Flowers from 1970 - DNF

Crystal Ball

George walked up the steps of his house, keys in hand and a dark look on his face. The neighborhood had been quiet except for the occasional passing car, which did not help his ongoing battle with isolation and loneliness. The quieter it was, the louder his thoughts were, and so as he entered his empty home which housed a quiet so large a drop of a pin would be highly audible, his head filled with a mass of concepts.

He trudged his way up to his room, carrying his jacket in his hand as he threw his keys onto the desk and collapsed on his bed. He waited a while, his mind the only thing keeping him company, and it wasn't good company. All he had were regrets and scenarios of brighter futures had he made better decisions in the past. It's been lonely since he moved away from his family in England. He moved into a small house in the old part of his town. He lived alone and didn't bother to get to know anyone.

Suddenly he heard a ring come from the other side of the room. It wasn't coming from his cellphone, but from the vintage telephone, he had found in his house when he first moved in. He had spent weeks trying to repair it but eventually gave up, but now it seemed to be fully operational.

He ran to the phone and answered, "Hello?" "Hey Sap, can you believe Governor Schlatt had a heart attack and died today? That's insane." A man on the other end of the phone mumbled into the phone.

"I'm sorry, but you must have the wrong num- Today?" George asked, confused.

"Oh well sorry then, but yeah today. It's all over the papers." The voice answered, not bothering to end the call even though it was the wrong number.

George raised his brow, "Are we talking about Governor Schlatt of Florida?"

"Yeah, who else." The man answered, his shrug visible in his tone.

"Schlatt died over fifty years ago, though. Is this like a joke or something?" George was convinced he was talking to either someone very uneducated or downright insane.

The man laughed loudly, "I don't know about you, but I don't remember Schlatt dying in 1920."

Now George knew the man couldn't do math. Fifty years ago was not 1920. "Everyone knows it happened in 1970. Then his right-hand man Tubbo was almost assassinated the next day." George told the man. He did not know why he was so hellbent on correcting a stranger, but he did so nonetheless.

"Tubbo? Everybody loves Tubbo. He's fine and giving a speech right now, listen." The phone sounded like it was moving, and suddenly put up to a radio. The radio was barely audible, but George could make out words like "This is a tragic loss." and such. It definitely sounded like Tubbo.

George figured he was talking to a crazy person and hung up. He walked over to his bed, thought about the phone call for no more than 3 minutes before falling asleep.

It was the next day.

George brought up a bowl of cereal to his room to eat. He seemed to stare at his cellphone, waiting for calls and texts of "how are you?" from people that never seem to come.

He booted up his computer to watch videos when suddenly the old telephone started ringing again. George hesitated for a bit. Did he really want to talk to a crazy person again? Then again, it wasn't like there was anyone else that would talk to him.

He sighed then picked up the phone. "Hel-"

"How did you know." The same man said into the phone.

"What?"

"About Tubbo. How someone was going to attempt to kill him today." He asked seriously.

George rolled his eyes, "I told you. Everyone in the state knows, we learned about it in school and everything. Didn't you? Also, why do you keep saying "today?"

"What's the date for you?" The man asked George.

"Uh..." George tapped his phone to check the date, "July 28, 2020."

No response. Just heavy breathing that sounded like hyperventilating. After a while the man spoke again softly, "It's July 28, 1970 here." Now, this was confirmation that whoever George was talking to was crazy.

"Look if this is some kind of prank I'm just going to hang up. This isn't my phone and I'm not "Sap" or whoever that is."

"WAIT." The man yelled, "Do you live on 821 Manburg street?"

George started freaking out. The man knew his address. He was going to end the call and contact police or- or- "Don't freak out!" The man read his mind, "That's my old house. Well, it's my "old house" for you but I live there right now. Does the upstairs bedroom still have the hideous flower wallpaper?"

"Yes," George answered hesitantly.

"That means they haven't changed it since I lived there! Give me a sec."

The man was silent for a while until George heard a clicking sound. It was a pen uncapping.

"What are you doing?" George asked.

"Look in the corner of the wall, near the window." The man told him.

"Why-"

"Just do it."

George heard what sounded like scribbling on the other side of the phone. George hesitated, but walked anyway to the corner of the room, "What am I supposed to be looking at-" Suddenly, old worn-out pen marks started appearing on the wall slowly, like burning wood. "Hi," it said.

"Do you see that?" The man on the other side of the phone asked, before audibly capping his pen again.

"Y-yes." George was hyperventilating and clutching his chest. This surely was not possible.

"Who are you?" "Who are you?" They both asked at the same time, but the man answered first, "My name's Cl- Dream."

"Dream?" George raised a brow.

"It's a nickname. I don't want to give you my real name yet since you could be some government spy or something."

George chuckled, "Well I'm George."

"So tell me George, who wins the world series next year? Asking for a friend." Dream asked, half-jokingly.

"Darn, thought that was going to work." Dream asked, "So tell me about the future. Wait does that sound nerdy? Hm, tell me about 2020."

"Well..."