by Bob Brown
Praise the Lord, they are finally lifting the travel ban from California! I’m so happy! You can come visit us now!
I miss you so much. It’s not right that you are stranded so far away from your loving mother. I still don’t see why the Left Coast had to leave the country over a few pipelines. I know the people in Seattle and Portland are weird, but I don’t know what got into you Californians. Did they really give trees the right to vote? You can’t agree with them. You just got stuck there when it happened? Right?
Do you remember George and Gladys? From across the street? They moved back from Florida in November. Just up and abandoned their condo in Miami. Gladys says the waves were coming up on the deck, and nobody wanted to buy it. She blames it on all the solar panels people were putting on their rooftops. She says all that sunlight pushing down on them made the beach sink. That was the real reason the Governor there wanted to ban the things? Well, he tried, but some people just won’t listen. I hear you people have lots of solar panels out in California, too. Are you having trouble with the beaches sinking too? I know, there’s even some people here saying that it’s because the north pole is melting, but it still gets cold here in the winter, so how can that be true?
Enough doom and gloom. I sure hope you can come see me soon!
Love,
Mom
XOXOXO
PS. Your brother says hi.
Heartland, KS
February 25, 2025
Dear Emily,
It was so good to hear from you. Those salt winds from the lakes drying up sound scary! Stay indoors! At least you can go inside. You’re better off than all those poor ducks.
Do you remember I told you about my miniature lioness Elsa? Well, I took her to Milwaukee to get her bred. Everything was going so well, but then Sad News! She died having her first litter. One of the cubs had two heads and got stuck, and it killed her. I should have got her to the vet’s sooner, but I’d spent a lot of money on the breeding, and your brother cut me off from your dad’s retirement money. I think Congress overstepped a bit, including widows in the Defense of Family Finances Act. I managed the household money fine for forty years, and now your brother thinks he can cut off my allowance as if I was a child. I changed his diapers and I don’t need him telling me how to spend my retirement money.
Anyway, I can’t wait to see you! Come cheer up your Mom. We have so much to talk about in person!
Love,
Mom
XOXOXO
P.S. Write me back on paper. Your brother doesn’t want any California contacts on our computers.
Heartland, KS
April 12, 2025
Dear Emily,
The weather sure has gotten hot early this year! The company put in a couple of new oil wells in town, and the heat from the flares was really nice in the winter when it was so cold, but right now they just add to the misery. I’m sure we’ll be glad of them again next winter.
A few people left town when the company put wells in next to their houses. I don’t get it. Some of them were even offered jobs and everything, but they up and left instead. The empty houses do make things easier for the people moving up from Florida, and there’s a lot of those. Most of them are decent folks, though the town council had to clarify that this is an English-speaking town, and other gibberish will not be tolerated.
It’s too bad about New Orleans. Your Dad took me there one time on vacation. It was a lovely city, though I can understand why the Good Lord chose to smite it for its evil ways.
I do still miss your Dad. A couple of his old co-workers came around to see me the other day. One of them in particular is still sore at me for not suing the company after the accident, but what was I supposed to do? Your brother was sure it would cost him his job if I raised a stink, and even if we could prove that the equipment was faulty, it probably came under the new Protection of Commerce laws anyway.
As for the concerns in your letter, I don’t think you have anything to worry about if you come to visit. All those new laws they put in are for scofflaws, not for nice girls coming home to visit their mothers.
Love,
Mom
XOXOXO
Heartland, KS
May 15, 2025
Dear Emily,
I have found a new way to make a little money in my old age. I’m breeding miniature hippopotamuses! (I so wanted to tell you about this earlier, but I didn’t want to jinx Rosebud’s pregnancy by talking about it.) They’re all the rage now, small enough to live in a bathtub. It’s part of the same project as Elsa was, to make every animal on Noah’s Ark small enough to be a pet.
We like scientists around here, when they’re coming up with something useful like that. One of them is even trying to re-create the unicorn, which, you know, Noah forgot, and there’s a group of them trying to bring back elephants and cheetahs.
The hippopotamus young are really cute. My first foal is nearly a month old now. I’m calling him Quincy. He has five legs, and I have to help him in and out of the kiddie pool in the basement, but he makes the cutest grunting noises when I do it!
The President gave a speech last night saying “those coastal Libertards think that just because things aren’t going their way, they can leave the union just like that. We’re going to make them sorry they did.” I believe him, and he’s still Commander in Chief. That’s why I want you to come home. As soon as they finish cracking down on the illegals here, they’re going to come after the splitters, and it’s not going to be pretty.
I can’t wait till we get California back. I miss oranges and avocados. Sure, we still get some oranges from Florida, but with so much of the state being underwater, they’re mighty expensive. We do have a big garden, and grow most of our own vegetables these days, but it’s gotten funny about what grows and what doesn’t. I did buy some micro drones to replace the bees, so it’s not that. Since they put in the wells, the water here comes out of the tap a golden amber color. The company tells us it’s more nutritious that way. Your brother says (excuse my French) “What the hell, Ma, it looks like beer!”
I’ve been growing red lettuce and cabbage, to hide the yellow tint the water gives the white parts of the leaves. I gave up on turnips and rutabagas. They kept growing faces, and when one of the turnips winked at me, it was too much. I grew a pumpkin last year that was big enough to climb inside, though.
Love,
Mom
XOXOXO
And a smiley face to the censors for keeping us safe!
Heartland, KS
May 26, 2025
Dear Emily,
If you hear from your sister or sister-in-law, can you write to me? They ran off to New England about a month ago, after Congress passed the Homemaker’s Freedom from Voting act. Your sister said she wasn’t going to wait around and watch congress mandate corsets and ankle length skirts. “Or worse, mini skirts!” your S-I-L added. They were both gone the next morning.
Your brother says he never wants to see his wife again, for leaving him like that. I don’t think he meant it though. He took a bit of my nest egg to pay a headhunter to bring her back. I don’t think it’s right of her to abandon my son, but if he doesn’t intend to support her, he should just let her go. New England is refusing to extradite anyone to the Heartland Republic, so if they got that far, they’re probably gone. If you hear from either of them, please tell me my girls are safe.
I should get this in the mail. I can hear Quincy crying downstairs, and then I need to run this to the post office before your brother gets home. Please write back. I usually walk over to pick up the mail myself.
Love,
Mom
P.S. Maybe you should put off your visit, for now.
END
RAGE AGAINST THE DONALD
Bruno Lombardi
“Special Agent Alpha to Director: another temporal incursion. Lincoln Memorial.”
I rolled my eyes and discretely tapped my com pad on my wrist to respond. Being the Director on this time loop was a full
time job, on top of the job that was my cover.
“ID on incursion agent?” I said tiredly. I was barely speaking above a whisper but even among all the noise from the crowd, the subdermal throat mic could still pick me up. Yeah for 27th century technology.
“Data still coming through. Preliminary ID is approximately from the year 2150. Subject armed with Mark V phased pistol.”
2150? Oh joy—those jokers again. At least they’re relatively sane, unlike the batch from 2260. No amount of effort would ever bring back the Greek gods.
“You know the drill. Standard Containment Protocol.”
“Containment cells one and two are filled to capacity, Director.” Alpha sounded vaguely embarrassed by that, which I found kind of cute. He personally has caught 57 time travellers in the last three days alone—and now he feels embarrassed that there isn’t enough room for them?
“Then activate base three.”
“Will do, Director. Have three agents intercepting incursion now.”
“Acknowledged.”
I took a deep breath and went back to watching the parade.
~o0o~
“Special Agent Gamma to Director; multiple temporal incursions. East and West side.”
For fuck’s sake, it’s, like, literally five minutes until the inauguration! What on Earth can they hope to accomplish cutting it that close?
“ID?”
“One’s identified as Pepist member, circa 2090.”
“Oh joy—a fucking fanboy. No doubt to take some holo-pics. And the other?”
“Cyborg. 2295 best guess.”
Shit; probably a member of the Mechlods. Those gear jammers are seriously fucked up.
“Make that one a high priority. Cloak him, if necessary.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Oh—and status on crowd numbers?”
“Embedded agents in Park Services and law enforcement agencies estimate about 250K, Director.”
“How many are our people?”
“About 250K, Director.”
Smartass.
“Good job. Keep me posted.”
“Acknowledged.”
~o0o~
I went up to Trump just as he was getting up to the podium. He looked at me, breathing heavily, visibly annoyed. “Yes? What? What is it?”
“Your tie, sir,” I said, as I made a move to adjust it.
“Oh.” For a brief moment, he actually smiled. I smiled back, distracting him from the tiny sticker I put on his tie.
“All done. Perfect.” I smiled back.
He smiled in return—and then it quickly faded as he turned and walked to the podium. As I walked away, I pressed the button on my pen, activating the Weather Modification Drone we had cloaked over the Capitol. I debated for a moment and then hit ‘rain’ and kept walking.
~o0o~
I shook my head as the special agents reported in during Trump’s speech. They’ve had a busy day.
Honestly—what is wrong with these people?
“Oh—I will go back in time and stop Trump! I’ll, like, shoot him from a rooftop with a raygun! I’ll expose him and his cabinet to Moon Flu! I’ll run up to him and punch him during his speech!”
Lame. Really, really lame.
I’ve been stopping time travellers from going back to stop Trump since last July—and truthfully, it’s starting to get to me. Oh no—not the job itself. Rather, it was the fact that so many of them are just so utterly dumb. I mean—jeez—you’re a freaking time traveller! Make some effort at intelligence!
Subtlety. That’s the key. Subtlety. Butterfly Effect and all that. Why use a sledgehammer and a gun when an errant shoelace and dumb answer to a question does the trick just as well? Ok—it’s a bit more difficult. No—scratch that. A lot more difficult. But you also have better control of the consequences and ripple effects as well.
You just gotta be patient.
~o0o~
“All assets; summary report.” I was at the Inaugural Ball and it was close to midnight.
“365 incursion agents stopped. 147 assassination attempts. 55 terrorist act attempts. 25 tourists.”
“Busy day. Job well done. Get some rest. We’re going to have another busy day tomorrow. And every day after that.” Of course tomorrow was in the forty one nano seconds it took us to log out, take a shift of rest, and be back. It had the illusion of one long assed day.
“Acknowledged.”
~o0o~
I intercepted Sean Spicer, the new Press Secretary, just as he was walking toward the press room.
“Looking forward to your first big day?” I asked, sweetly.
Sean clearly wasn’t used to either the suit or the pressure; the sweat was nearly gushing out of his pores. But he smiled wanly.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Boss says change of plans. Here’s what he wants you to focus your speech on today,” I said, handing him a package.
He looked at me with confusion in his eyes, glanced down and pulled out the talking points—and looked even more confused.
His gaze locked onto mine.
“Seriously? This is what he wants me to focus on? The inaugural crowd numbers? This is bullshit!”
I shrugged. “Hey, orders straight from the boss.” I could tell that Sean was unconvinced. That’s when I decided to go for the throat.
“Hey, if you can’t handle the job, I’m sure the boss would be more than happy to accept your resignation. I’m sure you should have no trouble at all getting another job. I mean, it’s not like he’s a guy who is noted for being petty or vindictive or willing to hold a grudge or anything like that.” I smiled again, showing a bit more teeth.
Sean actually deflated. “Ok,” he said, sighing heavily. “Give me a minute to go over this.”
“No, make them wait an hour. Then go in. That will show them who is boss!”
~o0o~
Twitter pretty much exploded an hour later. Have to admit, it took literally all my self-control not to laugh out loud. I think my favorite bit was CNN saying that they had refused to show the conference live because they suspected it would be all lies—and now they were being immensely smug about being proven right.
My iPhone beeped. I looked down and saw that there were already sixteen different text messages from White House staff about damage control. I had just enough time to crack a smile when my com pad beeped as well.
“Yes,” I sighed.
“Special Agent Omicron to Director. Temporal incursion. White House lawn. Tennis court. Looks like two incursions—one a Trumpist and the other an anti-Trumpist. They’re currently having a knife fight with one another. Orders?”
“Record the fight, then arrest the winner and dispose of the loser.”
“Acknowledged.”
Man, I’m going to start drinking heavily soon.
~o0o~
Butterfly Effect. That’s the key. A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil and three weeks later sets off a tornado in Texas. Tiny, seemingly insignificant changes can accomplish the job just as well—or, in fact, better—than a big-ass intervention at the last minute.
We needed to destroy this administration but it has to be done in style. Finesse. Subtlety. There can’t be any big red arrows. No large X’s. No “Now wait just a damn minute . . .” bizarreness for anyone—past, present or future—to spot. More importantly, there can’t be any one thing that brings it down. If it all rests on just the one thing, then all the Future Trumpists have something to go back to disrupt. And potentially stop.
But if it’s a seemingly infinite number of things? And if all of them subtle? And if some of them are impossible to pin down?
If . . . If . . . If . . . If . . .
It’s going to be a long job, but the payoff is going to be important. That’s really the only reason I’m in this. Future generations are going to look at me in contempt and amusement and disgust, unfortunately—but it’s a small price to pay.
For the future.
“You’re o
n in five seconds,” said the TV soundman.
Right. Butterfly Effect. That’s the important thing. Keep reminding yourself that.
The anchorman turned to me and started asking me questions.
We all have roles to play; it’s part of the job description after all. Trump has his and I have mine. And I have to milk mine for all it’s worth. Even if it’s at the price of self-respect. I know they’re going to mock me—are, in fact, already mocking me—but when I got this assignment, I knew what I was signing up for. History—the altered history, that is—will see me as, well, a glorious fool. No; Fool. Capital letters. Like a title.
In a way—it’s accurate. Disturbingly so.
Oh well; at least I’ll have Saturday Night Live skits made in my memory. I took a deep breath and embraced my role and gave the reporter a truly fascinating reply.
“Don’t be so overly dramatic about it, Chuck. What—you’re saying it’s a falsehood. And they’re giving Sean Spicer, our press secretary, gave alternative facts to that. But the point remains—”
END?
PINWHEEL PARTY
Victor D. Phillips
“Pall in the mall,” bemoaned businesses. “Consumers aren’t spending enough!”
“Ink the presses,” shouted politicians. “Print more money!”
“Shovel it down their throats,” cheered bankers. “Make loans with no job, no collateral.”
“Work for honest pay,” pleaded the jobless, dodging bullets. “Our babies not yet gunned down are starving.”
“Blame the goddamn foreigners,” screamed patriots. “Bombs away!”
“Kill all wicked, godless evil-doers,” bellowed pastors. “Burn non-believers!”
“Help!” gasped trees, fish, birds and bees. “There’s no place left for us, goodbye.”
Even optimists, with their cups half full, were left with nothing more than broken handle shards between shaking thumbs and forefingers. Their empty hope lay strewn and shattered in dry, dusty pieces at their feet. It was the worst of times.
~o0o~
In the dark stadium’s icy parking lot a makeshift shelter held several thousand sick, starving indigents, mainly immigrants. Some maimed and bleeding, all ridiculed and cursed, they lurched or crawled to the temporary refuge where they huddled shivering with fear and fever. The lucky ones sprawled on cardboard sheets flapping in wintry blasts of sleet through the long night. Tomorrow was Election Day, but none of them would be voting.