The Ever-Changing Flow of Time

Science-Fiction / 2900 words

PREFACE: I'm quite fond of this story, even if it's clearly not the best thing I've ever written. This is another experimental one, from a decade ago, where I was focusing more on structure than plot. I'd wanted to write something like this for a while. I won't say more to avoid spoilers, but I'd be happy to discuss it in the comments below ;)

I drove the car into the wall, my foot slammed against the accelerator. It would hurt like hell, but only for a moment. Then, all would be over.

But it wasn’t. Nor was the pain.

I pulled myself out of the vehicle, unscathed, as a small crowd gathered. If most remained at a distance, gaping, some rushed forward to help. These pressed me with questions and concerns, which I readily ignored. I thanked them for their assistance and walked away.

Hot coals were scorching my skin, pins and needles piercing my flesh, all triggering waves of suffering which made me long for oblivion.

I drifted, in a daze, in the general direction of my apartment.

Gritting my teeth, I tried to focus on the story. If death were denied me, I would at least attempt to maintain some form of dignity.

It would have to be grand. An epic tale of cosmic proportions. I had always wanted to write about time travel, finding the inherent paradoxes to be extremely engrossing. But fear had steadied my hand. It was such a widely used theme, with so many clichés and pitfalls... The once daunting task, however, now seemed a welcome challenge.

I reached this conclusion just as I got home. I dropped onto the couch and rubbed my throbbing forehead.

If I were to do this, I reflected, I would want to consult with a specialist—preferably one with radical views.

I grabbed my laptop and googled the topic for several hours. This achieved two things. First, I obtained the name of a likely advisor. Second, and perhaps more importantly, I forgot the pain... at least, for a little while.

***

The phone was ringing.

Garrison paused to stare at the handset. He looked back at the computer screen and hesitated. He hated to interrupt a moment of inspiration, but the ringing persisted. It must be important.

He was eager to write the scene with the eccentric scientist, but decided the characters could wait a moment longer. At the next ring, he answered.

It was the hospital.

They asked him to drop by for the results of his tests, refusing to give any details over the phone. Which did not bode well, he thought.

He hung up and stared at his screen again. With a sigh of resignation, he saved his work and turned the computer off.

Dr. Goldstein was a tall and pleasant fellow, with blue eyes and graying hair. He let Garrison into his office and motioned him to sit.

“So how bad is it, doctor?” asked the writer as he took the offered chair.

“Your case is a very peculiar one, Mr. Garrison.” The older man sat at his desk, studying his visitor with some curiosity and, perhaps, a touch of concern. “Have you been involved in a scientific experiment of any sort?”

Garrison started at this, then paused. After a brief hesitation, he responded: “I am not sure if you could call it that.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

The curt reply was greeted with a frown.

“I urge you to reconsider. It would help us understand what is happening to you and, perhaps, help us find a cure—”

“Hold on,” interrupted Garrison. “How about we start at the beginning and you tell me what exactly is happening to me?”

Goldstein stirred uneasily in his seat, looking down at some papers laid before him. “Well... If these results are to be believed, your molecules are, basically, breaking apart.” Garrison blinked. “The chemical bond which holds them together is failing, deteriorating for some unknown reason. It’s a slow process, mind you, but it’s spreading throughout your body, thus explaining the pains you have been experiencing.”

The doctor watched the writer closely, but he remained silent, though obviously stunned by the news.

“Surely,” Goldstein continued hesitantly, “you can now see why you should tell me your story. As I said earlier, this is a very peculiar case and... Mr. Garrison?”

The writer had stood up. He turned and walked out the door, ignoring the older man who repeatedly called out his name.

Outside, Garrison walked dizzily to his car. Even as he entered it, he felt the searing pain return.

***

I sat back and reread the scene. Failing chemical bond... was it believable? Perhaps I should rewrite that. I resolved to question Richards on the matter. Which prompted me to look at my watch and notice I was running late.

I rushed to the lab. I had so many more questions for the Professor. He was an odd bird, certainly, but that made him even more fascinating... and there was no questioning his knowledge.

When I arrived, I immediately noticed a sense of urgency in the air. Richards was alone, as I had expected, but he was running around; pulling switches, turning dials, pressing buttons... I called out, but my voice was drowned by the persistent whizzing of the Gate. It was louder than I remembered.

My eyes were drawn to it. The large mirror was tinted with a myriad of colors, as if a rainbow had bloomed within the room. The reflections were now distorted, however, and seemed to shift and twirl continuously in a somewhat fluid momentum.

“Mesmerizing, is it not?”

I jumped, startled by the whisper in my ear. The Professor was standing there, smiling, his gaze locked on the Gate. I had not heard him approach.

Before I could say anything, he was moving again. Now aware of my presence, a flow of words came restlessly out of him. Most of it was drowned, as had been my own words earlier, but occasionally he would speak louder and I could make out bits and pieces of his speech.

“... will give us a greater understanding... to see what once has been and observe that which is to come... and then, someday, perhaps, it shall open our mind to... a mere illusion, I say! A trick of the mind... do you understand?...” I heard him laughing, briefly. “Soon we shall accomplish that which none has ever before!”

And then, he was next to me again. The glint in his eyes worried me. It spoke of delusions and madness. Could I have been wrong about him? He grinned.

“You doubt me! I see it in your eyes.” I did not bother to comment about what I saw in his. “But that’s alright, I can understand. It does not matter, as soon all shall be made clear... and you will believe! Oh, yes! You will believe! Just you watch...”

He ran to a nearby console and held a finger on top of a large red button. Glancing at me over his shoulder, with a large smile on his face, he asked: “Ready?”

Unsure how to respond to that, and slightly alarmed by the turn of events, I only managed to take a few steps back. For some twisted reason, he interpreted this as a sign of acknowledgment and pressed the button with what I can only describe as maniacal laughter.

Nothing happened.

The smile froze on his face for a moment. Then vanished, replaced by a look of uncomprehending annoyance.

Then he hit his forehead. “Doh!”

Richards ran to the shelf which held the large hourglass. He grabbed it, raised it above his head, then threw it across the room. It smashed against the mirror. Both broke into millions of shards and splinters which fell to the ground. But the sand did not. It floated in the air, began to swirl and whirl, and soon held the place the mirror had earlier, constantly shifting and twisting.

The scientist was ecstatic. The sound grew even louder, but so entranced was he that—unlike I, who had wisely decided to move even further away—he rushed toward the Gate. I yelled after him, but to no avail. Before I could do anything further, he had plunged within and vanished...

There was a tremendous explosion. The ground shook. Large chunks of the walls and of the ceiling broke off. Pebbles of sand were blown across the room, thousands of them piercing and scraping my skin. I was flung to the floor as a blinding white light engulfed me, bringing tears to my eyes... along with a burning sensation in my chest.

I fell unconscious.

***

The writing was proving difficult. Brian Holland was rusty. It had been a long time since he’d sat down and written anything. He erased the last few lines and rubbed his eyes. He was not a morning person—not by any account—but his appointment with the scientist was an early one and he could not afford to miss it. Perhaps it would help him focus his thoughts and find further inspiration.

He might as well head out now. The drive would wake him further. He hoped.

At the university, he asked for directions and soon arrived at the lab. He had taken his time, even stopped on the way to get some coffee, but still managed to get there twenty minutes early. It did not matter, however, as Professor Laing was already there. Working.

The first thing Holland noticed was a low humming sound. The second was its source: a very large mirror in the center of the room. Its surface, which reflected his thin build and tousled red hair, seemed to be vibrating.

“Excuse me.”

The Professor turned and stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t be taking any apprentices this semester. You should check with some of my colleagues.”

Holland smiled.

“I am not here for an internship,” he stated.

“Oh.” A pause. A smile. “You must be the writer, then.”

“Brian Holland, yes. And you are Anton Laing?”

“That would be me,” the Professor conceded cheerfully as he approached and shook the younger man’s hand. His grip was firm, his eyes dark and penetrating. “You wanted help with a novel, I believe?”

“Something like that. I want to write about time, but it is such a trite subject that I don’t know where to begin. Considering your background and experience, I thought perhaps you could help me find a fresh approach...”

“Why write about time if you feel it is trite?”

“Well, it’s been overused, but that does not make it any less fascinating.”

“Pah! It would be pointless anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

The scientist smiled. “Time is an illusion, my friend. It does not exist.”

“I read something about that in your biography. I thought it was intriguing. Could you elaborate?”

Laing stepped away, walking back to the console he had left earlier. He kept talking though, and Holland approached slowly, watching what the man was doing with some curiosity.

“The problem with time is that we think we know everything about it when, in reality, we know naught. It is pure invention, a mere contraption made to explain the inexplicable.”

“Aren’t all words such contraptions?”

Laing glanced sideways at the writer. Winked at him. “To an extent, yes. However, most words define real and tangible objects. A chair, a book, a wall... Time is a whole other matter entirely.”

“The same could be said of love, hate...”

“But you can feel those,” insisted the Professor.

“Well, you can feel the passing of time.”

Laing straightened and stared the writer in the eye. “Can you?”

“Of course! I am older now than I was ten years ago. More mature. I’ve gained experience, knowledge... You can’t dismiss any of that.”

“Experience, knowledge, these are all very real, but how do you equate them with time?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What did you have for breakfast?”

A puzzled Holland scratched his chin. “Erm, a few toasts and jam. And coffee. But how—”

“And how do you know you had these for breakfast?”

“Because I did!”

The Professor grunted and pushed the writer aside as he moved toward a nearby shelf that held a large hourglass. The sand within was dripping slowly from the top to the bottom. He hit the glass with the tip of his finger.

“This has become a symbol of the passing of time when, in reality, all it is, is but applied science. A proof that gravity actually works, nothing more. For time... Well, time means nothing. The fact that you had these things for breakfast is but a mere memory. The notion that it happened this morning is a figment of your imagination.”

Holland was beginning to wonder if the man was not insane.

“For all you know,” Laing continued, “it could have happened yesterday or the day before. Note, however, that these words have no meaning either, as they are connected to the notion of time.”

Something clicked in the writer’s mind. Hesitantly, he tried to voice the thought.

“You mean... like in a story... where the writer can jump from one scene to another, even if these are not set in chronological order?”

Laing clapped his hands. “You got it!”

“But, still, we live in the real world. Things don’t work that way for us.”

“Really? Do you remember every single thing you do? And in which order you did them?”

“Well, yes... to an extent.”

The scientist chuckled. “‘To an extent’ being the keywords here. I bet things get blurrier the further back you go.”

“There is a certain linearity to our lives, though...”

“Ever experienced déjà vu?”

“Sure.”

“How do you explain it?”

“Can anyone?”

“I can!” boasted the scientist. “Of course,” he continued quickly, “theories abound. But... I believe we do not live our lives linearly at all. Rather, we come and go at different points in time, gradually building the events which mark our lives. Our mind cannot fully comprehend this, however, and thus suppresses most of our memories, only retaining those which are in a fairly linear mode as they are the only ones we can handle. But, occasionally, another memory, from the ‘future,’ will surface. Note that this not only explains déjà vu, but also other oddities such as premonitions, prophecies, and clairvoyance. These don’t always work, of course, as there are many phonies out there, but when you come across the real thing, you can be sure you’ve found someone who is more sensitive—or better attuned, if you would—to the real nature of ‘time,’ and whose mind has been able to retain more memories than is the norm.”

Though slightly tainted with hints of fanaticism, Holland found the discourse quite captivating. He thought over all this for a long time. When he came out of his reverie, he noticed that the scientist had gone back to his work.

“What, exactly, are you doing here, by the way?”

Laing pointed at the large mirror.

“I am building a Gate,” he replied.

“A Gate?”

The Professor faced Holland with a feverish smile. “Indeed. A Gate to other dimensions.”

Just when he thought the man was starting to make sense... Now this!

“Other... dimensions?”

“Yes! Think about it. If time is an illusion, then we must refute the notion entirely. But to grapple with reality, we need to make sense of it, somehow. If time is no more, then what should be in its place? How could we give meaning to the experience of life? If time does not exist, then there is no beginning, no end, only eternity...”

“And how exactly do other dimensions fit into all this?” It occurred to Holland that he probably should not be feeding the madness, but he couldn’t help himself.

The Professor ran to a whiteboard where a complex pattern had been mapped out. There were various circles with numerous lines drawn between them, linking them to each other.

“This is only a rough sketch, but it should help understand. The circles represent distinct moments in our lives—call them pivotal events with some significance, those which you would remember most keenly. The links between them, if not linear, could resemble these lines, going every which way. However, if time does not exist, it also means that all these circles, all these moments, must co-exist at the same time... Aha! I used the forbidden word. Suffice it to say, they co-exist simultaneously.”

He spun around and tapped his right foot on the ground.

“Obviously, we live in the moment, only one. At least that we can perceive. So where are the others?” He pointed at the mirror. “Beyond that lies the answer.”

“You mean parallel universes, don’t you?”

Laing dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “I prefer to call them alternate realities, but both are coined terms with little to no substance.” He paused a second, considering. “But I guess it would be the closest description. Basically, the Gate will allow passage from one moment in your life to another.”

Holland gasped. “It’s a time machine!”

The scientist groaned. “No! I forbid you to call it that. Time does not exist. Now, please, be gone. I need to work! Come back tomorrow, if you wish. It should be ready by then... I am almost done...”

The startled writer observed as the man returned to his consoles. Finally, he resolved to leave. But yes, he would return tomorrow. Definitely. And, in the meantime, he would rewrite his story. Change the beginning with something more fitting, something like this...

***

I drove the car into the wall, my foot slammed against the accelerator. It would hurt like hell, but only for a moment. Then, all would be over.

But it wasn’t. Nor was the pain.

If you like my writing, please consider buying a copy of my novel, upgrading to a paid subscription, or making a Paypal or Ko-fi donation. As an independent author, any of these would help a lot!

Want to read more of my Science-Fiction stories? Check out these titles, if you haven’t already:

• The Human Dilemma (in an Orwellian world, a man voices his discontent)

• What One Sows, One Must Reap (when one must choose between work and friendship)

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Text (c) 2023 by Alex S. Garcia.

Header: royalty-free stock images, edited by me.

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