Time Travel Stories

Tea For the ChosenTwo

3/21/2023

I hated to touch the little cup and saucer.
The fear of breaking it was always in the back of my mind, but my morning wasn’t complete without a cup of tea from the little cup. The little figure on the cup that watched me seep my tea and gently pour it into its cup every morning seemed to be beckoning me somehow.
Many times during the day, I would stop what I was doing and delicately pick up the cup and stare at the pictures glazed into the finish.
“Who are you?” I’d asked the figure. Of course, painted figures a half-inch tall can’t talk. But in my mind, I wondered what they would say.
I knew the cup’s history, age, and even where it was made. That only added to the mysticism of the cup.
One morning while I was contemplating my morning tea. I glanced at the little figure as I put the cup down. It wasn’t right. She had moved. Every so slightly, but she wasn’t where she had been. Finishing my tea quickly, I took the cup to the kitchen window, where the light was best.
With the morning sun coming through the window, I examined her again. She had moved. Then as I watched her, she smiled at me.
“No, this can’t be right. Porcelain cups do not smile at you.” I shook his head and looked again. She was still smiling and turned to face me. One small hand lifted, and she motioned for me to come closer to her.
My face was already barely an inch from the cup. Without warning, I felt a sensation course through my body like nothing else I’d experienced—the feeling of being lighter than air and nothingness that I couldn’t explain. I blinked once, and I was standing next to the red-robed lady.
She was short, her black hair perfectly coiffed, and the red robe made her look rounder than she was. My modern clothes seemed out of place, but she did not notice.
A nod had me following her to the familiar shed with the green tile roof I knew from the cup. We passed a field of rice harvested by a man, exactly like another image on the cup.
Tables loaded with various flowers in vases and pots fill the shed. Women and men milled around the inside, carrying pots, gardening tools, or observing. Everyone seemed in their own world and paid no attention to me. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not. Yet.
I followed the red-robed woman through the shed and out the back onto a small path that led up a gentle slope to a small house. She seemed in no hurry, taking her time, which gave me a chance to try to take in my new surroundings. A narrow strip of well-worn gravel made up the path. Along either side was a neat row of miniature flowers I didn’t recognize. About halfway to the building, a narrow stream meandered through the lawn. Along the stream bank, I noticed rocks in various places to outline features and fill space, reminding me of rock gardens I’d seen.

The red-lacquered wooden bridge that crossed the creek was large, arching high in the center, and rose above a pond created by the stream. Six posts with carved knobs on top supported the arched railing. The stained brown deck planking was worn in the center by traffic over the years. I paused in the middle of the bridge to take in the calm that seemed to ooze from the environment. Breathing deeply, I took in the fresh air fragranced by the lush flowers and looked around slowly. The Lilies covered the pond, and golden fish swam in the green water.
I felt a stare drilling into me. Startled, I returned my attention to the far end of the bridge where the red-robed lady stood, glaring at me. She said nothing, but her look told me I’d spent too long on the bridge. I hurried the last few steps to catch up with her.
We made our way to the stone building that stood on the rise behind the outbuildings. Windchimes hanging from an ornate overhang above the doorway jingled lightly in the breeze. A pair of stone dragons guarded the front door, each with its head raised and mouth open with large teeth daring anyone to challenge them. Stone or not, I wasn’t about to question their authority. Without a word, she opened the door and stepped inside, motioning me to follow her.
I had barely been in this world for five minutes, but I was fascinated with Japanese history and culture. I knew there was more to this than a living history lesson, but I couldn’t understand what I was doing here, much less how I got here. Right now, I wanted answers to questions I hadn’t even thought to ask.
The room was larger than I anticipated from the outside. The far wall had a large fireplace in the middle, Its mantle lined with glass vases and ceramic figures. At either end were oil lamps that gave a warm glow, throwing shadows over the mantle.
As the door closed, I took in the rest of the room. Several large pillows dotted the floor, and low tables, also with lamps, sat near them. The window on one side threw a shaft of light that bathed the center of the room in an almost fake whiteness.
An old man sat in a chair near the fireplace and immediately drew my attention. What I could see of the chair was wood, with ornate carving in the arms and legs. A red velvet cushion peeked out from around the tops of his shoulders. He wore a silk robe decorated with dragons and flowers. I noticed the dragons had an unusual number of claws, reminding me of something I’d read before. The number of claws indicated their station in life—the more claws, the higher the station.
I didn’t have time to count them as the robed lady motioned me to the center of the room. Facing the old man, I admit that I was nervous. Until that moment, the entire series of events in the last few minutes had seemed like a dream, a fairy tale. But now, standing here before this grizzled old man, with the foo man choo mustache that hung past his chin and the bald head covered by a silk cap, scared me shitless.
The red-robed lady knelt on the nearest pillow and looked back and forth between us as if to say, “Well?” I glanced between them and wondered the same thing.
The old man seemed to have found some energy as he looked up at me, and a thin smile crossed his face as his eyes seemed to light up for a second. A thin bony hand moved surprisingly quickly as it reached for mine. I extended my hand automatically to find his hand cold and stiff, but the sureness of his grip was a pleasant surprise.
“I am Akio, Aka’s father. Aka, tells me you’ve been studying our culture.” His voice was quiet and unassuming, but I sensed a deep power under it.
This wasn’t what I expected. “Yes, sir. I’ve been studying your history and culture for ages.”
He held up a cup identical to the one I’d been using for my morning tea.
“Aka has been watching you for years.”
The meaning was clear. I glanced back and forth between them, not sure what to say.
“You are not married?” it was more of a statement than a question. I nodded yes.
“Aka would like you to be her husband.”
I stood in a small cottage in a faraway place in an even farther away time and offered to marry a woman who had been dead for three hundred years. I stood there looking back and forth between them and the teacup in his hand.
Aka spoke. “Father, may I take him and talk to him?” He nodded yes, as he set the cup on the table.
She took my hand and steered me back to the front door. This time she was much more gentle and less formidable than the lady I’d met only a few minutes ago.
I followed to a gazebo that sat along the stream. A thousand questions ran through my mind, but none had answers. What she had told her father about me was true.
I had been studying Japanese history and culture for decades and collected many original pieces of their china and art. I thought I knew quite a bit about their social structure and culture, but this surprised me even more.
The whole time traveling through a teacup was scary enough, but this was something else again.
As I followed her to the gazebo, I felt my tension ease. There was something relaxing about being here. I knew I didn’t belong in this time and place, but it seemed natural to be here. There had to be a reason for me to be here.
We sat opposite each other on curved benches as the sun shone from the west. Neither of us spoke for a time. I studied Aka. She had twisted her black hair into a bun and applied light berry stain to her lips, highlighting her smile. Her red robe covered most of her body and made it hard to tell exactly how she looked. But she appeared more petite than the robe made her look.
Aka seemed calm as she sat and looked past me to the house and back at me. I wasn’t sure what to say, but I had to say something. “Aka, can you tell me what is happening?”
She looked down at her hands, then past me toward the gate. “I had visions of you and your house. I watched you make your tea in the morning, and when you took your cup into the other rooms, I saw your world.” She tailed off.
“Aka, these visions, when did you have them? When did they start?”
“I’m not sure. I think they started in my dreams. I dreamed about you making coffee and tea, and I remembered seeing you with other people. I didn’t like it when you had other girls there.”
That last statement surprised me. It must have surprised her, too, as she turned red and looked down. I felt myself turn red. I’d had a string of girlfriends over the last few years, but none serious. She’d seen them. I felt embarrassed at the thought of someone else seeing my private world—even a girl from three hundred years before I was born. I thought about all the times I’d taken my tea into my bedroom and turned even redder. Unconsciously I reached for her hand and gently held it. She didn’t move it or tell me to let go.
We talked for a while as she told me how her dreams had become more frequent and vivid. Now she had visions even when she was awake. She had told her father of the visions, and he had explained that sometimes the gods choose someone, not from our time for us. He had only heard legends of it happening until now.
She had prayed to her gods about the vision. This morning she woke up feeling peaceful and knew today was the day. So she’d put on her best robes and waited at the spot in the picture.
I told her about the smiling and waving of her now-held hand. She told me there had been a flash of light from the west, and I was here.
“Your father said you would like to marry me.” She bowed her head and nodded yes. “You don’t know me, only what you’ve seen from the teacup. My world is completely different from yours. Just as you would not be happy in my world, How can I be happy here, in this world? I do not understand your customs or cultures. How would your people respond to me, to us?”
Aka looked up and me, her big brown eyes pleading with me. “You must.!”
“What about my returning to my world?”
“There is no returning. Once the Gods have brought you here….”
~~~
The next several months became a blur as I settled into my new life. I met the village elders, and when Her father introduced me, they bowed respectfully and said nothing of my evident western heritage. I had started wearing traditional Japanese clothes by then, so I fit in better. Somehow I instinctively understood the language. I spoke and heard English in my mind, but they seemed to hear Japanese. Whatever the Gods did, it worked.
As I spent time with Aka and got to know her and her life in 1700 Japan, I found life here was simple and challenging and much more physical than I had ever had to be. But It also felt good. I still hadn’t consented to marry Aka, so I lived in a separate cottage on the property. It dawned on me slowly that I was much happier here in ancient Japan than I had been in the twenty-first century with all of its modern convinces.
One day I blurted out. “Aka. Do you still want to marry me?”
Her big brown eyes grew large, and her grin spread wider as she shouted.” Yes!”
The weeks leading up to the wedding were busy. As Aka’s mother was no longer with us, other female members of her family took on the traditional role her mother would have. I spent more time with Akio learning my role in a traditional Japanese wedding.
But it was not to be.
~~~
I picked up the teacup and gazed at Aka’s image. She had been beautiful, kind, and loving, but she had been wrong.
The same gods that sent me to her chose at the last minute to take me away from her. As the priest was about to pronounce us husband and wife, dark clouds gathered rapidly, and a brilliant flash of light blinded everyone. At that moment, the same feeling of nothingness that brought me to her returned me to my world.
My kitchen was as I’d left it. According to the clock on the wall, only a few minutes had passed, but I knew differently. I was different.
I spent the rest of my life continuing my collection of Japanese art and china, as it kept my time with Aka fresh in my mind. I never married. No one could compare to my Aka.

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Rewind

5/26/2022

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The sound of a distant lawnmower woke him. He stretched as he untangled himself from the couch where he’d fallen asleep. A glance at his watch revealed it was well past noon.
Shaking the cobwebs from his brain, he sensed something was off—but what? Everything looked just as it always had. Even his favorite chair was where it should be, along with the coffee table he almost tripped over when he stood up. But it was different, and he couldn’t figure out why.
Jason Kline inherited the small three-bedroom house from his parents, who bought it new seven years after his father had returned from the war. Many families moved into the neighborhood at the same time his parents did. Jason and his brother had lived since he was ten and Jeremy, seven years old. He knew everyone in the neighborhood.
Jason walked into the kitchen to get coffee and noticed the kitchen wall next to the hallway. It took him a second to realize what was missing and when he did, his heart raced. The marks were gone. As they grew up, their parents had marked their height on that wall. The marks, left as a fond memory, were gone and appeared freshly painted.
He muttered, “What the hell?” Jason went from room to room, tamping down panic, as he noted familiar items of his were missing and the antiques inherited from his family looked brand new. He needed air and fled out the front door, stopping in his tracks.
The porch swing hung from a rafter as it always had, but the chains were shiny, the white paint pristine, not worn as it should be. He stood still, listening to the sounds from the neighborhood—the laughter of small children, the sound of an old lawnmower, and barking dogs, not the sounds of his neighborhood where everyone was retired.
His breathing came in shallow gasps as he turned toward the street. Instead of a neat row of seventy-year-old plus maple and oak trees shading a row of postwar cottages, he found the same houses with fresh paint, newly sowed lawns, and sapling trees staked for support.
The lawn he mowed yesterday was now a patchwork of grass and dirt. The smell of freshly cut lumber mixed with new construction sounds and the rumble of antique trucks passing by. Jason grabbed the arm of the swing and sat before he collapsed. This was the same house—just a younger version of it.
Across the street, children around five or six years old played in the yard. They were familiar, Julie and Tommy Burns. He had known them all his life. Two houses down, Mr. Rigby, looking no older than twenty-five, was mowing his yard. He had moved in before his family did, and his yard had grown lush. The sounds of hammers and men yelling drifted from down the street. A house he knew would fill with more friends.
He closed his eyes, repeatedly muttering, “Think. Think,” and tried to remember what he had done this morning before waking up and finding himself in his private twilight zone.
~~~
Jason Kline’s routine rarely varied. He woke up at precisely seven am, and by seven-thirty, he had gotten dressed and had a light breakfast and coffee. He would go for a walk at exactly eight am, turning right onto the sidewalk in his usual route. Jason ventured down the porch steps and looked to his right. Most mornings, Linda Clay was always on her porch picking up the morning paper. She’d wave, and he would half-heartedly wave back. Linda’s house was there, but it lacked the flower garden she had tended for all those years. The bare wood picket fence looked stark against the grass trying to grow next to the newly poured concrete sidewalk. Jason found himself looking at the sidewalk as he walked down the street. Freshly poured and barely dry, the neat lines separating the blocks still showed trowel marks.
He stopped next to a maple tree, touched the trunk, then encircled the trunk with his fingers. He shouldn’t be able to wrap his arms around this tree. The cement block that anchored the sapling was pristine, but he knew years later that the abandoned block would exist as chunks of concrete nearly buried in the ground.
Jason looked down the street toward the house under construction—Lewis’s home. In a few years, he would meet them when he attended a neighborhood picnic and fell in love with their daughter April.
Jason turned to face his house. It was the same but different. His parents moved into the house as newlyweds, raised him and his brother, and lived there until both died.
He turned and went back into the house. Nothing felt right. He wandered around the house until he passed a bookcase and spotted the family photo albums. Maybe they could shed some light on his predicament.
He returned to the living room, where he noticed the large flat=screen TV was gone and in its place a large old-fashioned radio. What else? He laid the albums on the coffee table, sank onto the couch, and opened the top album.
For an hour, he flipped through the pages of the photo albums. Some pictures he remembered seeing all his life, but photos from most of his life were missing. He found a photo of the street and yard, taken from the front porch. Rushing outside, he compared the photo to the view in front of him. It was the same. The photo was dated April, the year he was ten years old.
A chill rand down his spine. What was going on? Why was his world suddenly back in nineteen fifty-two? Jason heard a noise behind him. Turning, he recognized a much younger version of Linda Clay, no more than twenty-one, walking up the street with a basket of flowers.
“Jay-Jay, why aren’t you at school? “
No one had called Jason “Jay-Jay” since he was a little kid. He shared his name with his father, and he was called Jay-Jay as a kid.
Linda came up to him and handed him a bunch of flowers. “Give there to your mother, then go to school.”
Jason watched her walk down the sidewalk. He looked at his hands holding his mother’s favorite flowers, bluebells. They were the hands of an adult, yet Linda reacted to him as if he were ten-year-old Jay-Jay.
What was going on?
Shaking, he returned inside and shut the door behind him. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, hoping that his world would return to normal when he opened them. The sound of construction filtered thru the windows. He opened his eyes, but nothing had changed.
The flowers weighed heavy in his hand as he remembered how his mother’s face lit up when he brought her flowers. He sighed and went to the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase. He sat the vase on the windowsill, overlooking the backyard. He saw the swing set he and his brother played on and he went outside.
~~~
Jason was unsure how much time passed as he sat on the swing—a brand new set. His mom and dad loved to sit in the swing on the front step talking to neighbors as they passed by, but he and Jeremy loved their red swing set, especially the slide.
He tried to understand what he was experiencing, but he couldn’t get his head around any of it. The Linda he’d just talked to was not the Linda he’d seen yesterday on his morning walk. This Linda was young, pretty, slender, not old, wrinkled, and slightly plump.
He saw his image in the bathroom mirror when he wandered through the house. He was the same slightly bald man in his late sixties, not the skinny kid Linda saw. She was young again, but he wasn’t. Why? Did he look like a ten-year-old to everyone else? Was everyone else young again? Were the kids playing across the street the kids he grew up with? If they were young, why didn’t he look young to himself? Was everyone in the neighborhood experiencing what he was?
~~~

Hungry, he returned inside and rummaged in the retro looing refrigerator for food. While nothing about his morning was funny, he laughed when he saw a package of bologna—his Dad’s favorite. He made a bologna sandwich and sat at the kitchen table, thinking about what could have triggered this.
He finished his sandwich, put his plate in the sink, and went into the living room. He sat down on the couch where he had awoken to this nightmare. He needed to retrace his steps from the morning.
Everything was blank. He could only remember waking up from a nap on the couch. He picked up a photo album and leafed through it. He remembered something familiar in a photo but what. He searched through the albums as tension rose in him. What had he seen?
Then Jason found the photo—a photo of his father. On his father’s wrist was the gold wristwatch that he wore today. He looked at his wrist. The watch wasn’t there.
He slammed his hand against his forehead. Remember, remember.
The watch… he took it off just before he laid down. The coffee table, he’d put it on the coffee table. Pushing the albums out of the way, he saw it. It looked brand new, shiny, not the patina of old gold that was the watch he wore every day.
Jason picked the watch up and racked his brain, trying to think what he had done. He had unfastened the watch and slipped it from his wrist. Then what? He wound it. It hadn’t been keeping good time, so he wound it. He remembered something his father once told him. Sometimes time had to reset itself. He never paid any attention to that phrase, but somehow, someway, time had reset itself to nineteen-fifty-two.
He stared at the watch. Maybe if he tried to wind the stem the opposite way, he would return himself to his time. His fingertips turned the stem in the opposite direction as he heard the front door open.
Jason looked up to see his father walking into the house. His heart skipped a beat. It had been years since he had seen his father.
“Hi, Jay-Jay.” His father smiled, and as he tossed his hat onto the couch, the room faded.
~~~
The late afternoon sun filtered through the large living room window as Jason woke. Disoriented, he sat upright. What a nightmare, he had been ten again, and the house was different. His father—he’d seen his father.
Then he realized it was holding something, a watch.
His father’s watch—a shiny gold watch.

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Selfie

10/27/2015

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One of the first things she did was take a selfie. Standing outside the store, she had a odd feeling like people weren't seeing her. She stood and watched people walk by for several minutes. They seemed involved in their own little worlds. As she stood there a empty feeling came over, like she didn't exist. Turning around she looked at the picture window behind her. Expecting to see herself staring back at her. All she saw was the inside of the store. Reflections of people walking past her, behind her. But she saw no sign of herself in the window. it was like she didn't exist. At least not to the window. She turned sharply back to the sidewalk. She had to know . If she was invisible. A young couple came along not too far out into the sidewalk. Waiting until the last second before they passed her, She jumped out in front of them. They looked right through her, and kept on walking as if she wasn't there. They walked right through her. She was not only invisible, but had no substance.

The physical sensation of being walked through was electrifying . She felt the static electricity from their bodies go through her body, and for a very brief second, she felt like she was on fire. Than just as quick as it started, it was gone. she turned around and watched the couple continue on as though she was never there. She stood there in shock. The rest of the world seemed to be going by without her.

Slowly she retrieved her new smartphone. Pulling it out she examined the opening screen. Time and date were there alright. Then she looked in the gallery where the picture she'd taken a few minutes ago was stored. There she was staring back at her. But the image didn't seem right. As she watched it for several minutes, transfixed on her eyes, she realized the image was very slowly fading. First the background seemed to be melting into a gray haze. Then her image itself seemed to the be melting. The edges of her hair, appeared to be getting blurry, and before her eyes they seemed to fade into the gray background. She quickly closed the app, and returned to the home screen. At first she didn't notice anything . Then she glanced at the clock . Instead of being 3 minutes later then it was when she opened the gallery to look at her picture, It was 3 minutes earlier. She had just lost 3 minutes of her life.

Looking around she found a bank clock, that displayed the time and temperature. Sure enough her phone was 3 minutes behind the clock. . Opening the camera app on her phone again, she looked around for something to take a picture of . Finely she spotted a discarded pop can sitting on a bench in front of a store.

She raised the camera, noted the exact time she took the picture, actually wrote two times on her hand, one was what the bank clock said, and other was what her phone said. She zoomed in and took a picture of the Pepsi can. Opening the gallery app on her phone she watched the picture and the original can.

She didn't have to wait long. Withing a minute the bench started to fade in her picture. At the same time, the real bench started to loose its density. it seemed to be fading right before her eyes, She reached out to touch it. Her hand went right through it. The Pepsi can was also fading equally fast. Withing another 3 minutes both the real bench and Pepsi can were gone, and the picture on her phone was a gray haze. She watched as the tow of them faded into nothingness. Looking around, No one seemed to notice her or the disappearing bench. She looked at the the two clocks again. The bank clock seemed to be working right It gained another 3 minutes. The clock on her phone had indeed lost another 3 minutes.

The implication of what had happened scared her. She no longer existed as far as the world was concerned. A bench no longer existed, because she took a picture of it. The enormity of what was happening began to sink in. She opened her picture gallery again. Checking the picture of the bench it was completely gone Then her picture. Where there was hair, in the picture, was now a gray haze. Her face was fast disappearing. It now only showed he eyes and nose and mouth in a circle of gray haze. She was just getting used to the idea of being invisible to the world. The bigger question loomed, what would happen when her picture finely faded from the picture entirely. Checking the information bot her picture, It had been 10 minutes since she'd taken her selfie .

As the last pixels of her photo faded into a grey haze that had overtaken her picture she felt herself becoming hyper aware of her surroundings. Her sense of hearing and sight dramatically and sharply increased. Her view of her world changed. from that of a human on a street, in the middle of a town, to a cat's eye view of the world, looking down on earth from outer space. She was conscious of the whole wold, Every living thing seemed to be channeling its thoughts and feeling to her. The impact of the rush of sensations, and emotions was shocking to her system and her mind. She tried to comprehend her new reality.

Then she heard another voice. Clear and quiet , over the cavalcade of thoughts and sounds that was assaulting her mind.

When her mind finely cleared up a bit she was back where she started, sort of. There was the bench with the Pepsi can.

Turning she saw a number of people with smartphones in their hands.

The world looked very similar to the world she'd just left. But , there was one important difference. There was no room for remorse or sorrow. Time runs backwards in this world.

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Going Home On Halloween

10/24/2015

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Old houses have this effect on me. I need to see them. I must go and investigate an old house when I find them. It calls to me, and this particular old house on the outskirts of town had been calling me for quite some time. Finally, I had the chance to go and see it. It was October 31st, Halloween.

Upon arriving, I found the old wrought iron gate hanging open, swinging in the breeze. It was hard to tell where the rust ended and the iron left off. The brick pathway up the porch was almost nonexistent. What few bricks were still there were broken or pushed out of place, and grass and weeds had taken over the whole path and lawn—judging from what I could see of the property in the moonlight—weeds.

Reaching the porch, I found it to be about what I expected, the steps crocked from sinking into the ground. When I finally arrived at the top, the porch planks were damaged, primarily bare wood, the paint worn by traffic and weather. Many of the remaining planks had rotted to their center. All in all, the porch was a dangerous place to be. How the porch roof was still standing was a mystery of its own.

After carefully navigating the porch, I found the front door. With my powerful flashlight, I examined the door, which, at one time, had been a handsome door with a stained glass window and brass hardware. Now the glass was gone, save a few pieces around the edge. The brass doorknob hung loosely in the door. Jiggling it a bit, I managed to get it to work.

With several loud creaks and moans, the door slowly swung open. Inside the house, dust and cobwebs assaulted me as I pushed the door open enough to slip inside. Standing in the door frame, I waited a second. Using the flashlight, I looked around the room. Satisfied it didn’t look immediately dangerous, I carefully stepped further into the entrance hall.

Entering the room was essentially stepping back in time. The furnishings were of the late 1800s, Victorian, as near as I could tell. As I began to get a little more comfortable being in the room and started walking around, I started feeling at home. Then I seemed to feel a presence with me. Looking around behind m, I found a gentleman standing n the hallway entrance.

He was old. The suit was formal, complete with a morning coat. He stood tall and stiff as if he’d been standing like that for decades.

“May I help you, Sir?” he inquired.

Whether he was surprised to see me or not, I couldn’t tell, but I was shocked to see him standing in an old abandoned house.

“I have been admiring this house for a long time and had time today to take a look. May I ask who you are?”

“I am the butler, Sir. With your permission,” he said as he lit an oil lamp on the table. “You should be able to see better now, my.”

Upon the light coming on, I could see the rest of the room—a typical Victorian house.

“It is late, Sir? I’ll turn down your bed.”

It was as if he knew me and was not surprised to see me in the parlor, even at this late hour. I was finding it difficult to come to grips with the proceedings.

“If I may ask, what is Your name? I seemed to have forgotten.”

“Arthur, Sir.” He replied, unfazed by my question or response to him.

“Arthur, do you know who I am?

“Yes, Sir, you are Lord Edward Nelson, the master of this house.”

“Arthur, when was the last time you saw me ?”

“This morning, Sir, as you were going into town on some business.”

Arthur seemed unmoved by the whole turn of events. As if it was normal for him to have his master appear at midnight.

“Arthur, one question, what is today’s date?”

“October 31, 1895, Sir,” Arthur answered my question without blinking an eye in surprise.

I wasn’t sure what to think or do. My name is Edward Nelson, and I seemed to remember that I did have a grandfather, a British lord, who had come to the states about the year Arthur said it was. I noticed, over the fireplace, a portrait of a very distinguished gentleman.

“Arthur, Who is that?” I pointed to the portrait.

“That is you, Sir.“

It was me, looking down on me.

Returning to the front door, I found it as it should be, pristine and policed, and the window filled with stained glass. Looking out at the yard in the moonlight, it looked completely different from when I entered the old house. The porch is now perfect, and what little I can see of the lawn is in excellent shape. I had a sense of familiarity and calm slowly come over me. Perhaps, I should stay awhile and learn more about my ancestor, or maybe I would stay.

“Yes, Arthur, I believe I will be spending the night.”

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Time In a Song

9/3/2015

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The name seemed familiar . Only he couldn't place it. He knew he should know who she was, but for the life of him he couldn't remember who she was. Somewhere in his life he'd meet her, if only briefly, but it was enough that he could barely remember the name. Much less who she was, or how they'd met. Oh the joys of getting older. The body's not the only thing to go, one's mind seems to take leave of absence on occasions. This was one of those times.

She walked into the room.

"Hi Honey, How you doing?" She said brightly and smiled widely. Leaning down to kiss his forehead, lovingly.

He sat in his wheelchair watching her come in, looking at her. Yes she did seem familiar, He just couldn't place her. Her voice rang like a bell, calling him to remember happier times, but he couldn't remember. Her touch seemed familiar, and her scent as she leaned to kiss him, seemed to be a smell he knew, But he still couldn't remember. It was killing him, It seemed she knew him, she definitely knew and loved him, but for the life of him he couldn't remember. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he had to ask;

"Who, Who are you?" He stammered timidly, not wanting his lack of knowing her to appear too obvious.

"Why honey, I'm Brenda, your wife. You remember me don't you?" Branda sat in the chair right next to his wheelchair and hugged him.
Brenda, and the nurse exchanged knowing looks. Today was not going to be one of his better days, it seemed.

Brenda sat and talked to him for several hours. Telling him how they met, and were married, and all about their children, and how well each of them is doing. Once in a while he would show a spark of recognition, at something she said, mostly he sat and listened to stories about his life, he couldn't remember. As a last ditch effort to try to connect with him even for a moment today she pulled out her phone and hooked up the external speaker, and played music she knew he would remember. When the old music came on his eyes lit up, for a moment they were together, in the songs, many years ago, in their youth. She softly sang the old Sinatra songs with him, for a brief moment they connected, through the music. When the songs were over , he went back to his old self again. The life drained out of his eyes, The same blank look he had when she walked in came back. Slowly, he barely remembered a long time ago, when he was married to her. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Now he sat here in this wheelchair day after day. He would let his mind drift in and out of his past,. He could remember things when he was a boy, even as a young man. But there seemed to be a cut off, in his mind , past a certain point, he was a total blank. His next memory was always here in the chair, in his room. He could never remember the rest of his life. Sometimes he wished Brenda wouldn't come to see him. He knew he should know her, but he just couldn't remember her. In another part of his mind, he hated to see her suffer seeing him like this. In brief moments of clarity, he knew who he was, and why he was here. He had Alzheimer's and was slowly losing what was left of his mind. That was bad enough, but he couldn't bear seeing her suffer when she came to see him. But those moments of lucidity where few and far between and getting farther between.

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A Room For All Time

5/7/2015

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The room looked small. In truth, as he he was about to discover for himself, the room was in fact much roomier than one could ever imagine.

Stepping into the room he found he was transported to another time, possibly even a another place. His surroundings suddenly to seem alive. Too alive. Where what appeared to be walls on the other side of the door, were now tress. Huge old trees. Trees that seemed to reach far into the sky, and seemed to go on forever. Between breaks in the upper branches he could see sunlight peeking through. The gentle breeze he felt moving the branches and leaves appeared to come from in front of him. The smell of of the trees, and grass was intoxicating. The trees began to swirl around him. The last thing he remembered was seeing a building off in the distance . For the brief second he saw it it appeared to be a castle. But he never got a good look.

When he awoke, his surroundings had changed again. He felt his head as he attempted to sit up. Slowly his eyes cleared. The dampness seemed to float in the air. As his eyes and head cleared, he could barely make out in the dim light coming through a very small barred window high on the opposite wall. As he slowly came back to his senses, the could make out the wall next to his cot. Feeling his way on the cot he found it was made of very rough hewn wood, and covered in a burlap type material, very rough to the touch. Under the cover he was laying on was straw. Very old smelly straw. The smell of bodily functions past hit him in the face as he moved around to try to get up from the cot. Finely extracting himself from the smelly straw covered cot he got on his feet. Wobbly at first as what he could see of the room seemed to spin around or several minutes. Eventually the room stopped spinning. As his head slowly came to rest in one piece, he was able to look around more carefully. The large stones in the walls indicated it was very old. The stones along the dirt floor had green moss or mold growing on them. Higher up there appeared to writing on some stones. Sort of scratched into the surface of the stone.

In the dim light he tried to make out the scratches of what appeared to be words, The language seemed from another time. He knew he'd seen that kind of writing,somewhere before. As a ancient history professor, he was familiar with ancient writings, and building. He'd made a career of studying castles and documents from all over the world. There was very little he didn't know about castles. He thought. Slowly he worked his way around the tiny room. Finally finding the door. It was small. Heavy wood. Held together with heavy rope type material. The door appeared to not have been opened in centuries. Much less in the short time he had been in the room. That didn't explain how he got here, or how he was going to get out. Leaning against the wall. he began to go over everything that had happened in his mind.

He had been called upon to examine some ancient text that had been found in a old estate in the outskirts of London. The gentleman who found them, he emailed and asked him to come and see if they were indeed real, and if they were worth anything. When he arrived at the estate he found the doors open. Inside he found a note saying that the gentleman had been called away on a emercy , leaving just before he arrived. The material for him to look at was in the study, on the desk, The note had said to make himself comfortable and take his time, that he should be back soon. The door was open to the study. Through the doorway it looked like a an ordinary english study. large desk in the center of the room. Walls covered with maps and pictures of days gone by. All of this seemed normal as he stepped into the room. The next thing he knew he was in a english forrest. And now in a dogun of sorts.

As a last resort to get out of the the tiny room; he put his effort into pushing on the door. Slowly it moved. Dust and insects coming loose, and landing all over him. inch by inch the door finally started to move. It seemed to take forever and all of his strength to get the old wooden door to move even a little. Little by little it inched open. After what seemed like several hours it was finally open enough for him to barely squeeze through. The hall on the other side was the same stone as his cell had been. The dirt floor showed signs of traffic. Footprints and marks where someone recently fall. The hall wound its way along until it came to open area with stairs leading up from where he was. As he had nowhere else to go, up the stairs he went. The stairs themselves were shallow and steep, and hard to navigate without falling especially in the almost dark pathway. One misstep and he'd be back on the bottom of the stairs, probably badly hurt.

At The top of the stairs, he found a another door. This door was much newer, and very recently had been used. Hesitating slightly he pushed it gently. It swung open easily.

There beyond the door was the study had attempted to enter earlier.

Sitting at the desk was the gentleman he had supposed to meet.

"Welcome back. I trust you enjoyed my time machine?"

The man said pleasantly, like one would ask if one enjoyed a movie or a book, or song.

He didn't know what to say.
"Uh , Time machine? What happened.?'

"I'm so sorry I wasn't able to be here when you arrived, I so wanted to show you personally. However, I was detained in another time. "

He sat down in the nearest chair waiting for a explanation.

"A drink, or something more? I can have the butler bring what you wish. You're right, I do owe you a explantation. As I said the room is a time machine. It can take one to any place or time. Only there are several problems. It has a mind of its own. Just before you arrived it took me to America in the 1960's, Dallas, to be exact. I found myself on the grassy knoll, just as President Kennedy was shot. I saw who did it, and it wasn't Oswald. Then just as suddenly I was back here in the here and now, sitting as you found me. I knew you had arrived by the car outside. So All I could do was wait until you made your way back. If I may ask where were you?"

He thought for several minutes.

"In a old english castle. a dungeon, to be exact, a wet smelly dirty dungeon. How long was I gone?"

"Its impossible to say. I still haven't figured out a way to tell, it could be a minute or a hour. Time means nothing when you there. Wherever there is. Would you like to try again together, as I had originally planned?"

"Why not? It can't be any worse than where I was before."

They got up and he lead him out of the room, They turned back around and stepped through the door again...

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Tea For the ChosenTwo

Rewind

Selfie

Going Home On Halloween

Time In a Song

A Room For All Time

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