Now and Then – #fridayflash

Professor Harold Stamp was enjoying a bowl of vanilla ice cream and watching a re-run of Who Isn’t The Boss? when the alarm started. The red bulb on the wall pulsed and a circuit breaker flipped, killing the power to the television and the living room lights. “It’s time, Clyde. We knew it would come to this, didn’t we?” He put his bowl down, scooped up the hefty calico cat and a family photo, and headed for the basement.

The chronosphere glowed dark blue. Inside the electrostatic fluid churned and frothed like an angry sea. The various clockwork rods rotated with increasing speed. Soon, their respective velocities would overcome the magnetic forces that kept them apart from one another. The trajectory of the past rod brought one end out of the fluid and electricity arced bright and graceful against the inside of the heavy glass sphere. The present spun like helicopter blades, and the future toppled end over end. With each rotation, it came closer to the surface as it rose closer to the surface. Harold put the cat down and placed the photo next to the chronosphere.

“I told them this day would come, Clyde.” The professor removed his glasses and polished them on his wrinkled plaid shirt, and pointed them at his tubby, indifferent cat. “Mark my words, kitty. This is the beginning of the end. Which, of course is nothing more than a new beginning. But we can’t expect the big-wigs and hot shots to believe that, can we?”

“1968,” he announced to the cat,” you remember the year. “The sphere got dark and cloudy. The history rod almost stopped completely, the present was a blur, and the future spun so slowly it may as well have been still. Nixon, Hippies, Vietnam; the Black Panthers, Dr. King. Turbulent times. Mind you, we also got Laugh In and 2001: A Space Odyssey.”  Clyde blinked at the professor, and returned to his nap, unimpressed by the history lesson.

Harold poured himself three fingers of Macallan single malt. He swished it in the heavy tumbler and sipped. The soft, pleasant burn loosened his tongue, and he continued lecturing the cat.

“Mind you, things weren’t much better when the present and future sunk to the bottom, and history went like a bat out of hell there in the late nineties.”  He sipped again, rolled the scotch around his mouth before swallowing. “Clinton behaves like Kennedy, we try and start another Cold War in the desert. Then there were the ice storms, heatwaves, and our good ol’ friend El Nino.” He finished the scotch, and pours another.

“Speaking of natural disasters, Seinfeld said goodbye in ninety-eight.” He raised his glass in tribute, then downed it. “But enough about then. This is all about now. Well, relatively speaking, anyway. The simultaneous is about to subsume the sequential. You know what that means, kitty?” Clyde made a point of looking up and past Harold rather than at him, then returned to grooming his front paws.

“Yes, well, frankly neither do I. More’s the embarrassment as I’ve made it my life work to study time. I create the most important time keeping device since the Mayans, and I get shunned. A laughing stock. Fringe science, they call it”

“And the future,” he said, fondly running a finger over the image of his beloved Annette beside him in the photo, “when the future spun out of control and mangled the present, we lost much more than we expected.”

Harold pulled chair up next to the chronosphere, and put the remainder of the Macallan within easy reach. He looked to the photo on the table, then into his almost empty glass. He stared as the three rods representing the past, present, and the future. They spun increasingly out of control. He raised a hand and felt the heat from the chronosphere increasing. One rod or the other breached the surface of the fluid, and arcs of electricity flashed against the inside of the sphere relentlessly, throwing elongated shadows of Harold against the basement walls.

“It’s happening Clyde. This time it’s really happening. The three phases of time will collide and become one. We will begin anew.” The increased activity made the chronosphere rattle against its pedestal, and Harold steadied it with his hand. It was almost too hot to touch. With the other hand, he grabbed the scotch. Foregoing a glass, he drank from the bottle. “All right, time, you wretched beast, I’m ready for you – do your worst!”

Presently, the three rods fused. The fluid settled. Past, present, and future bobbed gently on the surface, like driftwood near the shore. Harold realized he had been holding his breath, and exhaled loudly.

“We made it Clyde. We did it old friend; we weathered the time storm.” He clapped his hands in drunken delight, and did a pathetic little dance step. “All is one, one is all. Space and time are unbound. We are as free to wait for yesterday as we are to anticipate tomorrow. Anyone that ever has or ever will exist does exist. What say we go have a look-see, shall we?”

Harold stumbled up the stairs. Same bowl of half eaten, melting ice cream. Same TV guide, same TV channel. And no Annette. He shut his eye tight against the the sorrow and regret. Why had he shown her the chronosphere? He’d encouraged her to touch it, to feel the warmth. When the singularity occurred, she became infinite.  Time stole his bride.

His daughter sat on the couch, in the dark. “Hi, Dad. Mrs Windermere called when she saw the flashing lights. Any luck this time?”

Harold slumped against the wall, choking back tears. “Nope. I’m still here, and she’s still there. Wherever and whenever there is.”