by Deborah Adams
I can travel any when. I have. I know firsthand the rules aren’t what you think.
An example: I snapped up D. B. Cooper as he plummet-floated nearly splatted not to save him not to trap him but to feed a selfish hungry curiosity.
Transported him to my native era. “Money is useless here. Return it,” Dan said (I call him Dan) and I did, although a teensy math error spewed a few bills into 1980. No prob.
Easy to get it wrong at first. Second chances are a time traveler’s forte. Next I tucked it, neat, beneath a first class seat, Flight 305. Also, because time’s a fickle fluid puzzle.
I used it all before Dan boarded, left it stacked on cold hard benches in parks and depots and empty churches buried it in Mason jars poured the lot into the pocket of a thrift store coat.
Once I kept it all for my collection stored it in between the real magic bullet and Lizzie’s bloody never-did-they-find-it written-out confession.
Other years I dropped it in red kettles piled it up for Al Capone then took it back before Geraldo wasted hype.
I bought a congressman and some lies (redundancy), played 200,000 lotteries put every ticket in a single mother’s purse left tens and twenties sprawled on diner tables for waitresses who wipe down your sticky counters.
Again and again transtemporal magic blew for good people or bad ones needy ones glad ones maybe you maybe today.
And Dan? I left him right where I found him, freefalling into the dark with a briefcase full of money and a foolproof plan for recurring escape.
Deborah-Zenha Adams is an award-winning author of novels, short fiction, CNF, and poetry. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, One, Sheila-na-gig, and other journals. You’re invited to visit her website to read more of her work. www.Deborah-Adams.com