The story begins as told by my 11 year old self, having just been kidnapped by my insane 23 year old self, who in fact had just shot my 64 year old self in the year 1870.
I don’t understand what is happening. None of this makes sense.
I was back in 1870 hanging out with the Granpa version of me. We were there collecting copper and doing all kinds of neat junk like going to plays riding horses and pretending to be from 1870. It was pretty cool
I have been able to see all sorts of good stuff this year. I am not allowed to have a time machine - the grown up me who first showed up in our backyard one night explained that i could not get my temporal license until i turned 20. But the good news is that grown up me said that i could go on supervised journeys with him and other older versions of myself. Kind of like a class trip but only with 1 kid. Of course I didn’t even need a permission form from my parents because really, of course I was going with an adult and that adult was me. So that is safe.
Or that’s what I thought before 23 showed up.
I don’t know why it happened, but 23 attacked and badly hurt Granpa me. The last I saw him, he was lying on the road from where 23 had shot him. Then 23 took me on Granpa me’s time machine, and we vanished, and now we’re here. He told me that he had not shot Granpa to kill him, and that he’d probably be fine, but he HAD trapped him in the past by taking his time machine away.
I was crying. A lot. We had appeared in a weird place and I was scared. 23 kept telling me not to cry, and that he was going to fix everything proper. He kept saying that he was going to make things right.
We showed up in a place that looked like an atom bomb had gone off. There were no buildings, no trees, no plants even. Nothing. The sky was gone. After a while I asked 23 where we were, and he just said we were NoWhere. I asked what time we had appeared at, and he said NoWhere. I stopped asking him because he looked confused whenever I asked him.
He hasn’t hurt me. He gave me some weird food and told me to keep quiet. 23 is working on the time machine. I think he is making some kind of changes to it but I can’t tell what. I don’t really know how it works. I don’t even think he’s paying attention to me, but there is no point in trying to sneak off. In all directions around, I just see the same grey dirt.
There is no where to go.
Because we are NoWhere.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
The beginning of the end of the beginning.
As i tell you of the way things ended, with a finality that cannot be ignored, i am going to break one of the cardinal rules of storytelling.
I am going to tell you how it ends first. Then i will tell you what happened, the how of it all, and possibly the why.
The first thing is that it ends tragically. There is not a happy ending to be found here. For that, i am sorry. The second thing of importance is that now that it is over, i have ensured that the time machine will no longer function. I have changed the laws of the universe to prevent such a thing from ever occurring again.
But before we get to that point, i need to reassure you that you are not reading this in vain. You will read of acts of bravery. You will read of self-sacrifice. You will see that even in a grand act of betrayal, a man is still a man.
But enough. Let us get on with it all.
I am going to tell you how it ends first. Then i will tell you what happened, the how of it all, and possibly the why.
The first thing is that it ends tragically. There is not a happy ending to be found here. For that, i am sorry. The second thing of importance is that now that it is over, i have ensured that the time machine will no longer function. I have changed the laws of the universe to prevent such a thing from ever occurring again.
But before we get to that point, i need to reassure you that you are not reading this in vain. You will read of acts of bravery. You will read of self-sacrifice. You will see that even in a grand act of betrayal, a man is still a man.
But enough. Let us get on with it all.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Another letter in the same book...
You once again pick up the green baize covered book, and a 2nd letter flutters to the floor...and it reads
I am, of course, old.
Certainly, I have lied about my age before. It is something of a tradition in my family, and I do believe that these things should be upheld. But there is no denying my frailty of body. My mind, however, is still sharp and young. It is with this in mind that I will begin to relate the beginning of the end of it all to you.
When I last left you, I had written a letter and placed it in a book. I have done the same with this letter, so if you found the first one, you've likely found this letter too. To continue, when I last left you, things had gone very badly. I had been shot in the leg by a 20 something year old version of myself, who in fact had kidnapped the 11 year old version of myself, stolen my time machine and vanished, leaving me trapped in the latter portion of the 19th century.
It is true that I made myself a decent life there, and found some happiness. I quickly ascertained that my foreknowledge of the future, though limited in terms of usefulness, would still serve me well. I did not take complete advantage of this, but rather, made sure that I was in the right places at the right times in order to ensure a comfortable and interesting lifestyle. Other than that, I taught, I played checkers, and crokinole. I took in the sights and sounds of the day. I even made sure to travel south to hear Joplin playing live in halls & saloons.
But always...always in the back of my mind were those horrible events of that fateful day. Even decades later, I would go to sleep at night, and replay it in my mind, and awake in a cold sweat only to realize that other than attempting to send messages to myself in the future, there was little that I could in fact do to help rescue my 11 year old self. I had become caught in this time, like a fly in ointment. And while I have been able to find some peace here, there was always the part of my mind that reminded me of my failure.
As time passed, I began to think. Hard. Because as a youngster, my heroes of fiction were those intelligent men who always had a plan. The Batman always planned for the worst, with contingencies in place. Sherlock Holmes always reasoned out the way events would and could have unfolded, given the proper clues and observations.
I asked myself this: what would MY plan have been, if I were stuck in the past? How would I have prepared for such an emergency?
I began to visit places. Places where I had traveled to in the past, or places where I had resided in the future. Places of personal importance and significance. My hope was that I might have left some clue for myself, some piece of machinery, anything hidden away. But always, there was nothing. I traveled, for example, to the future location of my childhood home in Whitby, ON. Armed with a primitive metal detector, I searched the orchard for any sign of future artifacts, only to find nothing.
I traveled to Guelph and checked around some of my future haunts. Though I found nothing, it was there that I first noticed the scrawled figure on a stone wall in the cellar. It read XXIII. I did not think much of this, until one day I noticed it again during my searches in Philadelphia. There, by the side of the pike that would one day become Lincoln Drive, in a stone carved recess, I saw the figure again - XXIII.
More and more, as I tried to recall the important places I'd visited in my younger days in the 20th century, more and more I saw that image. Always XXIII.
And suddenly, a candle was lit in my mind. I understood its significance.
The kidnapper of my 11 year old self was indeed my 23 year old self. XXIII. 23.
I (23) was clearly thinking along the same lines. 23 was visiting the same places that I would have thought of as temporal safe houses for stashing equipment to aid my return to the future. Many of these places were sacred to my childhood, so it makes sense that 23 would know them. I do not know how he was able to figure out ones that became special after that age, but somehow, he had.
It seemed my quest to find a way to save myself was at an impasse. After all these years of being trapped in the late 19th century, I was no closer to having a solution. I was ready to give up.
But then, I remembered the unspoken mantra of so many of my heroes: always have a plan.
So, as I place this pristine copy of "The Expert at the Card Table" onto the shelf for the last time, I have done one thing that I hope will ensure its safe keeping. I have taken the dust jacket from "Pneumatic Engineering and its Applications" and placed it over this book. Now it should blend in with the rest of them, camoflauged for the years to come.
Always have a plan.
(page 2 of this letter will be scanned in shortly - Editor)
I am, of course, old.
Certainly, I have lied about my age before. It is something of a tradition in my family, and I do believe that these things should be upheld. But there is no denying my frailty of body. My mind, however, is still sharp and young. It is with this in mind that I will begin to relate the beginning of the end of it all to you.
When I last left you, I had written a letter and placed it in a book. I have done the same with this letter, so if you found the first one, you've likely found this letter too. To continue, when I last left you, things had gone very badly. I had been shot in the leg by a 20 something year old version of myself, who in fact had kidnapped the 11 year old version of myself, stolen my time machine and vanished, leaving me trapped in the latter portion of the 19th century.
It is true that I made myself a decent life there, and found some happiness. I quickly ascertained that my foreknowledge of the future, though limited in terms of usefulness, would still serve me well. I did not take complete advantage of this, but rather, made sure that I was in the right places at the right times in order to ensure a comfortable and interesting lifestyle. Other than that, I taught, I played checkers, and crokinole. I took in the sights and sounds of the day. I even made sure to travel south to hear Joplin playing live in halls & saloons.
But always...always in the back of my mind were those horrible events of that fateful day. Even decades later, I would go to sleep at night, and replay it in my mind, and awake in a cold sweat only to realize that other than attempting to send messages to myself in the future, there was little that I could in fact do to help rescue my 11 year old self. I had become caught in this time, like a fly in ointment. And while I have been able to find some peace here, there was always the part of my mind that reminded me of my failure.
As time passed, I began to think. Hard. Because as a youngster, my heroes of fiction were those intelligent men who always had a plan. The Batman always planned for the worst, with contingencies in place. Sherlock Holmes always reasoned out the way events would and could have unfolded, given the proper clues and observations.
I asked myself this: what would MY plan have been, if I were stuck in the past? How would I have prepared for such an emergency?
I began to visit places. Places where I had traveled to in the past, or places where I had resided in the future. Places of personal importance and significance. My hope was that I might have left some clue for myself, some piece of machinery, anything hidden away. But always, there was nothing. I traveled, for example, to the future location of my childhood home in Whitby, ON. Armed with a primitive metal detector, I searched the orchard for any sign of future artifacts, only to find nothing.
I traveled to Guelph and checked around some of my future haunts. Though I found nothing, it was there that I first noticed the scrawled figure on a stone wall in the cellar. It read XXIII. I did not think much of this, until one day I noticed it again during my searches in Philadelphia. There, by the side of the pike that would one day become Lincoln Drive, in a stone carved recess, I saw the figure again - XXIII.
More and more, as I tried to recall the important places I'd visited in my younger days in the 20th century, more and more I saw that image. Always XXIII.
And suddenly, a candle was lit in my mind. I understood its significance.
The kidnapper of my 11 year old self was indeed my 23 year old self. XXIII. 23.
I (23) was clearly thinking along the same lines. 23 was visiting the same places that I would have thought of as temporal safe houses for stashing equipment to aid my return to the future. Many of these places were sacred to my childhood, so it makes sense that 23 would know them. I do not know how he was able to figure out ones that became special after that age, but somehow, he had.
It seemed my quest to find a way to save myself was at an impasse. After all these years of being trapped in the late 19th century, I was no closer to having a solution. I was ready to give up.
But then, I remembered the unspoken mantra of so many of my heroes: always have a plan.
So, as I place this pristine copy of "The Expert at the Card Table" onto the shelf for the last time, I have done one thing that I hope will ensure its safe keeping. I have taken the dust jacket from "Pneumatic Engineering and its Applications" and placed it over this book. Now it should blend in with the rest of them, camoflauged for the years to come.
Always have a plan.
(page 2 of this letter will be scanned in shortly - Editor)
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Jedi, meet Joplin
Not a time travel post. I figure with the direction that is going in, you can expect about 1 per week. I'm working on the next one.
I was searching for ragtime on Youtube and came across this, it's quite good & fun:
I was searching for ragtime on Youtube and came across this, it's quite good & fun:
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A letter from 1915
What follows is not in fact a constabulary report, but rather a letter written by the man in the photograph.
My dear William,
Charles Harbottle is still the name that I was given at birth, though if I were to be thorough, I would include the name Thaddeus and also Scott betwixt the two. Of course, an introduction such as this is not really necessary. You are, my cousin, reading my recollection of a series of minor but strange events.
I am still, in fact, a citizen of the British Empire. Wales, to be precise. I shall not comment on any political affiliation one way or another - I was born there, and hope to die there someday, though none too soon. It has been a number of years since I last wrote to you, and I thought that perhaps now might be the time to do so.
Events being what they are, I have been serving out my time as a constable in Cape Town, in the Southern most portion of the continent of Africa. My duties as an officer of the law have taken me to various portions of the world. This one is certainly one of the greater adventures of my life. There is wealth to be had from the hills, and diamond mines are the main source. However, this is not why I have written you.
I write now to tell you of a man I met several weeks back. He was old, quite old. The name that he gave was that of Mr. George Herbert. His accent was strange to my ear. He stated that he was in fact Canadian. I have not met many Canadians before, so I was pleased to make his acquaintance. Mr. Herbert had booked a room in one of the local hotels in Cape Town. I met him at the hotel bar one night. It was a fortunate meeting, for as it turns out, we both are fond of fine American bourbon - a vice which I picked up on one of my foreign postings.
I naturally inquired as to the reason for Herbert's visit. He stated that being a historian of sorts, he intended to make an expedition to one of our local islands. As he said the word local, he stated it with a sort of humour in his voice. I asked him which Island, and he confounded me by saying "Tristan da Cunha".
I know that in your line of work, you are quite familiar with geography, so you will of course understand that the island of Tristan da Cunha is not close to Cape Town. In fact, it is not close to anything. It is often referred to around these parts as the remotest of the remote. It is a small island, with a very small population who subside entirely by farming & fishing. To be frank, life there would be harsh, bleak and backbreaking.
Herbert explained that as a historian, he had an interest in tracing the lineage of the Tristanians firsthand. He wished to interview and document their stories and history. He was in luck, as a ship was going to be sailing out in 2 weeks from Cape Town to the island to bring medicine and supplies. Within a month, it would be unlikely that any ships would be able to sail there for quite a long while, due to the weather and rough seas we see at this time of year.
I introduced Mr Herbert to the captain of the Hermes. Captain Glass had made the run to the islands for over 20 years. He was unprepared to accept a passenger to the island until Herbert told him to "name his sum". The Captain thought about it and named a rather exorbitant price. Herbert pulled out a bag and paid the man in gold, with a 10% bonus. Glass pocketed the coinage and told Herbert to be dockside in 2 days, at 6 a.m.. The voyage would take several weeks.
I dined with Mr. Herbert the night before his departure. Again, we shared the better portion of a bottle of fine Bourbon. I inquired as to the nature of his expedition but was met with vagueness. My confusion was this: the island of Tristan da Cunha, while fascinating in a remote sort of way, was not that old in terms of its inhabitants. I failed to understand what significance it would hold for a historian. The other thing that was confounding me was the fact that Herbert had very little in the way of belongings. It seemed to me that a historian, traveling from one side of the world to other, would have brought steamer trunks and valises containing an array of clothing for all seasons - boots, jackets, trousers and so forth. And what of the books? Surely a historian would need to carry several volumes worth of reference materials and notebooks for his research. But Herbert carried only one small suitcase. It did not make sense.
I should state clearly that it is not that I did not trust George Herbert. On the contrary, I trusted him completely. In my line of work, I have learned over the years to size a man up within seconds of meeting him. It matters not the shape, size, race or religion to me. I can look into a man's eyes and see it there as plain as the nose on your face. Herbert had it. Though he was not being entirely truthful, he was an honest and trustworthy man, capable of little or no malice. To this end, I did not pry into his real reasons for boarding that ship and heading off to one of the remotest places in this world.
Instead, I simply stood on pier and shook his hand that morning at dawn. I told him to look me up again whenever he decided to book passage back to Cape Town. He told me he would, but there was hesitation in his voice. I know not why, but I do know one thing.
George Herbert did not intend to return from Tristan da Cunha. This was to be a one way trip. I doubt that I will ever know what his reasons were for traveling across the globe.
I only wish him well, and hope that he finds whatever it is he is searching for.
That is all for now, my cousin. I promised you that this correspondence would be brief. I fear that I may have misled you. I hope that you will forgive me.
Please give my love to Addy and the boys.
I remain
your cousin,
Charles Harbottle
P.S.: I hope that you will show the photograph that I have included to your family.
My dear William,
Charles Harbottle is still the name that I was given at birth, though if I were to be thorough, I would include the name Thaddeus and also Scott betwixt the two. Of course, an introduction such as this is not really necessary. You are, my cousin, reading my recollection of a series of minor but strange events.
I am still, in fact, a citizen of the British Empire. Wales, to be precise. I shall not comment on any political affiliation one way or another - I was born there, and hope to die there someday, though none too soon. It has been a number of years since I last wrote to you, and I thought that perhaps now might be the time to do so.
Events being what they are, I have been serving out my time as a constable in Cape Town, in the Southern most portion of the continent of Africa. My duties as an officer of the law have taken me to various portions of the world. This one is certainly one of the greater adventures of my life. There is wealth to be had from the hills, and diamond mines are the main source. However, this is not why I have written you.
I write now to tell you of a man I met several weeks back. He was old, quite old. The name that he gave was that of Mr. George Herbert. His accent was strange to my ear. He stated that he was in fact Canadian. I have not met many Canadians before, so I was pleased to make his acquaintance. Mr. Herbert had booked a room in one of the local hotels in Cape Town. I met him at the hotel bar one night. It was a fortunate meeting, for as it turns out, we both are fond of fine American bourbon - a vice which I picked up on one of my foreign postings.
I naturally inquired as to the reason for Herbert's visit. He stated that being a historian of sorts, he intended to make an expedition to one of our local islands. As he said the word local, he stated it with a sort of humour in his voice. I asked him which Island, and he confounded me by saying "Tristan da Cunha".
I know that in your line of work, you are quite familiar with geography, so you will of course understand that the island of Tristan da Cunha is not close to Cape Town. In fact, it is not close to anything. It is often referred to around these parts as the remotest of the remote. It is a small island, with a very small population who subside entirely by farming & fishing. To be frank, life there would be harsh, bleak and backbreaking.
Herbert explained that as a historian, he had an interest in tracing the lineage of the Tristanians firsthand. He wished to interview and document their stories and history. He was in luck, as a ship was going to be sailing out in 2 weeks from Cape Town to the island to bring medicine and supplies. Within a month, it would be unlikely that any ships would be able to sail there for quite a long while, due to the weather and rough seas we see at this time of year.
I introduced Mr Herbert to the captain of the Hermes. Captain Glass had made the run to the islands for over 20 years. He was unprepared to accept a passenger to the island until Herbert told him to "name his sum". The Captain thought about it and named a rather exorbitant price. Herbert pulled out a bag and paid the man in gold, with a 10% bonus. Glass pocketed the coinage and told Herbert to be dockside in 2 days, at 6 a.m.. The voyage would take several weeks.
I dined with Mr. Herbert the night before his departure. Again, we shared the better portion of a bottle of fine Bourbon. I inquired as to the nature of his expedition but was met with vagueness. My confusion was this: the island of Tristan da Cunha, while fascinating in a remote sort of way, was not that old in terms of its inhabitants. I failed to understand what significance it would hold for a historian. The other thing that was confounding me was the fact that Herbert had very little in the way of belongings. It seemed to me that a historian, traveling from one side of the world to other, would have brought steamer trunks and valises containing an array of clothing for all seasons - boots, jackets, trousers and so forth. And what of the books? Surely a historian would need to carry several volumes worth of reference materials and notebooks for his research. But Herbert carried only one small suitcase. It did not make sense.
I should state clearly that it is not that I did not trust George Herbert. On the contrary, I trusted him completely. In my line of work, I have learned over the years to size a man up within seconds of meeting him. It matters not the shape, size, race or religion to me. I can look into a man's eyes and see it there as plain as the nose on your face. Herbert had it. Though he was not being entirely truthful, he was an honest and trustworthy man, capable of little or no malice. To this end, I did not pry into his real reasons for boarding that ship and heading off to one of the remotest places in this world.
Instead, I simply stood on pier and shook his hand that morning at dawn. I told him to look me up again whenever he decided to book passage back to Cape Town. He told me he would, but there was hesitation in his voice. I know not why, but I do know one thing.
George Herbert did not intend to return from Tristan da Cunha. This was to be a one way trip. I doubt that I will ever know what his reasons were for traveling across the globe.
I only wish him well, and hope that he finds whatever it is he is searching for.
That is all for now, my cousin. I promised you that this correspondence would be brief. I fear that I may have misled you. I hope that you will forgive me.
Please give my love to Addy and the boys.
I remain
your cousin,
Charles Harbottle
P.S.: I hope that you will show the photograph that I have included to your family.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Constable Charles Harbottle
Pictured here is Constable Charles Harbottle, circa 1914. Constabulary Report to follow
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Real time update
If i can step outside of my current tone of posting for a moment, i will speak to you of what is currently going on in my life. But only for a moment.
As many of you know, i quit my job over a year ago to go back to Teacher's College. I got my B.Ed, and i don't think i'm violating any union rules by stating that the market is very dry right now. There is very little teaching employment opportunity in this part of the world. To that end, i am currently volunteering as much as i possibly can in a variety of schools. I'm doing this to gain more experience & make contacts. I have been enjoying my time at these schools very much and appreciate the wisdom & guidance of the teachers & staff. I am quite grateful for it.
Musically, i've not been doing a lot other than the (phenomenally fun) Prom Band gig we did a couple of weeks back. We worked very hard to do an all Michael Jackson tribute nite - 15 fantastic pop hits, done as faithfully as we could. It was a huge challenge and i think we did it very well. There are all sorts of clips up on Youtube.
I know that some folks have been reading the time travel journals and have told me that they've been enjoying them. This is my first foray into any sort of actual non-blog writing, sci-fi or otherwise. I apologize that it is taking me so long to post things right now - i've been quite busy due to the info in the above paragraph. I do have a plan as to where the journals will be going and will post more as time permits. Oh, and of course they are real and not fiction. Don't be preposterous!
Also i have 2 nephews. Which is awesome.
OK, we now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
As many of you know, i quit my job over a year ago to go back to Teacher's College. I got my B.Ed, and i don't think i'm violating any union rules by stating that the market is very dry right now. There is very little teaching employment opportunity in this part of the world. To that end, i am currently volunteering as much as i possibly can in a variety of schools. I'm doing this to gain more experience & make contacts. I have been enjoying my time at these schools very much and appreciate the wisdom & guidance of the teachers & staff. I am quite grateful for it.
Musically, i've not been doing a lot other than the (phenomenally fun) Prom Band gig we did a couple of weeks back. We worked very hard to do an all Michael Jackson tribute nite - 15 fantastic pop hits, done as faithfully as we could. It was a huge challenge and i think we did it very well. There are all sorts of clips up on Youtube.
I know that some folks have been reading the time travel journals and have told me that they've been enjoying them. This is my first foray into any sort of actual non-blog writing, sci-fi or otherwise. I apologize that it is taking me so long to post things right now - i've been quite busy due to the info in the above paragraph. I do have a plan as to where the journals will be going and will post more as time permits. Oh, and of course they are real and not fiction. Don't be preposterous!
Also i have 2 nephews. Which is awesome.
OK, we now return you to your regularly scheduled program.
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