Fire.
Tongues of energy hungrily devoured its meal.
The orange and yellow glow mesmerizes its audience.
“And that, my poor, language-less cavemen, is how you start a fire.”
My audience stands around the small campfire, entranced by this newfangled technology. You’d think they’d seen me resurrect myself from the looks of fear and admiration the poor morons were giving me. Sigh. I’d only thrown a couple pieces of flint together and they were already bowing to me. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of egotistical jackass who goes traveling through time to show off so I can feel good about myself. I’m really rather normal, if you can define normal anyway.
This is my job.
I travel back in time to important moments in history to cause them to happen. When I was little I never understood how time travel worked. I mean, seriously, the guy goes back in time, stops himself from making a mistake then goes home where he’s suddenly a better person. If he changed a choice he made then he never would have made it. If he never made the choice he never would have gone back to change it. Thus you’re stuck in a never ending cycle of stupidity.
Anyway, about the time I hit puberty I also gained the ability to time-travel. My father sat me down and explained to me how it works and how, as Agents of Time (cheesy, right?), we are responsible for making history happen, thus my current situation.
“Oooh! Aaaah!”
“Ok, my work is done. If you invent language anytime soon write me a letter. Here’s your fire rocks dude. Have fun.” I handed the man making the least amount of awe-inspired looks at me the flint stones and took five steps back from the small crowd.
Closing my eyes, I centered myself. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . . A flash of bright light and I was back in my studio apartment, watching rain hit the window panes.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sighing, I picked up the phone.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hi, son. How was your mission? I was told you were teaching the cavemen about fire.”
I rolled my eyes. For a veteran time traveler he could ask some really dumb questions. “Dad, do you really think we’d be having this conversation if my mission hadn’t been successful?”
Dad huffed, “Quincy, I’m just trying to have a conversation with you. You’re so hard to get a hold of these days. I have to beg your travel schedule from the higher ups just so I know you won’t have an excuse to hang up on me.”
Groaning inwardly I tried not to yell at him. “Dad, you know why we don’t talk very often. You don’t agree with me choosing photography over becoming a boring history professor at some prestigious university. Every time we talk you start bitching and moaning about it. I’d rather not have to listen to your whining.”
He let out a breath before answering, “Well, I’m sorry son. I just want what’s best for you. I’ll let you go now. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Hanging up I sighed. Again. Wow, I was sighing a lot these days. Jeez, if only the old prof could let it go. I mean, I understand he wants me to follow in his footsteps. After Trey went rogue and disappeared, I’m all he has left, but seriously? Can’t he understand that I was never the son that was going to continue the family legacy? Well, except for the time travel. That’s kind of inescapable.
Ah well, I have to get to work. I’ve got an interview with an editor who needs some book covers.
~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~
“How soon can we expect the finished covers Mr. Time?”
“About two weeks, ma’am. Ten days minimum.”
“Alright, ten days it is. This author hasn’t written anything for about three years; if we keep his readers waiting longer than necessary they may start a riot. Also, please don’t call me ma’am, I’m not your mother. My name is Scarlet. Now, if you do well with this project and the higher ups like your work, you’ll be hired as a permanent photographer for the company. Close the door on your way out.”
Thanking her profusely, I backed out of Scarlet’s office, obediently closing the door behind me. I let out the breath I’d been holding since she told me I had ten days. Ten days is a little short to make ten book covers. I really need to rethink the timeframes I offer people.
As I stepped off the elevator into the lobby I felt a familiar tickle at the base of my skull. Damn. The boss had horrible timing when it came to briefing me on my missions. Speed-walking outside I sat on the nearest bench and put my head in my hands to hide my somewhat pained expression.
Files upon files of information poured directly into my brain. The high tech microchip the Agents had installed into my skull as soon as I joined the bureau was capable of relaying messages to and from my brain. Don’t ask me how it works because I have no idea, but I can tell you it’s a tad painful when stuff is forcefully shoved into your mind.
Finally, the reams of data ceased their frantic dash into my head and I sat for a while trying to catch my breath. My next job was to convince Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand of Spain to fund Christopher Columbus’s voyage. Oh boy, I just love trying to remember my old Spanish. Note the sarcasm.
Walking across the street I caught the next bus home. I can’t go around traveling through time in the middle of Seattle. Can you imagine the news reel on that?
Man disappears briefly in a flash of light. Reappears and denies anything happened. Are there aliens among us?
Dumb, I know, but most media is exactly that.
