Lightspeed: Edited by John Joseph Adams

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Fiction

The Temporal Displacement of the Graves


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As dead bodies floated down the Mississippi, Mrs. Graves couldn’t shake the urge to dance.

It was ingrained in her bones, dancing. Growing up in New Orleans, death was once celebrated—a spirited second line surging through Treme to the blare of trumpets and rumble of drums. But that was before the levees broke, before the waters rose, before the music stopped.

“Honey, I’m home,” Mrs. Graves said, poking her head into their rundown trailer. “I found one.”

Mr. Graves sat hunched over a bucket, too absorbed in his task wringing out towels to look up. “Storm’s finna be even more vicious tonight.”

“Then it’s high time we relocate.”

He eyed the unmarked bag in her hand. “What’s that you got?”

“This,” she said, lifting out a taped-up box, “is our ticket.”

• • • •

ChronoShift TurboTM
Just Press Shift, You’ll Be Gone in a Jiff!

• • • •

Mr. Graves hooted.

“You believe I finally found one? Got it for half-off too,” Mrs. Graves said, grabbing a towel to wipe down the handheld device.

“Those are still wet, dear,” Mr. Graves said.

“Little water won’t hurt nobody. Now, my love, where would you like to relocate?”

He exhaled. When the ChronoShift Turbo first came out, he had ideas for days. But now? Mr. Graves had found a certain peace in this post-apocalyptic flood zone.

“How you know it still work?” he asked.

• • • •

 

Features

  • Temporal Displacement Engine (Turbo-Charged)
  • Adjustable Temporal Range: 1 day to 200 years
  • Portable and Compact Design (0.8” x 2.9” x 0.5”)
  • Power Source: Rechargeable Quantum Energy Core

• • • •

Mrs. Graves snapped. “I got it! How ’bout we venture back to when we got hitched?”

Mr. Graves raised his hand. “I object on the grounds of not wanting to interact with your mother ever again. God rest her soul.”

Mrs. Graves huffed. She could’ve predicted this would happen. She’d been married long enough. Every time she presented any idea, here came Mr. Graves shooting it down like an anti-ship missile.

She snapped again. “I got it. How ’bout we go back to when we were kids?”

He scoffed. “Listen, fantasies about the past are fool’s gold and you the fool.”

Mrs. Graves puffed out her cheeks, ready to pop. It was already dusk. She could see this going on all night. “How ‘bout this? How ‘bout I go where I wanna go, then you go where you wanna go? Yeah, that’s what’s happening. Okay, now, how do I work this thing?”

• • • •

 

Usage Instructions

  • Power on the ChronoShift Turbo using the activation switch.
  • Set your desired temporal destination using the control panel.
  • Press the SHIFT button to initiate time travel.
  • To return to the present time, hold SHIFT + RETURN.

• • • •

“See you when I get back,” Mrs. Graves said and pressed the shift button.

In a jiff, she was gone.

Mr. Graves shrugged. Once his wife made up her mind, there was no unmaking it. He’d been married long enough. Feeling hungry from all this time travel hokum, he sauteed onions, bell peppers, and celery. Let that simmer with leftover red beans. Poured everything over a bed of rice. He sat and ate alone as rain began pattering the roof.

Mr. Graves imagined life without his wife. He’d miss some things, sure: her romantic impulses, her dance moves, her Louis Armstrong impression. But who would he be without the weight of that woman’s anxiety? Her never-ending pursuit of some elusive ghost called “happiness” made him feel so undervalued over time. Now that he thought about it, hopping back in time to stop himself from ever getting down on bended knee sounded mighty pleasant. It was decided. Now, all he had to do was wait for her to return home safely.

• • • •

 

Safety Precautions

  • CAUTION! Do not exceed the recommended temporal range to avoid temporal instabilities.
  • CAUTION! Exercise discretion and responsibility when altering past events.
  • CAUTION! Consider the ecological consequences and potential ripple effects (see BUTTERFLY PROTOCOL).

• • • •

Mrs. Graves had entered her desired temporal destination on the control panel: June 28, 1928, Chicago. She wanted to witness her idol, the legendary Louis “Satchmo” Armstrong, perform the iconic, improvisational masterpiece, “West End Blues.” But the device torpedoed those plans, and Mrs. Graves found herself adrift. From a bustling factory building Liberty ships in 1942 to the overcrowded hospital during her first chemo treatment in 2031 to a vibrant dance hall in Harlem in 1926, where she was a little girl dancing all by herself, Mrs. Graves appeared, then disappeared.

What went wrong, she couldn’t say. But all that movement made her ill. And when she stopped, Mrs. Graves was back in her rundown trailer, hunched over, vomit all over the floor.

“Honey, I’m home.”

• • • •

 

Device Maintenance and Storage

  • To maintain longevity, periodically clean the ChronoShift Turbo with a soft, lint-free cloth.
  • To ensure optimal functionality, store the device in a cool, dry location to prevent damage from moisture.

• • • •

Mr. Graves didn’t ask what happened. Just held out a hand for the device. His turn.

Down on her knees, Mrs. Graves cleaned up her mess with a towel. If she handed the device over, she might not see him again. But he’d dealt with her impulsivities for over a century. Hell, knowing him, he’d probably go back in time to stop himself from ever getting down on bended knee. But she didn’t want to lose her man, her love. Time had no value if she didn’t have him to spend it with.

Mrs. Graves set the device on the table, then went to their record player. She put on Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” She opened her arms to Mr. Graves with a pout.

“May I have one last dance ’fore you go?”

Mr. Graves sighed. He looked at the device, looked at her, then back at the device.

Then nodded.

And they danced as the rain came down at the end of the world.

Russell Nichols

Russell Nichols. In the Scottish woodlands stands a Black man with dreadlocks and a beard, wearing a green jacket and hoodie, as the sun filters through foliage like a natural spotlight. He is looking directly at you.

Russell Nichols is a speculative fiction writer and endangered journalist. Raised in Richmond, California, he got rid of all his stuff in 2011 to live out of a backpack with his wife, vagabonding around the world ever since. Look for him at russellnichols.com.

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