Time Code

by Charles Eugene Anderson

  I say nothing, and turn back to where the car struck the spectators. The Mercedes was made up of a magnesium alloy to reduce its weight. But in the crash, the more combustible metal causes the car to burn hotter than it should have. It’ll kill more of those unfortunate enough to be watching the race in the wrong place on that day.

  “Do something to help, Henri,” demands Margot. “Help them.” She sees I won’t do anything. She wants to leave me and go to those in need.

  “There’s nothing we can do; we are only spectators here. You can’t reach them,” having her arm. “It doesn’t matter whether we are here or not. We are like those people in the stands. We watch, we wait, and we react. Time-Shrines always speed past us like a race car, and we can only observe them they go by, but there is nothing we can do to stop or change them.”

  “You can’t help…any of those people?”

  “No. We can only observe the spikes of the Time-Shrines, whether those spikes are positive or negative. The spikes have to be strong enough so the Time-Fi can find them.”

  “If you can’t help them then you can help me, and you can take me home,” she says, and I only have to make a few quick touches on my keypad before we can leave. Our date was a failure, and Margot has no interest in me. It’s time for us to leave.

  I’ve seen Margot from time to time. She has staked a position as a guide for a London based firm. I have seen her lead her own tours to the time-shrines. She’s good. She’s really good. She loves the work. Margot specializes in the positive tours like the ancient celebration-orgy of V-E Day at Piccadilly, the newest replica of the old Globe theatre, and the beginnings of the home-temple of the Sisters of the Compassionate Environment at Prague.

  Margot sees me from time to time, but she never acknowledges me. I know she remembers our date at Le Mans, but sometimes apocalypses of the past leave too bitter of a taste for those to try them again. I’m not one of them; I’ve always preferred the bitter to the sweet.

  I take the hand of my new girlfriend, Maria. She’s just as pretty as Margot, has a darker complexion, but she isn’t as inquisitive, and I ask her, “Have you ever been to the Canary Islands and stood next to the runway as two Jumbo Jets are getting ready for a takeoff in the fog?”

  Maria only smiles up at me. She doesn’t speak. She’s a Spaniard, but she’s mostly EU, sort of.

  I say, “There’s nothing like it. It’s really something.”

   

   

  Chapter 39

  Yellow Hair Lures Them All

  My yellow hair flows from the tower. It’s where I live. Once when I put my hair outside to dry a prince climbed up it. I had just finished washing it, and it needed to dry. I swear it was an accident when I caught him, a mistake. First, I felt my neck jerk and when I pulled in my hair there he was, a prince. I was hungry, so I invited him in for dinner. Clean hair and a prince for dinner; **add semicolon it was a grand evening.

  Before my mother place me in this tower, I remember my father telling me about fishing. He used to go on for hours and hours about all the fish he used to catch. He used to say to me, “Carpe Diem, does not mean ‘fish of the day.'” I still don’t know what he meant by that.

  The next time I put my hair outside, I caught another prince. He was just as cute as the last one, and of course I invited him inside my tower. I was pleasantly surprised how curly my hair became while it had been flying outside.

  Mother used to become so mad at me, but my father used to tell me about fishing. He used to say to me, “Good things comes to those who bait.” Whatever dad, because I never saw you catch anything bigger than a fingerling. I truly miss him and his puns.

  The third prince I caught with my hair, was the prettiest of all. Did I invite him to dinner? Of course I did. I had spent all day braiding my hair, and I cast it out the window before sunset. This time I didn’t have pull my hair back because the prince used my braided hair to climb up to me.

  Mother used to blame me for everything. As I think back I really was a troublesome girl, and I couldn’t help myself because there were so many pretty boys at my father’s castle. So here I am in my tower all by myself.

  This last prince will keep me fed for a week. My father also taught me, “Give a man a fish and he’ll be hungry tomorrow…teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” I’m sure it applies to princesses too.

   

  Chapter 40

  Writer's Time

  The cursor blinks back at me.

  Microsoft Word’s white page is blank.

  My wife asks, “What are you doing?”

  I lie, “Nothing.”

  I am playing a game, I am on Twitter, and I am also on Facebook.

  I look at a social media ad, Expedia suggests hotels in Cabo San Lucas.

  Maybe I need to buy a new laptop.

  I open a new browser. Look, Costco has out shiny black HPs for sale.

  Not a new word on the page.

   

  Chapter 41

  After the Game

  The bus is silent.

  We have left the gymnasium behind.

  Four girls wear earbuds and are listening to their music.

  Two are studying. They have a math test in the morning.

  Three girls are already asleep.

  One is texting. Maybe she has a new boyfriend.

  I sit in the seat behind the driver. We have nothing left to talk about.

  The volleyballs roll back and forth next to my feet. They’re planning an escape.

  I am cold. I pull my jacket tighter. I consider asking if the heat could be turned higher.

  Snow covers the fields. Coated white, they reflect the moonlight back inside, helping to guide us home.

  Chapter 42

  Home Renovation TV

  Our handy host smiles at the chosen couple. Their house is perfect for remodeling.

  Walls will be knocked down. Hardwood floors will replace wall to wall carpet.

  Paint swatches are laid out in front, and the wife picks out two she likes.

  There’s a problem. The electric wiring isn’t up to code.

  Wait, there might be skeletons buried in the crawl space?

  Luckily, the producers came by the week before and removed the bones.

  Our handy host can only deal with one major problem per show.

   

  Chapter 43

  Bard's Muse

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” I say and then I wait for her reply.

  Anne doesn’t say anything to me, she has too much to do. She’s my wife, she’s the mother of my children, and she manages our house. We have been married too long. Finally she says something to me, “I hate…”

  I can’t wait for her to finish, I say quickly, “Those lips that Love’s own hand did make…Breathed forth the sound that said, I hate.”

  She holds up her finger to keep me quiet, “I hate I have so much to do every day. I hate when you’re away for so long. And mostly I hate when you finish my sentences. Now, I need to take care of the twins now. Hamlet has been fussy lately. Billy, I don’t have time for this.”

  “To be or not to be,” I say, and I need to write this down. Where is thy pen? I love my muse especially when I am back home in Stratford. She inspires me.

  My Anne walks away and sighs.

  I watch her, but I can’t help myself, I say, “Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.”

   

  Chapter 44

  Fan Fic

  Kirk loves Spock…done too many times.

  Batman loves Robin…nobody wants to read about a pedophile.

  Superman loves Wonder Woman…boring.

  Aquaman loves dolphins…too weird.

  Edward loves Bella…too sparkly.

  Garfield loves lasagna…now there’s a story that never gets old.

  Chapter 45

  Conan the Barber

  I look at my customer, and I ask him, “What gods do you pray to?�
�

  He says, “I pray to the four winds…and you?”

  I say, “To Crom, but I seldom pray to him, he doesn’t listen.”

  The customer says, “I may find you worthy. But are you worthy enough?”

  I ask, “I am skilled because I know the riddle of the scissors. If I don’t know it, Crom will cast me out and laugh at me. Crom is strong on his mountain.”

  My customer says, “Yet, I know my god is stronger than your god.”

  I say, “Crom laughs. He laughs from his mountain.”

  My customer says, “My god’s four winds are under his everlasting sky. Your god sits under my god.”

  I say, “Then let your god cut your hair.” I cringe. I have lost another customer. I know Crom laughs at me again.

  Chapter 46

  Let's Make A Yggdrasil Tree Deal

  The Yggdrasil tree’s roots are bound together. Each is a choice; a decision. They pierce the soil in front of me to form a path. Asgard is one it leads to the home of the gods. The second makes a corridor to Midgard. It’s where common men live. The third is the final choice it leads to Niflheim. It’s the land of the eternal cold where all of us will go except those who are killed in battle.

  It’s a hard choice.

  Odin says to me, “Will you choose number one? Number two? Or number three?”

  I say nothing. I can’t make up my mind.

  He says, “You’re dressed like a Viking. Try acting like one.”

  I thought this was a game show. I thought everyone dressed in costumes to be on television.

  The one-eyed god reads my mind and says, “Warriors aren’t what they used to be. Folks, I remember when…”

  I still say nothing I don’t know what to do.

  I didn’t notice the box next to me until the raven landed on it. Odin sweetens the deal. “If you choose a heroic death, I will throw in what’s under this box, an all paid trip to Asgard, drinking mead with the Gods, and you’ll travel in style with the lovely Valkyries. So what do you say?”

  It sounds appealing, but so does dying of old age in the comfort of my bed. I don’t know what to do.

  The old god waits for my decision, but I don’t know.

  Odin finally says after he plays with his beard, “You could’ve played at home, but you’re here. It’s easy to yell at the contestant to do this and do that, but you’re not at home yelling at the TV. You’re here. You’re not the audience, you’re a participant. The saga must be told.”

   

  Chapter 47

  Z-Garten

  The first is at me with open arms. She’s easily distracted by a noise in the corner. I’m safe for the moment.

  The next is at my side. He looks like he had been crying but the mucus running from his nose makes him truly disgusting.

  The third is the most disturbing. He’s walking slowly enough so I can get away, but he’s a biter. If he catches me, I am finished. I need to keep an eye on him.

  How did I get in this situation? My training, my education, I should be able to survive. This has become dire indeed.

  Then I remember. I look at the clock on the wall. It’s time. I say, “It’s naptime, children. Everyone cleanup.

  I finally get all of them settled. They’re all sleeping. I peek out the door. I see the first grade teacher, she says to me, “Next year they will be mine, but there will be more coming for you.”

  I smile; close the door. I’m ready. It’s time to lock and load again. I straighten my dress, find my water bottle, and run a quick brush through my hair. I say quietly, “Bring it on.”

   

   

  Chapter 48

  Stupid Fucking Story

  I am not going to start this story until you say it out loud. What is it I want you to say? To speak? To use your voice? You have to say it because I won’t start this story until you do.

  Here what I need you to say:

  ‘Start the fucking story.’

  Now I can begin.

  I have always told my audience that if you have a loaded pistol hanging on the wall in the first scene, then it must go off by the second. If it doesn’t then it shouldn’t be there.

  Who am I? I am a doctor. I am a playwright. I am a writer of fiction. I am also a Russian by birth. I am Anton Chekhov.

  I say many times to writers try not to be too clever. They use red herrings and MacGuffins to distract the audience. They use foreshadowing to arouse interest and to guard against disappointment. They insert a philosopher’s razor into their tales hoping all will prefer the explanation with the fewest assumptions.

  No, I say none of these are needed. All they need is a pistol, like the one I hold in my hand. It is very one I introduced earlier. It will be fired. But again I need you to say something out loud so all can hear.

  I will wait until you say:

   

  ‘Shoot the fucking pistol.’

   

  There I have told my tale and the art has been passed on, and now I can end my stupid fucking story.

   

  Chapter 49

  Free Range Human

  The last time Anton saw the sun his eyes watered so much he began to cry.

  “What is that?” he asked. He wasn’t asking anyone in particular.

  A man next to him spoke up when they left the station’s entrance, “It’s a nasty pigeon taken a crapper on a page three girl. Now, get out of my fucking way.”

  Trafalgar Square held the rest of the humans who made their way above ground. He knew he didn’t have much time to look a Nelson’s Column and the bronze lions who protected it before he’d have to go underground again. Charing Cross station embraced him as he went back inside.

  A woman’s voice told him to, ‘Mind the gap.’

  The train was full. People touched him on all sides, and Anton hoped for more space. He thought the train was running out of air, and maybe he would suffocate standing there. He station couldn’t come soon enough and eventually he would be free when he finally got to Landing Strip Two.

   

  Chapter 50

  Sounds of Segregation

  “I can’t record the music if you don’t start singing,” says my father.

  The convict reluctantly sings. There’s a guard is standing near him and he relaxes the grip on his baton.  “Two men stare out the prison bars. The devil is at me again…”

  My father has positioned the microphone and the Negro in a common relationship. Neither is too close or far away from the other.

  When he finishes, the guards says, “I told you William is the best singer in the penitentiary.”

  My father says to me, “I was right, Alan. We have to go the place where the Negroes are most sorry for their wrongs. That’s where we’ll find their real music.”

  “Did you hear that William?” asks the guard. “Professor Lomax doesn’t want to hear Bing Crosby today.”

  The prisoner nods and starts a new song to record, “Honey, please don’t go…”

   

   

   

  Chapter 51

  Nemo Found

  This journey would be his final voyage.

  An old wound left his body in ruin.

  He also had many regrets.

  The nephew who tried to kill him.

  The mistress he had abandoned.

  The son he had badly treated.

  Finally, a marriage without love.

  His life was full of gray memories. Now he needed a haven.

  There was still one man left to find.

  “Monsieur Verne, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Captain Nemo, the pleasure is all mine.”

  “The Nautilus awaits and is at your disposal.”

   

  Chapter 52

  Nona’s Christmas Cookies

  Nona’s Instructions:

  In a medium-sized bowl, sift the flour, cinnamon, ginger, cloves and baking soda. Set aside dry ingredients.

 
; In a large bowl, blend the butter and brown sugar. Add the eggs, one at a time, and then the molasses. Slowly add the flour mixture to the molasses mixture; stirring after each addition with the wooden spoon or mixer (the dough should be stiff).

  Divide the dough in half, flatten into a thick pancake (a fun step for kids set up with a rolling pin) and cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate for 2 hours, or until the dough is firm enough to roll (if it becomes too stiff, soften for 10 minutes at room temperature).

  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. On a floured counter, roll out the dough to a 1/4-inch thickness. Use cookie cutters to cut out gingerbread men and a spatula to transfer them to a greased cookie sheet, spacing them 1 inch apart. Bake for 10 minutes, or until light brown.

  Once the gingerbread men have cooled, invite your kids to pipe on frosting features and clothing (they can make both boys and girls — or even a whole gingerbread family). Add red and green candies for buttons. Makes about 25 cookies.

  Nona’s recipe was complete. Nestor noticed it didn’t take long to fill a house with the smell of gingerbread. He pulled the tray of cookies out of the oven, and the blast of heat struck his face after he opened its door. His oven always baked at a temperature that was higher than 350 degrees. Nestor was happy because he had caught the cookies in time and they hadn’t burned. Each year after he cooked his grandmother’s recipe he always said to himself he should buy an oven thermometer, but he never did.

  He wore his oversized oven mitt and knew the cookies were the right shade of brown. He had waited next to the oven for the whole ten minutes and his wait had rewarded him and the cookies were the perfect color. It was the color he remembered his Nona’s to be.

  With a little effort, Nestor used his spatula to scrape each of the ginger bread men off the baking sheet, and he placed them carefully on the cooling rack. He had taken care to make sure he took his time to transfer them. It wasn’t until he got to the last gingerbread man that there was a problem. The man ripped into two uneven pieces. The spatula hadn’t dug down deep enough, and before Nestor could stop himself the gingerbread man’s legs had been severed from his torso. Nestor cursed mildly, and he knew Nona would be disappointed with him for not being more careful with the last cookie or his language, but she wasn’t here to scold him. She had died the year before.

  He knew each of the gingerbread men would wait patiently to cool while he cleaned up his kitchen. He didn’t know what to do with the broken cookie, and maybe he would let it cool and harden overnight and feed the broken pieces to his dog in the morning.