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Letter found in a drain tile

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Dear Donald,

Hoping this letter is still legible, after 80 years in the agreed upon place for communications. If, indeed, you even exist. I have to tell you I’m in a bind.

I know, we agreed that, in going back to 1934 in the time machine we invented, I would have to be super careful not to do anything that might change the course of events, that I was to be an observer only, and that the only way to do that was to be as inconspicuous as possible. We thought that should be easy enough, given my natural tendency to disappear into the wallpaper.

Well, something has come up, and I need you to transfer me back to 2014 ASAP.

Remember how we made sure I had plenty of money, and how we thought ordinary dollars would be fine, since the dollar was the same currency then as it is now (or in my case, now as it will be then, or something)? Well, we forgot something.

See, I’m in prison for trying to pass counterfeit currency. Not only that, but I’m a laughingstock for making such obviously fake bills, that they had colors other than green, and were dated in the 21st century.

Actually, not a complete laughingstock. Some people here believe I’m from the future, and are working to spring me, convinced I’ve been sent here to save them. From what isn’t clear, but there it is. Then there are others, who I suspect are completely capable of imprisoning me and capitalizing on this by forging writings they will purport to have come from me.  I know, I know, I can’t write a thank you note to Aunt Sally, let alone a book, but nobody knows that here.

So I’m caught in this situation where, to keep from inadvertently making a big whoopsie change to the future (where you and I live, or, rather, where I used to live, and you may not ever have even been born), I have to try to convince people that I’m not really from the future. Of course, that would mean I’m a counterfeiter, and not a very good one at that.

Already, I’m anything but inconspicuous, but, can you imagine if they manage to spring me?

Please, please, bring me back immediately. If you don’t do it soon, I’ll be stuck here, and, who knows, I might become the center of some kind of weird cult, or something.

In sincere hope you’ll find this,
L. Ron Hubbard

A fable

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Crusty Paul sat in his apartment, water lapping at his feet, when there was an insistent knock at his door.  He sighed and got up to answer it, knowing full well it was Larry, his annoying neighbor from downstairs.  He opened the door, and sure enough, there was Loopy Larry, a look of stern admonition on his insipidly righteous face.

“There’s water dripping on my head again, Paul,” he said.

“Well, I’ve told you before, just get used to it.”

Loopy Larry sighed.  “Have you let the bath run over again?”

A flush rose to Paul’s face.  “So what?  It’s just your stupid theory that that’s what’s making water drip on your head.”

“It’s not just a theory.  Every time it happens, I come up here and you’ve let the bath water run over.  Look at your floor, for chrissake, it’s covered with water!”

Paul looked at him with an expression of someone explaining some simple fact to a rather dense child, for the hundredth time.

“If you look at the past, you’ll see there are lots of times when water just falls out of the sky, for no reason.  How can you say my bathwater causes your problem, when we know that happens naturally, all the time?”

The vampire’s confession

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Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  Peccavi in extremis, I’m afraid.

It has been … ages since my last confession, a time beyond recall.  I must say I have been rather good, but for one irresistible indulgence.  How shall I say it?  Out with it, then.

Father, I am a vampire.

Yes, I heard that gasp, involuntary though it was, through this rather flimsy barrier.  Why bother, I wonder?  Is it to protect my delicate sensibility, or yours?

No matter.  The sins I have to confess surely blow through such refinements like a spring squall through a spider’s dewy web.

Where shall I begin?  The burgher’s rich, leathery Sangiovese, or the light Beaujolais of girls in the springtime?  Ah, the sublime innocence, with just a touch of peppery insouciance!  I confess to a weakness for the unpresumptuous, even coarse, at times.  A cheap Zinfandel, just this side of plonk, fills the bill more often than I’d like to admit.

There was a certain lawyer, officious, but charming in his utter unawareness, a Malbec, precisely sour, and his lovely Shiraz of a wife.  I dream of her still.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have a profound appreciation for the refined as well.  How can I neglect the rich Barolo of the bishop, or the tawny Port of the late monseigneur, aged to perfection?  Yes, that was me, I’m afraid.  But look at the bright side, we have you, as a result.  I saw you walking to the confessional, with your springy step, that optimistic, wide open demeanor that refuses to be daunted.

I believe I fancy a nice Grenache, on such a fine, sunny afternoon.

Appreciation

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26 June 1886

Mlle. Felicite Jenesaisquois
Chocolatiere to the Arts

Chere Mlle.,

Please experience the deepest ecstacy, such as that I have myself experienced this afternoon, while eating consuming devouring experiencing your most exquisitly sublime confections.  Since my gratitude is inexpressible, I shall no longer be able to continue our relationship.  Be assured, however, that I remain your most humble and contrite servant,

M. Jean-Claude Tressilly

The stamp man’s complaint

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Janos was a good and dutiful man. He had a small house with a neat little garden plot overlooking the railway station.  He kept his petite wife well supplied with money for groceries, flowers, and other necessities.  And every morning without fail, he boarded the 7:10 into the center of the city, to report for work at the Bureau for Auxilliary Affairs, precisely at 8:00 AM.  His record was unblemished, save for the time he choked on a digestive biscuit and had to be taken to the clinic for treatment. He was 2 hours late that morning; it is possibly the reason he was passed over for promotion yet again.

Which is a damn shame, really. His job was to approve paperwork as it passed through his station. He was a stamp man, and possibly the best in his section, the Department of Supplemental Approval. The official rate of passage of forms to be approved through his station was 30/hr; he himself estimated it at more than 100. Theeoretically, he could mark any given paper with the bright red Returned fo Further Evaluation stamp, rather than the bright green A, but that slowed things down considerably, as he would have to fill out the proper form, and hand carry it along with the Returned paper down the hall to the Department of Approval Appeals. Janos considered this a waste of valuable time, as there was no one ever there. One dropped the papers ino a slot marked IN, and they disappeared. Meanwhile, paper at one’s own station was piling up relentlessly. Over the years, he had gradually come to simply approve everything that came through. That had been an immense relief, for it meant he no longer had to read the papers as they came through; indeed, truth be told, he had forgotten the criteria for approval, or even the nature of the forms themselves. Perhaps that accounted for his legendary efficiency. Janos’ days passed smoothly and inevitably. He was happy, and his superiors were happy. Though not so happy as to promote him.

And so, in the course of events, came this particular day, which to all appearances differed not one whit from any other day.  It was also a day Janos would regret for the rest of his life.  For it was the day he glaanced down at a form before stamping it.  He read,

milk
bread
1 ib butter (unsalted)
tea (Elina’s favorite)

It was, truthfully, not what he expected. True, he was no longer sure what the paperwork was about, but this seemed unlikely. With a hint of a tremor, he reached over to the top of the pile to his left, the already approved pile, and nervously looked at the top, most recently approved paper.

Dearest Sylvia,
I can no longer be responsible for the fire in my heart. I dream constantly of your warm white breasts, the razor-like nipples piercing…

He had read enough. A cold hand gripped his heart. It must have been a quarter hour before he slowly returned his attention to the pile. With each paper, each word, his heart sank further into his shoes.