Getting both excited and apprehensive. So I thought I’d share excerpts every day this week. Here goes:
Murphy’s Time-Travel Law: Time travel is impossible—until it happens.
I am certifiable.
Time travel is impossible.
For the kazillionth time in the last seventy-two hours, I squeeze my eyes shut, beg God to make things right, and lift one lid.
Nada. Zippo. Nil.
I am still in the same room in some freaking castle in Wales.
I am still in fricking 1763.
Hugging my knees, I rock back and forth and bite my lips, hoping the stinging pain will stop another mother-lode sob session.
My glance falls on the rusty-colored iron trunk, and I reach out and touch it.
Solid. Cold. Real.
In the gloom and shadows, the three gold coins lying on the lumpy cot twinkle at me. Unable to resist, I pick one up, study the engravings, and trace a finger over the year, 1763.
A guttural shout comes from beyond the lone open window in the room, and my heart races. One thing I’ve learned in the last two days—privacy is nonexistent in 1763.
How much time do I have before they come for me?
“Get a grip, Emma Maria Perez. It’s use it or lose it time.” The sound of my voice is somehow comforting and normal—not crazy. I hop up onto the spartan cot. The mattress sinks under my weight, and a cloud of dust tickles my nose. Ignoring the mini sneezing fit that follows, I loosen the leather straps on the trunk from the brass buckles and lift the domed lid open.
The trunk’s about three feet by five feet and about two feet deep. It’s metal and wood and heavier than the speedboat anchor I’m used to hauling up by hand in Lake Boca Raton. It’d taken me ages to lug it to the coach stop, but it had been more than worth the effort. I dig around to find my backpack, flick the combo lock, and retrieve the ballpoint pen and paper appropriated from The Ratfyn Inn two days ago.
I am the kind of person who needs lists. Ordinarily, I compose my lists on my iPhone. A strangled sound more like a sob than a snort erupts from my throat. Tears brim and I grit my teeth.
No more crying.
Time travel doesn’t work the way it’s portrayed in movies and books.
Useless tools follow you in time, mocking you because you can’t use them. I have an iPhone that doesn’t work, a Kindle that won’t power on, and a set of remote keys for a rental car that no longer exists.
“Make a doggone list.” My death grip on the pen makes my fingertips burn. After flexing my hand a few times, I start to write.
Facts:
1. I am in Wye Court, Wales.
2. It’s November 2, 1763.
3. I left Boca Raton, Florida, on October 30, 2013.
A stomach cramp hits me, and I double over and wait the convulsions out. For two days, all I’ve had to eat were the three packs of freebie peanuts from the transatlantic plane ride. Temptation surges, my mouth waters, and I stare at the backpack. Shaking my head and clenching my jaw, I set aside the idea of eating one of the four Mars bars purchased while waiting for Heathrow’s airport train to take us to the car rental station. I’m a hoarder by nature, and I’m afraid to eat all my precious food until I know for certain I’ll be fed regularly.
I read what I’ve written and want to howl my frustration, my anger, my sheer terror. But I can’t because they can come for me at any moment, and I have to be prepared.
Hope you enjoyed and there’s more to come.
Happy Monday!
Cheers,
Jianne
