The Epochracy Files Read online

  With the platform empty again, he sat on his knees and looked around with caution. Holding his breath, he flicked the buckle with a snap and... C-r-e-a-k…

  Blinded by a brilliant glare, he was hurled through a vortex of swirling centuries as four digit numbers flew past him. He realized they were dates when he saw the passage of time rise and set on a Roman sundial and a giant sandglass spinning against the backdrop of Big Ben’s hourly chimes.

  Outside on the curb, the lady snapped her compact shut. Her work was done for today.

  Rooney squinted at the harsh sun streaming through a window. Huddled in the corner of a room with a pounding headache, he tried propping himself up on an elbow.

  “He’s awake,” a male voice called toward the door, then in his direction, “How are you feeling? You’ve been out awhile.”

  “Head hurts, light too bright,” he mumbled. Did he have a seizure on the subway floor?

  He forced an eye open to scan the drab surroundings of wall-to-wall filing cabinets. Patting the floor around him, he realized he was on a cot, then holding his throbbing brain, discovered his cap was missing. Great! They would dock his pay.

  The tanned man with dark hair and devilish green eyes leaned against a desk, eating a sandwich. Rooney heard a rapid tapping of heels, and then a brisk blonde woman was flooding his face with a flashlight.

  “Made it through the bridge just fine,” was her verdict, lifting each eyelid.

  “Hey lady, do ya mind! What’s with all the bright light? Am I dead?”

  When they didn’t answer right away, he panicked. “I am, aren’t I? Oh jeez, I never spent any of my tips or smooched Patty Marcus. I knew I shoulda went for it.”

  “Are you dizzy? Vertigo’s often a side effect,” the man informed, pen cap between his teeth as he scribbled on a clipboard.

  “Side effect?” Rooney echoed, still not sure what was going on. “Of death?”

  The female chimed in. “No, time-travel. Welcome to the FBI!”

  “T-Time travel? Yeah, good one. Another H.G. Wells scare?” he chortled. “Did Frankie put ya up to this? He’s such a pranksta.” The seriousness of the duo made Rooney nervous. “Did you say FBI? I musta goofed the trains.”

  They offered him a chair and a Dixie cup.

  “No way to take a train here,” the man mumbled as he continued to scribble.

  “The B&O goes to DC,” he countered, heebie jeebies creeping up his spine.

  “Sure in 1938, but you’re in 2016.” The man tossed this fact over his shoulder as Rooney swigged the water.

  He choked mid-gulp and bolted up in a panic. With regained breath, he sputtered, “Two thousand?—Nah, you’re just bumping gums, Mister!”

  The woman snatched the Washington Post off the desk and showed him the date.

  “Hell, this is real? Can’t be! Whoa, two thousand sixteen? Nah, not possible, this is a dream, a mistake!” Did he really just leap through the sci-fi future?

  Feeling trapped in a nightmare, he unbuttoned his uniform for air. “I musta hit my head at the station, I remember fallin’. Yeah, that’s it!” He paced anxiously, tugging at his scarlet strands. “Wait a minute, I’m wisin’ up now—you slipped me a micky, didn’t ya?” He frantically checked his cash to make sure he wasn’t robbed.

  “Calm down and listen.” The woman in yellow pointed to his seat, then added “please” almost sarcastically. “Does a briefcase at the subway platform ring a bell? Me, passing you on the stairwell?” She impatiently tapped her foot, waiting for it all to sink in.

  Rooney rubbed the back of his splotchy neck, deep in recall. “Do you accept this mission’? So that was you?”

  “I’m Sunny D’Angelo, time-travel agent. I make sure the trip is smooth between jumps. This is Talon Smythe. He handles assignments and covert details.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m a G-Man, just like that!” he snorted. “You take anyone off the street, whoever opens the case?”

  “You weren’t random.”

  Sunny’s gaze possessed an encyclopedia of knowledge as she let her words marinate. While his speech flat-lined, she gestured to his wrist. “You have the watch, right?”

  “This? It was just a tip from—you mean...”

  “Yep, he’s a jumper. In fact, one of our best recruiters.” She leaned against the metal cabinet and filed her nails.

  Stunned, McCallahan wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “So that’s why it runs backward! I thought it was just a marketin’ gag on ol’ Corrigan. What’s next--zigzaggin’ ‘round zones luggin’ that case?” He couldn’t help show disappointment. So far, it wasn’t very appealing.

  “Well, dimensions,” D’Angelo corrected, freshening her lipstick.

  “Say, I’m just a crumb, I got no business bein’ here.” Feigning a laugh, he stood. “Nice meetin’ you guys, but I hafta make tracks.” A few strides forward, he timidly retreated, finding their stance intimidating.

  Intense frowns told him he didn’t have a choice. Then it occurred to him he had no idea how to get home. “Say, I don’t hafta shoot anyone, do I? Blood makes me queasy, and I never drilled a tommy gun.”

  “No violence,” the assignment coordinator assured, holding the Top Secret portfolio. “And by the way, your watch is now activated as your transporter. Lightweight and more efficient.”

  That lifted Rooney’s spirits, but he still didn’t know much about the job. “Hey, wait. This ain’t no trip for biscuits is it?” When they gave him blank stares, he added, “I’m gonna get paid, yeah?”

  “Yes, you’ll be compensated,” Talon guaranteed, suppressing a chuckle.

  “Just give him the folder, so he’ll shut his trap already,” Sunny interrupted as dancing illuminations transmitted from her compact. She dashed off to bait the next rookie.

  “Here, very controversial so mum’s the word! We need a troupe of time hoppers to intervene and prevent some faux pas. It’s the Government’s newest campaign for World Peace.”

  Rooney read the list. “Conception Interception? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I was hoping it was self-explanatory,” Talon grimaced. “You’ll be going back in time, or sometimes ahead, in your case. You’ll be preventing…well, you know, some productive canoodling.”

  “Huh?”

  “Umm, pitching woo? Making babies,” the FBI agent floundered, turning red.

  “Sounds a bit too, uh… personal.”

  “You don’t have to witness anything, just run interference.”

  “This is nuts, pally. I’m no scientist. I have to figure out the moment these people were… made?”

  “You’ll be quite busy, I’m afraid,” Talon said, not sounding apologetic at all.

  “And then what, I gum the whole works? Slip them banana peels, plunge pianos on their head?” Rooney asked, scratching his own.

  “Well, this isn’t a Laurel and Hardy flick,” Talon laughed. “But you get the idea. Be as creative as you want.”

  Rooney sighed. It wasn’t that he hated hard labor. He had a strong work ethic but this sounded damn near impossible.

  He glanced down at the file again. “How will I know?”

  “Computers and yes, this will require a bit of research. But leave that to us.” Talon pulled a piece of paper from the printer. “Here’s your first detail. Birthdate June 14, 1946. You’ll see I calculated back nine months, give or take two weeks, so get there ahead of time.”

  “Sure, I’ll be on it like eggs in coffee,” Rooney huffed. He jabbed a finger at the manila folder. “Say, what’s so big about these names anyway? Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, Kanye West, 535 members of Congress? I never heard of any of these people.”

  “Exactly,” Agent Smythe confirmed. “And if you do this right, we never will.”

  Tales from the Hive

  She’s the bee’s knees, a queen. At least that’s what she believes.

  With nose and pinkie raised, and her Grade A fancy honey at high tea, she’s climbing ladders.

&nb
sp; But in reality…

  She injects fear with her stinging words, always buzzing around in everybody’s business.

  “Mind your beeswax,” society snaps.

  Sadly, no one gives her “hive fives” for her garden, even though her blooms are the best in town.

  Instead, rumors pollenate.

  They take flight when they see her, a fury of flurry.

  Swatting and smashing,

  when all she wants is a sip.

  And if she gets in your car to hitch a ride to the flower show,

  suddenly, it’s a horror show.

  Careening, screaming…

  It’s a shame she’s so misunderstood, this clipping of her wings.

  Don’t they know she won’t sting unless provoked?

  Their own hyperactive histamines hexing

  her herd.

  This needless massacre springs forth a drought,

  no fuel, clothing, crops— starvation.

  Stirs up quite a buzz in the town square when she’s cross-examined.

  “You bumbling fools!” she spits. “Swarming us with pesticide and ignorance.”

  Imagine their surprise when they hover by the post office

  And see her on the wanted list,

  humanity right behind.

  The Museum of Lost Hearts

  In San Francisco, high on a hill, there sits a unique institution – The Museum of Lost Hearts. It was recommended to me by a stranger, during my travels. He had a strange light in his eyes. I had encountered him while I was wandering around the city, not quite sure what I was looking for. He seemed to sense my search and pointed me up the hill.

  Until I mounted the cable car, the museum seemed simply imaginary. How often had I pledged my undying love, only to be betrayed by promises, promises, promises? Empty words mean nothing to the fallen lover after years of betrayal.

  It was unusual weather for the Bay Area, unusually cold. Having arrived at my destination, I stood alone in the snow. Its chill matched my mood. As I stood frozen in indecision, a voice said, “What are you waiting for, the moon to light your way?”

  Cautiously I pulled open the ornate bronze doors, resplendent with bas-relief scenes of mythical and historic lovers. There were Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Eloise and Abelard. The doors swung open, heavy on their hinges.

  Would I find inside what was once lost?

  The interior was dim with antique electric lights, shaped like torches. On the walls there were frames like an art gallery. Only the show was for me personally. Beneath each picture was a bronze name plate with dates. “Sally, 1960-1974.”

  It was a gallery of all my lost loves. They looked out at me as how they might appear in the present. Yet gazing at each portrait resulted in a slide-show. There were flashbacks to our early days or to times in their formative family days. Insights came to me about why my love acted or reacted in a particular way. I developed some understanding or compassion into why we couldn’t stay together. It was nobody’s fault.

  The slide-show then moved forward into the future. I saw what had become of each one. This one died years ago after a long battle with cancer, of which I had no knowledge. That one went on to have four boys by her rich, second husband.

  The show went on, some to pleasant, some to not so pleasant conclusions. There was a certain acceptance in my reviewing the results. For some, I was pleased and happy, for others, sad. Yet I had a sense of closure in knowing how their stories continued.

  As I was standing there, contemplating and processing what I had seen, a longing began to seep into me. It was as if a void had opened in my heart that understanding and acceptance could not quell. I felt empty and alone.

  Then I heard a gentle voice.

  “Hello? Behind you. Turn around. I won’t bite!”

  It was a young woman I had met at a retreat center in an old lodge, upstate, when I was struggling to resolve some personal issues. At the time, she and I had only a few words between us. Yet that was enough for her to sense my hurt and longing.

  “I just want you to know I love you. I’m not asking you to do anything about it. I just love you.”

  Her affirmation filled my empty heart. When I reached out to embrace her, wanting to hold fast to her affection, she vanished. It was then I got the message. “No grasping!” This was not meant to be a romantic relationship, which in a sense would have been easier. How many times had I gotten involved because of need, because of loneliness, because I sought some salve for my ego.

  It took a while for the message to sink in: I have been loved, I am loved, and I will be loved. No one can earn that. It just IS! All you can do is accept it and let it sink into your heart.

  My search ended. The trip up the mountain to the museum was more than enough to answer my questions. Now, all I had to do was to live it.

  About the Guest Author

  Michael R. Young lives in North Central Massachusetts in a log house with his wife, Pat, his large white Pyrenees, Oscar, and two miniature horses, Honey Pie and Willie Nelson.

  He grew up in Washington State, where he began writing poetry while in Whitworth College in Spokane. While in graduate school at Princeton, he wrote more poetry for the student Wineskin. He has a chapbook, Reflections in a Muddy Pool and has been published in a journal, A Time for Singing.

  He has of late had poems and prose published in A Certain Slant, a college publication. He wrote Hearts on a Hill in a creative writing class based on a prompt.

  His pastimes include fly fishing for trout in local streams and producing for the local cable television access station and community radio station. Communication in all media is his passion.

  Phantom Promises

  Located off a wing in The Museum of Lost Hearts

  Enclosed in glass is everything you ever wanted to give, but couldn’t.

  Restricted by time, money, cold heart or faltered trust, exhibits of best intentions animate without strings.

  Silently they donate, no doubt or conniving voices calling you a fool. Flowers bloom perpetually, countless recipients receive simultaneously at just the mere thought.

  Greeting cards arrive telepathically, no postage due. Charitable address labels affix guiltlessly and non-profits overflow with gratuities free of sham or shame.

  Steel nails erect habitats humanitarily, favors are done generously and all the prayers you meant to kneel upon upload automatically, their answered notifications pinging left and right, regardless of parties politically.

  Muffin pans puff heroically, cars wash sudsily, PTA hours toil endeavorously, and casseroles bubble overflowingly in welcome wagons driven pleasantly in droves to new neighbors. Sidewalks are plowed selflessly, lawns manicured for the elderly and babysitting kids are sat.

  We eye our reflections worriedly then note the placards placating tranquility. No need to over-fulfill-exceedingly. We are just one person in reality, so give yourself a break.

  Until… we walk the hall of humanity, and see in line so friendlily, every person whoever crossed our path. Not the toxic ones melting karma-ly in their own warfare chemically, but the ones we meet scholastically or employably suspended in mid-air. The good guys, the buddies we once had ties with, the ones we said we’d keep in touch with but never did, each reunion fading hauntingly with every Facebook wave ignored.

  And across the room diagonally, plug the peeps connected internetically, the ones we wish to lunch with, yet never plan accordingly. Because it seems an eternity, we fret the words awkwardly, but if we make the move courageously, we’ll find it’s like old times, probably, and we’ll live life more blissfully if we take the chance.

  And in an alcove lastly, sits the highest honor royally, the brow knitters in anxiety— the caring parents and grands outstandingly, sometimes taken for granted in our turbulent world.

  They age out-of-touchably before their offspring’s eyes. “I’ll visit next holiday,” they vow. “I’ll phone next week,” they plan. Anticipating smiles crease ceaselessly on
their folks’ sad faces, while cobwebs coil constantly for communication that never comes. Eventually, it’s the baritone, the monotone of a dial tone, signaling a line dead, indefinitely.

  But hurry—if it’s not too late! Break the glass gallantly, alter fate altruistically. Honor crucial promises habitually, settle our souls freely and live life faithfully, reliably, and true.

  Ear Worm

  Buzzing my canal for years

  She strikes out the blue and it’s so sporadic there’s no way to predict when she’ll pluck me from harmonious moments where I’m peacefully savoring coffee on a lazy Sunday morning, or immersed in my writing on a quiet snowy day.

  It had been a year, almost to the day, since she rattled my soul like a tambourine. She’s an overture of doom, this trumpet, blasting obnoxious news and stirring up hornet nests with her brash personality. Her intrusion is as welcome as a cymbal-clashing monkey.

  It’s really quite a blow how this person of no relation horns in on my tranquility, fishing for information with her demonic dialogue. I take note and stand guard, careful not to be reeled into her drama and interrogation. I worry that anything I say will be used against me, like it has in the past.

  Her questions gut my soul and pose a tone almost accusatory, and then before I can answer, more words careen at me like a speeding car.

  A control tactic I’m sure. Doesn’t give me time to think and recall accurate details, not that it matters anyway. She probably thinks I’m lying because that’s what she’s used to. Even I don’t believe what I’m saying.

  Luckily she does most of the yapping and I can barely get a word in edgewise so it’s a safe bet that I didn’t give much away. As her witchcraft drums on, I zone out as she chants the same old dirty laundry.