros and Marshmallow Bystanders and Tiny Fiber Governments — that touch each other lightly, tenderly, in a bounded pile. She leaves the collection where it sits, and reaches into the refrigerator for an ice cold can of Coca-Cola. As she pours, the stack dissolves and condenses into a mushier stack. She scoops some into her mouth and laughs at the flavor, which isn’t real. Nothing is real. The bowl goes to the sink with the other bowls, and the girl heads out for school.

“Marisa, you’ve been wearing the same clothes all week. Is everything all right at home?”

“Yes, Mrs. Korkberkley.”

She comes home to a dark house. The only light she needs is in the refrigerator, and she opens its door. She leaves it open and sits beside it on the floor. The light reaches as far as her father’s face, and she watches his shadow as she pops the top of another Coke. “Not before dinner,” he used to say.


#advertisement, #cereal, #children, #coca-cola, #disarray, #mess, #naive


Having tackled the greater problems of asymmetric hands and lonely trees, Hiroshi was ready to advance to level ten, leaving behind the acolytes to join the full-fledged monks.

“This exam will test your resolve. You must not cease your meditation under any circumstance. Do you understand?”

Hiroshi nodded. “I understand,” he said, and felt the sting of the keisaku on his back.

“Let us start again. Do you understand?”

Though ignoring a master was flagrant disrespect, Hiroshi kept still. His back was perpendicular to the floor, his shoulders relaxed. In every breath, he felt the stillness of winter and the great purpose of fall. Other seasons would follow.

He heard movement around him. Footsteps of others. An audience.

“Yes, step right over there. Come forward. Now, you two are the most promising candidates for advancement, but we can only accept one right now.”

Hiroshi was almost startled by the clatter of the wooden sword in front of him, but made no reaction.

“Let the battle begin!”

He maintained his focus, even as he watched the bouncing martial footsteps come closer. His head was still, his eyes locked. As the distance between himself and his rival shortened, he did not adjust his focus. A pointed wind passed through him.

“Um, Master?” The voice belonged to Takashi, another acolyte, two years younger. “I can’t attack if he doesn’t defend himself.”

“If you do not attack, you cannot win.”

The boy moved in circles, asking questions, but Hiroshi could not negotiate. Takashi stopped in front of him, and with a bow, apologized.

Hiroshi did not react to the blow that followed, though the pain was great.

“Congratulations! You’ve won!”

As the audience cheered for Takashi, Hiroshi stayed still. The feast that followed smelled amazing.

He told himself he didn’t notice.

And the concussion felt like spring.

#cryptic, #games, #koan, #meditation, #monks, #no-right-answer, #passivity, #patience, #violence


From her vantage point, Rebecca can see everyone. The reflected light illuminates enough that she can see their shapes and gestures. The couple directly beneath her think they’re in complete privacy, but she knows where their hands are.

The girl hates her parents, and is consenting to this boy’s affections not because she likes him, but because being with him is an excuse to stay out of the house. The boy isn’t as aggressive as he’s pretending to be, but something in one of these movies told him he’s supposed to push boundaries whenever possible. Neither of them feel safe in the other’s presence, though they are momentarily comforted by the other’s embrace, smothering and protective.

A few patrons are actually watching the movie, some po-mo sci-fi rom-com about love and robots and narrative dissonance. An older couple is using the two hours of movie time to delay their inevitable divorce by two more hours. They don’t dislike each other yet, but they feel no affection anymore and they’ve already had every conversation they could possibly have.

Her phone rings.

“I told you not to call me when I’m at work.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I just wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight.”

“Just text me.”

A few scattered souls have come alone. They distribute themselves entropically, though they came to the theater to participate in film as an event, to feel a part of something larger. Every one of them wishes they had someone close to them, but they separate themselves into makeshift booths and silently judge the couples around them.

If they only knew how pathetic they looked from up here. Rebecca starts the second reel and reaches for another fistful of popcorn.

#dramatic-irony, #microfiction, #movies, #relationships, #smug, #superior, #voyeur