The Time Machine

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know there's been some confusion, but let me explain. To travel through time into the past or future is impossible, and ultimately pointless. However, what we all need in our lives is more time. My time machine is capable of generating time. Time between time. For instance, I can split a second down the middle and place another second inside it.

"To an observer, as I will demonstrate, your perception of time remains unchanged. Whereas for me - FUCK YOU - I have an extra second.

"Now, my invention is not limited to a flimsy second here and there, by adjusting the dosage I receive I have inserted amounts of time up to..."

I stepped out from behind the podium, walked towards the audience, their faces drowsy with slowtime. I scan them all, one by one, taking in their expressions which, the last they knew, were looking at me delivering my lecture in front of them. Playfully I swap notebooks around on their desks, pull pens from hands and nestle them behind ears, I finish someone's coffee, take a bite from a cookie, wander the entire lecture hall and return to my podium.

"...ten minutes."

It takes a moment or two for them to realise things have changed, and the commotion is quite jolly and good-natured as they swap their belongings back, or discover other suggestions of my mischief.

"You see, time is relative and our ability to move within it is a construct of our perception of reality. My machine - implanted into the hypothalamus - and my formula directly effect the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which controls our circadian rhythms, and warps my perception of time. Depending on the dosage the more time stretches. I am able to move - at what you would experience as - faster-than-light within this continnum that I have created."

After the lecture I signed some copies of my findings, a quite vague essay that belied my reticence to reveal my invention and give the gift of time to everyone. The more people who would travel at slowtime, then the more slowtime becomes like normal time, and I treasure slowtime because it means I can escape.

When I was younger I'd say that I was born in the wrong time, I used to pine for the past, I had such hopes for the future. But I can never go back, and tomorrow keeps letting me down. If I could exist forever inbetween the moments then I think I'd be happy. If I could find a way to slow down time for me indefinitely then I'd be happy to grow old there, to live and die in the blink of an eye.

As the last of them shakes my hand, congratulating me on my work, I brush the hair from my eyes and move a pin to hold it in place. I could never afford to make enough formula to spend the next fifty or sixty years in slowtime, the only way I could would be to sell the patent, to give it to the people. Perhaps if the world became hooked on slowtime then I'd enjoy the days as they are? Rather than feel myself burdened, weighed down by each and every second.

Ten minutes, that's all I can make for myself each day. Ten minutes of time to myself. It would take me 144 days to save up enough for a day off. 52,560 days for a year away. There's never enough time.
My mind flutters with daydreams about how I could generate the formula itself within slowtime, meaning it would perpetuate more quickly. If there was some way of creating a pocket of slowtime that I could interact with in normal time, an ever-expanding bubble that I could use to harvest the formula. If there were a way to create a wormhole between moments, from the present via the expanded time between a second and then the present again so that as soon as the process begins the results are achieved.

I've always been impatient, most projects go unfinished because once I can visualise the goal in my mind I lose interest in the efforts required to attain it. This formula, this machine, it was an accident. A George's Marvellous Medicine concocted as I played mixologist with my prescriptions. I began to experience affected perceptions of time, but then noticed that it wasn't just perceived time that moved slowly, it was time itself and if my head was clear then my speed would remain at a constant whilst everything slowed down around me.

If anything it gave me hope, the meds had taken that from me. I'd been dulled down, too calm to care, and controlled by the wagging fingers that warned me of coming off of my medication. I wanted to die, that's why I mixed them, I wanted to go to the place where time doesn't exist, where my consciousness doesn't exist, I wanted to feel the nothingness. At first I thought it was a cruel joke, that I was a ghost stuck in a moment, and I had to haunt that frozen point in time for the rest of eternity.

Between time I'm free, I'm happy. Nobody really looks at me - they can't - and nobody is aware that I'm gone. It's like I become someone else, and each time I return to the same time as everyone else I have to remember who I am, what everyone thinks of me, their superficial perceptions and judgments, and I have to wait, wait for the next moment to escape.

Selfies

She doesn't seem to be into me.  I don't know what I'm doing wrong.  I mean, we've got loads in common, and we flirted really well via messenger, but there's something off now we're face to face.  I excuse myself and nip to the bathroom.
    In the cubicle I take a quick snap of my outfit and post it: Pretty snappy?
    By the time I've finished my wee it's already got 15 thumbsup and two shares.  That's pretty good.
    I wash my hands, run a bit of extra water through my hair, touch the mirror and drag the snapshot square to frame my face, pull my most alluring expression, grab a shot and hit share.  I can feel my mobile buzzing with approval as I walk back to the table.  I've set it to chatcatch in the hopes of capturing a few exchanges, to make sure that people don't think I'm saying anything stupid.
    She's just finished her Mojito, so I order us another couple on the tabletop.
    "You said that you work in the music industry?" she smiles.
    "Yeah," I pause for effect, "I work in a record store."
    She doesn't laugh.
    "Nah, I'm joking," I glance down to my pocket, I want to see if anyone on chatcatch thought that funny or just lame, "I do P.R. for up and coming bands."
    "Cool, any I would have heard of?"
    "Probably not.  But, hopefully you will one day soon!"
    She doesn't seem impressed, I got some thumbsup for that from a few followers though.  I wish I could find a moment to nab a quick shot of her, get some feedback.  Or, maybe I can try and type-up something she says and post that.  I wish there was an update to chatcatch that posted things other people said to you automatically.
    "You work in a bar in East Ham, right?"
    "No," she smiles at the waiter who brings over the two fresh Mojitos - more of a reaction that I've got so far - and takes a quick sip, "I'm taking my Bar exam."
    "Oh, so you're a mixologist or something?"
    "I'm going to be a barrister."
    "In a coffee shop."
    "In a court."
    "They have coffee shops in court?"
    She snorts a little laugh, straw perched on her teeth, and takes a quick glug.  It feels like a little victory, I hopes she knows that - aside from the first genuine mistake - I was playing dumb.  I decide to make sure.
    "You specialize in, um, human rights law, yes?"
    "Ding! Correct.  Well done Mr. P.R."
    I mime doffing an imaginary cap humbly.  Wish I could have videYOUed that, it probably looked super cute.  Still, maybe things will loosen up a bit now.
    She checks her mobile, her face drops a little.
    "Aw, shoot! My friend is staying with my this weekend, well, I thought she was getting in around ten, turns out she's just landed.  Look, I'm really sorry," she's already gathering her things together, "but I can't leave her stranded, so I'm going to have to head to meet her."
    I'm a little caught off-guard, "Oh, ok."
    "I had a nice time," she leans forward and gives me a little hug and then heads for the door.
    I take a quick pic of myself with the two half-drunk Mojitos: Oh well, more for me... :(
    I get a shoutback: Hey, you're geotagged in Bad Soup, I'm 5 mins away, don't move!
    I reply: Ok. But don't expect the drinks to still be here! LOL ;)
    By the time Katy arrives I've done a pretty decent sweep of her profile, we've not got a lot in common really, like films and music and telly and stuff, but after earlier it's nice to have someone to drink with so quickly.
    We get on, nothing special, though I play act it up a bit, take a fair few shots of us with ever increasingly more elaborate drinks.  We head to a bar with bowling lanes and get some great pics of us messing about there too.  After that we jump into a taxi and go to a party some friends are throwing in a riverside warehouse.
    I've had loads of thumbsups and shares, not just of the pics, but of some videos I put online out the sunroof of the cab and of my reflection in the river getting splashed away by my own piss!  Someone commented on a shot of the party: Well jelz.
    The next day I wake up next to Katy, we're on a sofa still in the warehouse, I manage to get up without disturbing her and head to the bathroom.  They've got a snapshot mirror here, so I quickly muss up my hair and take a pic: Hangover face!
    LOL!
    Aw, hot.
    Oh yeah, totally ruff. :D
    Then I notice I've got a text from Anne, it says: Hey, sorry I had to dash off last night... GRR, FRIENDS!!!  But I did have a nice time, and it would be good to see you again?
    And for a second I think that's sweet and all, but then I remember how much work it was just trying to get her to seem like she was having a good time.  And I look at the thumbsup number rising next to my last picture and smile, because I don't need to try, people like me.

A Perfect Day

His perfect day began at 7.15am, he woke up prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in grey jeans, a red short sleeved shirt, and his white trainers. He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

    His job is simple, mindless, he stands by a production line, doing quality control. On his perfect day there were no problems.

     After work he met some friends for a drink, he had two beers and saw her standing at the bar. He went up, introduced himself, they started talking and kept talking until the bar staff had to ask them to leave.

     He walked her to the bus stop, she kissed him, and gave him her number.

     Full of hope and happiness, he walked home and went to bed.


It hadn't taken long for things to go wrong after that, sure, for a while they were happy enough, but no day seemed as carefree as that first. He was constantly concerned that he meant less to her than she did to him, that perhaps she was treating him as an island between things, a stopover on her way somewhere better.

     He became paranoid, ugly, suspicious and would ask leading, provocative questions that frayed at her nerves until she could stand it no longer. She, quite understandably, left and didn't answer any of his calls.

     When he finally realised that she didn't care for him anymore he went to bed, cried into his pillow briefly, and then fell asleep.


He woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in grey jeans, a red short sleeved shirt, and his white trainers. He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     It was only then, on that train ride, that he was reminded of his perfect day, and how it had begun just like this about seven months ago. He suddenly became optimistic, an electric tingle inside of him, as if he was - just like the train - on a predetermined path to an unchangeable destination, moving forwards.

     He stood by the production line, checking each item for faults, they were all fine. Things were in his favour.

     He had called his friends, the same friends, at lunchtime, to arrange drinks after works and when one had shown signs of hesitation he had insisted, pleaded and the friend had relented.

     They went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     Waiting.

     His friends came up in turn, asked if he was ok, tried to draw him back to the table, but he was resolute and continue to wait as they returned, one by one, to say goodnight.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


The following day he woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in the same grey jeans, red short sleeved shirt and white trainers, they had wisps of last night clining to them like an invisible mist.

     He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     He stood by the production line, checking each item for faults, some seemed a little less than perfect, but he let it slide.

     He had called his friends, two were incredulous, made their excuses, he begged but they refused. One was surprised but agreed nonetheless.

     They went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     His friend joined him, started talking, but he wasn't interested in listening and his friend became disinterested, finished his drink and wandered off, leaving the pub without saying goodbye.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


One week later, like he had done every day, he woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs and made toast, coffee, ate them at the kitchen table. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in the same, starchy, grey jeans, clammy red short sleeved shirt and off-white trainers.

     He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     He stood by the production line, he neither knew nor cared whether the products were perfect or otherwise, they filed by him as the hours wore on.

     He called his friends, but the calls just rang out or went to voicemail.

     He went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


One month later, he woke up at 7.15am, prompted by his alarm clock and got out of bed. He went downstairs, but there was no bread, no coffee, he sat at the kitchen table for twenty minutes. Showered and brushed his teeth. Got dressed in the tatty, stained grey jeans, stinking red short sleeved shirt and dull trainers.

     He caught the 8.47am train and went to work.

     He stood outside the building, no longer allowed admittance and watched the people come and go, they all seemed so perfect.

     He called his friends, but his phone disconnected immediately, he had no calling credit.

     He went to the pub, he had two beers and then stood at the bar, waiting.

     When the bar staff asked him to leave he argued that it wasn't yet closing time, they were firm, insistent, threatened him with the police, he reasoned that he wasn't causing anyone any harm. They let him stay until close.

     He walked alone to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked home and went to bed.


Some time later, he woke up at 7.15am, naturally. He walked down the street, past bakeries and coffee shops, staring in through their windows. In a public bathroom he ran water through his matted hair, rubbed soap on his face and hands. Itched at the worn away jeans, the red short sleeved shirt and trainers that had fallen apart to resemble sandals.

     He hopped the barrier and caught the 8.47am train.

     He stood outside the building, watched the people come and go.

     He stood outside the pub.

     He walked to the bus stop, waited for the bus and waved it goodbye, then walked away to find a place to sleep.

Connection

My mother rang me online last night, it was hard to recognise her amongst the stuttering images and clipped sound, I don't know if the connection was bad at my end or hers.

My Dad was texting me at the time, so maybe the signals clashed or something? I'm not sure. He was asking me if I saw the email from my sister about her birthday. I hadn't had a chance to check my emails. My phone gets the internet, but it's slow, especially when I'm on my commute, besides it's easier to look at photo sharing sites, this girl I like uploads pictures quite regularly and I heart the best ones, but not too often, else it might seem stalkerish I guess.

I wrote some good updates today though, someone I don't know liked them, it was a girl, her profile seemed nice so I followed her, hopefully she'll post something good and I can like it in return.

Not many people have read my last blog, but that's ok, I don't really link to it much, and it's more for me than anyone else. I've started posting some poems as well, but not sure whether I'm tagging them well enough to get any interest.

I emailed a writing group that I thought I could go to, and they added me to their next event's invites, so I might go along if I can get out of work early enough.

Got an I.M. from my manager, she wants me to go out for some milk and tea bags. I message back asking if I'm supposed to take this out of petty cash or charge it to my expenses? She hasn't replied yet, though I can hear her moving in her office upstairs.

The phone rings as I'm putting my coat on, it's an automated recording about insurance or something, I don't really listen, I just wait to see if I can be removed from the mailing list. I can, I press nine.

I know the supermarket well, I deftly weave amongst the shoppers aiming their barcode scanners at the tins they rattle into their trollies. I nimbly grab two pints of milk and get some mid-range tea bags and head straight for the self checkout.

Accidentally the machine scans the tea bags twice, the red light starts blinking above the monitor, but I can't see an assistant anywhere to help. Cautiously I step away from the self checkout to try and find them, but I can't see anybody.

I leave the tea bags and milk and walk the length of the store, but each aisle seems as fruitless as the last, even, ironically, the fruit aisle. I head back to the checkout and pick up my items, looking around, contemplating my actions, and then I walk out of the store without paying for my purchases.

There are no alarms, and nobody comes running out after me.

Outside the streets are quiet, the sun is out at last, but nobody is around. A shop-online delivery truck almost clips me as I wait to cross the road, finally the green man tells me it's okay and I walk back to the office.

I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, I answer, it's my mother, but the distorted line makes her voice sound cold and robotic.

Always the Quiet Ones...

When people stopped noticing me at school I didn't mind. Generally, the people I had known since the primary years had turned into distorted funhouse mirror versions of themselves, those twisted traits that had reared their heads in fleeting glimpses now elongated, looming and defining. Those carefree days where the entire class went to each and every birthday party long gone, now mangled and wrangled into elitism, cliques and friendship circles.

Most frustrating at first, the friends I used to have now looked down their noses at me, I hadn't changed as they had, more interested in stories than boys, music than make-up. I wasn't unhappy to be alone in the school playground, or, more often, staying in the classroom to read a book or try writing one of my own.

As the bell sounded and my classmates returned to the room nobody acknowledged me, they just situated themselves around me, like ants adjusting to a stone dropped in their path.

It didn't bother me that my parents didn't notice me either, that I would come home and go up to my room, that dinner would be on a plate on the kitchen work surface, that I would eat it quietly and quickly and that I'd go to bed, get up and leave in the morning without any hint of that my presence had been acknowledged

But it did frustrate me that I couldn't get served at the fish and chip shop on a Friday afternoon. It did frustrate me that the bus wouldn't stop if I was the only one waiting, or, if I'd managed to climb aboard, it would ignore my ringing of the bell when my destination approached. It did frustrate me that the teacher started marking me absent from class and that, soon, the plate with my dinner on disappeared from the kitchen work surface.

My first thought was that I must be dead and that I was wandering around as a ghost, but why did my tummy rumble? Surely, if I was a ghost I would be unable to eat and wouldn't even need to eat, and I definitely did need to eat and I undoubtedly could eat. I didn't object to making my own dinner, indeed, I ate much more heathily now that I did (and I wouldn't forget that I was a vegetarian, unlike, on occasion, my father). Quite clearly, as far as I was concerned, I had not died, I was not dead, just nobody noticed me.

Now that I noticed that I was entirely unnoticed it started to wear upon me. Perhaps the joy of being ordinarily ignored was that I could, if I wanted, suddenly do something spontaneous and incredible and everyone would notice me and wonder why I had hidden such wonders from the world. I hoped to do this with my stories, that years from now, when school and living with my parents were things of the past, I would release a story out into the wild and people would read it and it would fill their hearts and they would tell their friends and these old people would hear of it and try to remember me and think about how unassuming I always was and nod their heads and know.

But now I can't even catch someone's eye, I can't tempt a cat my way with the clicking of my tongue, I can't put my arms around my mother when we're both feeling lonely, I can't share anything with anyone but myself. I wonder whether it is worse to live yet to be of no consequence or to have never been born at all?

I don't go to school anymore, some days I stay in bed until its dark and then try to sleep again, even in my dreams I'm alone. Occasionally I'll wake up with a warm glow of optimism and I'll get dressed, go outside, walk around and enjoy the day, smile at the people who pass me by and hope that, somehow, one of them will notice me. I don't try to make a spectacle of myself, I just want to be noticed for who I am, I just want someone to acknowledge me and make my presence seem in some, maybe ultimately insignficant, way seem all worthwhile.