His

His

Synopsis: A man who wakes in the middle of the night finds three police officers outside.

 

His

[A man walks in stumbling to a bed. Falls face first into the cushions.]

 

Cracking his eyes open, he looks at the clock. A glance at the bright light shows 2:00am. Ugh. It’s too cold. This house is ancient. It doesn’t have much insulation. With a comforter fit only for a king, he rolls away from his clock. Tucking in snugly, he brings his eyes to a halt and brain to a rest. His head hits the pillow. Back to dreamland. With fatigued muscles, he slowly fades. His heartbeat slows. Deeper breaths begin. The room is quiet. He feels safe again. Beginning the countdown. One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-…but through his eyelids, he random colors pulsate. Vibrant. Dull. Vibrant. 

 

He opens his eyes, again. Blue and red lights flash on the ceiling and wall. It is something he shouldn’t ignore. Unwrapping himself from the luxuries of his California King size bed, he rolls out of bed. His wrist hurts from the day before and winces when he gets up. A sharp pain hits him. His bare feet hit the wooden floor: it feels like he stepped on to a sheet of ice. Chills up his spine, he moves for the slippers next to the doorway. Walking to the front of the house – wrapped in blanket – he moves by memory; it was too dark to see objects in front of him. His eyes haven’t adjusted yet. One step here. Two to the left. No. Right. Four straight ahead and…one to the right. Reaching the front door, he hears a squeak that isn’t from him. The house again.

 

He opens the door and cold wind rushes in. A jerk reaction, he slams the door, loudly. But his curiosity continues. He drags his feet to the closet and rummages through the clutter to find a parka and scarf. But boots, where are the boots? Turning around, he sees they’re next to the back door. Ah. Yes. Gliding over, he grabs the boots and prepares to go outside. He opens the front door again. Bearable. A blanket of white covers the lawn with two pairs of footprints coming towards the house, and one leaving. Moonlight illuminates the block. He peers around the corner of his house and sees three state trooper police cars parked outside. He walks to the side yard; his skin tightens from the cold. Blood comes rushing back to his body and extremities stiffen. Movement becomes tough, again. His hands go to opposite shoulders to try and keep warm. Every other step involves breathing into his hands for more warmth. He sees sets of footprints leading to the backyard and rushes back inside for safety. 

 

A warm glass of milk to calm the nerves. He stumbles towards the kitchen. He needs the light to see where he’s going now. No use in trying to remember in this darkness. Reaching for the milk, he pours it into a cup and turns on the microwave. A second creak came from around the corner of the other hallway. Thinking nothing of it, he walks back towards the backyard to see what was happening. The room becomes cold. There must have been a draft in the room tonight. The milk is ready. He sees three officers are looking around the yard and checking for something. For what, he didn’t know. He doesn’t want to anymore. He just missed his bed. Closing the microwave door, he takes a sip.

 

He begins to ask questions to himself. What’s wrong? Why would the officers be outside in the backyard? What happened? Thoughts flash through his mind. A loud crash of broken glass and a door swings open hitting the wall. He runs to the sanctity of his bed, dropping the cup and spilling his drink. Officers yell for him to stop. He closes the door and prays to remain unseen. Steps on that creaky floor get louder as they get closer. His heart races with each beat becoming indistinguishable from the previous. A knock on his door asks if he’s all right. He is, but he’s unstable. A voice yells from the other side of the house, “Clear over here.” The door swings open and only one of the officers rushes in.

 

“You’re under arrest for trespassing and breaking and entering.”

 

The officer grabs at his wrists and turns him around. Pain shoots through his veins. Words start to blend into inaudible sounds.

 

“You have the righttoremainsilent…”

 

His gaze becomes confused as he searches for answers. Walking towards the back of the cop car, he looks back to see a family of four on looking from the front door of his house.

The Infinite Circumference

Dr. Evan Mallet and Dr. Justin Stockum have been best friends for seven years. Seven long, long years, with an uncountable amount hours logged in the lab. They worked at California Institute of Technology where they received a grant in theoretical physics to test for the possibilities of time travel. Seven years ago, they came up with the equation, an equation too long and too confusing to say.

 

“It’s almost finished, Justin. A few more adjustments and we’ll be ready for the initial tests.”

 

That day seven years ago – when Justin was hit with a bit of brilliance and sickness at the same time – was when he figured out time travel, figuratively speaking.

 

“Fantastic.”

 

It almost seemed out of the blue seven years ago; Justin looked like he lost consciousness for about twenty seconds, but snapped out of it and waddled as fast as he could to the restroom panting and crying “Oh. Gosh. Oh. Gosh.” Evan didn’t know what to think of the situation. He sat there waiting–patiently–asking if Justin was all right. When he finally returned to the lab, Justin had figured out the equation – all the math checked out.

 

“Alright. I believe it’s ready, Justin. Go ahead. Install the Central Fusel Lodge.”

 

“I think we should test out an apple first. I’ll put one in the machine. AH. I’m just so giddy, it’s so wonderful to see this day finally come,” said Justin. He always had been ahead of the curve compared to Evan. Evan was never jealous–he understood Justin was brilliant–but he was disappointed it was not he who created the equation for time travel. When news had broken out about the equation, celebrations were held in their honor; Justin, however, received a tad more credit. The Stockum-Mallet Paradigm – that’s what it became known as, what the world knew it as – it could have been The Mallet-Stockum Theorem, if only Evan solved it.

 

“The apple is in place. Goggles secured, Evan. Three. Two. …One.”

 

A flash was seen. White noise encapsulated the room and echoed a couple seconds.

 

“It’s …gone. It's gone. Evan. Do you know what this means!?

We’ve figured it out. We've actually figured out time travel,” Justin exclaimed.

 

“Let’s try another object. What should we try next?” Evan questioned as he examined the room.

 

“A chair. My chair.” Justin stated.

 

He grabbed his chair, wheeled it over to the machine, and quickly ran back to a safe distance.

 

Three. Two. One.

 

A flash. White noise encapsulated the room and echoed a couple seconds. Nothing was seen in the machine. It was empty, again.

 

“Okay, Evan. I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for this day – mentally preparing for it. You can’t change my mind. I’m going to go back in time myself. This process is not going to take us seven years, again. Maybe it’ll only take three with my knowledge of the failures and accomplishments we’ve had. Today has been a momentous day for science, Evan.”

 

“I’ll see you in the past.”

 

Justin walked over to the machine, stood there nervously, praying he’d be alright. Evan gave a final salute and pushed the button.

 

Three. Two. One.

 

The flash blinds him. White noise echoes in his head for a couple seconds. His sight fills black and his sense of balance is naught as he hears Evan say, “Are you all right, Justin? Come now, we’re so close. We just have to account for a few anomalies here, and a few other variables. Looks like we could have this done by the end of the year.”

 

Justin comes to and claims, “Oh. Gosh. Oh. Gosh.” His hand covers his mouth as he runs toward the bathroom. Minutes pass by as he hears Evan talking through the door making sure he is, in fact, okay. With his hands wiping away at his mouth, he opens the door, walks toward the whiteboard and writes down some information. Evan looks at what Justin wrote, ponders and does some quick calculations.  “No. Wait. Yes. Okay, now this. Alri…it works. Justin. How’d you fix the equation so quickly?”

 

“I don’t…know. I’m not entirely too sure. That moment I dazed off, something happened to me. My eyes filled black. I felt…cold, but I wasn’t cold–if that makes any sense. I just, I…I don’t know. It just came to me, I guess,” Justin stammers.

 

 

Untitled

Synopsis: A man's vision while stuck in a hospital bed
(Length: 493 Words)

Death constantly surrounds me. The doctors have a persistent eye on me, but they never speak to me. Apparently, my story fascinates them. I have no idea what’s wrong with me. I was in the mountains and woke up to find myself in a hospital bed. They talk about me quite a bit. The jargon makes it impossible for me to understand, but I know it’s about me. It’s always about me. I do not like this situation.

They leave me to my thoughts. I lie in my bed, while chaos surrounds me in the ward. A nurse visits and tries conversing with me. I think her name is Nurse Sharon.Sharon has a mole that looks like a guinea pig took a permanent shit on her nostril, with ungodly teeth that spray out in all directions. She has raggedy brown hair and personal hygiene that resembles a “survival-guide” TV show host after they’ve been “lost” for a month. Her hands are the size of watermelons, with fingers that move like centipedes. Something is clearly wrong, but I do not want to be insensitive to her situation. ­­­

Speaking with the Sharon is more like a one-way gossip talk rather than an actual conversation. I have no choice in the matter, really, other than to listen. Just listen and listen and listen. I’m scared to talk to her. For some reason she confides in me the most secret of her wants, needs and desires – thinking I’m safe from telling a soul. Right now, she’s telling me how much she loves a resident doctor here – saying he looks like a cross between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling with a personality similar to Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Psh. Sure he does. I don’t have the heart to tell her I prefer the silence to her talking and just want her to shut up about the trivial matters in her life.

I look out my window to break the conversation with the Sharon and see a marathon running alongside my third-story window. There’s a British trapeze artist who is entertaining the public with pygmy-elephants in the street and drinking tea. There’s also a group of primates breakdance-fighting beside my windowsill. Maybe the circus is in town. I look around the room to see anyone else’s reaction to the oddities outside. There are no reactions. I yell for them, but they hear nothing. I scream for any response, yet there’s silence all around me.

I’m retreating within myself. Something is obviously not right. My movement is beginning to tighten and my senses are failing. I lie back down into my bed to catch myself, but I never hit the bed. I continue to fall and the lights get dimmer. Weightlessness never felt so heavy. No one can hear me bawl out in fear. The darkness is closing in. Nothing feels right to me.