ORIGINAL FICTION: "Yesterday Will Be Better"

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Jerry Weeks looked out the window. It was raining, both outdoors and in his mood. His wife was yelling at him for the last time. He looked at his watch, given to him by his son as a birthday present some years before he died. It was Saturday, June 26th, 2010. Five-forty PM, exactly.

“Are you even listening to me?” she shrieked.

“No, ” he lied. He was. He heard every word, every accusation stabbed him in the gut, because, of course, he knew she was entirely right about everything, entirely right in every profanity, every hurled object, every slight, every recrimination. The obsessions, the paranoia, the late nights and early mornings, then came the amphetamines and suddenly the nights and mornings blurred into one. He lost his job, and had to live off of his trust fund. When he’d drained that, and could no longer afford the speed, he switched to Crystal Meth. His teeth eventually fell out, but Meth was cheap and easy. He mixed it up himself in the lab in between experiments, sold a bit on the side in exchange for butter-and-egg money. He lost his health, he lost his friends - not that he ever had all that many, to be honest - and now he was losing his wife.

In truth, he’d lost her years before. But couldn’t she see? He’d done it all for her, for their son, for the life they could have had, should have had, but didn’t? She stood by the door, bags in the hands of a cabbie, or was he her new boyfriend? Hard to tell. He tried one last time.

“It’s supposed to be a better world,” he said impotently. He’d meant for more, but he’d never been good with words, and the more he fought for something redeeming to say, the less articulate he got.

“Jerry, I don’t want to hear any more of your paranoid JFK conspiracy nonsense,” she said, her voice unhinged and shrill.

“I can bring him back, you know, I can make it un-done. Everything that has gone wrong stems from one point…”

“You shut up! You shut up now!” She lunged at him, “This has nothing to do with my boy!” She kicked him and punched him. He didn’t move to defend himself. “You were like this long before he died, before he was born, even!” She picked up a heavy glass ashtray and smashed him upside the head with it. His every sense exploded in pain, and while he didn’t black out, he couldn’t make sense of anything for a bit. Presently he found himself on the floor, and she was kicking him. He felt the pain, but it couldn’t really hurt him anymore. He was all hurt out for one lifetime. The Cabbie/Boyfriend was pulling her away from him, and she was vomiting out profanity, but that had long since passed the point of diminishing returns. You can only call someone a name so many times before it loses it’s meaning. Even if it’s true, as in his case.

“It’s ok,” he slurred, climbing to his knees, looking her directly in the eye but not really looking at her. Their son took after her. When he saw her, he was trying desperately not to see their boy in the coffin, trying not to remember them lowering him into the ground in Arlington. “I can fix it. Tomorrow will be better!” There was a pleading in his voice, a total brokenness betraying a lifetime of hurt. It was, after all, a terrible, terrible world.

“You see?” she said, “You see what I told you? He’s insane.” Ah, so he *was* her new boyfriend after all, though Jerry. The man took her bags, and he started inappropriately giggling. “We’ll both laugh about this when it didn’t happen.” she threw the lawyers papers at him, and stomped out the door.
He didn’t want to cry, but he felt like he should. It just wouldn’t come though. There wasn’t a tear left in him, and there hadn’t been for years.

“This is a terrible world,” he said to no one in particular, “But it doesn’t have to be.”


Having quite literally nothing left to lose, he went into his basement in the lab. He’d been working on this, on and off, for more than twenty years. It - and various conspiracy theories about Kennedy - had been his life’s obsession. He’d actually been capable of making the trip for going on a year now, but he held out for some reason. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because it was quite clearly going to be a one way trip. Win or lose, there would be no coming back from it. In fact, for him, assuming things worked as they were supposed to, he would simply cease to exist. This iteration of him would vanish into less than nothing, but that would be good, wouldn’t it? His life was not worth living, and he’d gladly lay it down to be the savior of everyone and everything. As he saw it, that was what he was doing. But as Jesus had hesitated in Gethsemane, so this self-styled messiah had tarried, not quite able to go ahead with it. Would he have ever gotten around to doing it if his wife hadn’t left just now? He wondered.

Just in case things didn’t work out, just in case this sad world remained, he should probably try to do something to explain it all to her, but again the words failed him. He wrote “Thank you for leaving me” in a letter, addressed the envelope, stamped it, then ran it out to the mailbox. On the way back in, he picked up some vintage clothing - razor tie, skinny black suit with narrow lapels, shiny black shoes - that he’d picked up from thrift stores over the years, and stuffed his wallet full of old bills. He picked up his briefcase, and stepped over to the time machine. It wasn’t very impressive looking, just for vertical coils a few feet apart. A space between them glowed the moment he turned it on. It was hard to look at, it kept trying to resolve itself into tunnels that wafted off at right angles to reality itself. It was the fabric of time and space coming slightly unraveled for an instant.

He stepped into the glow and disappeared into the past, while the world he left behind him - our world - instantly ceased to be.


“It’s so amazing seeing all this stuff again!” Jerry said to the disinterested old woman sitting next to him on the bus. She tried to avoid his eyes. He was radiating crazy on all frequencies.

“There’s two of me right now,” he said, “This me, right here, right now, and a six-year-old me in Ohio. I was devastated when I heard the news, you know how that kind of thing can change a kid.” The woman got up and moved to another seat. “Wow, just look at all this stuff! Is that a ‘64 Ford? It’s so *new!* Look at that!

The bus stopped in front of a two-screen theater. Several people got on and off while he was staring raptly at the marquee. “Wow, Cleopatra and It’s A Mad Mad Mad World!” he said to no one in particular. One of the new passengers, another old lady, sat down next to him. “I don’t know if you knew this or not,” he said, “But Cleopatra is going to become the biggest bomb in history!”

“I didn’t like it,” the new old woman said, “I don’t like that Elizabeth Taylor, she thinks she’s so special. Now, Spencer Tracy…I should have gone to see the other movie instead, but it’s so long…”

He turned to look at her, “Both of them are pretty long movies,” he said, not realizing it was now a different woman sitting next to him. “They are,” she agreed, “But it’s nice to get out of the heat, and it’s air conditioned in there. My house is so hot…”

“It’s November,” he said, questioningly.

“It’s November in Texas, sonny. Satan doesn’t come to Texas because it’s hotter than hell here.”

They both laughed.

“I’m from the future,” he said. “Tomorrow is a big day, a really big day, the day everything goes wrong, not just here, not just now, but for the world. And it never gets better, it never does, it just gets worse and worse and worse until my wife beats me up, and an IED kills my son.”

More cautiously now, the woman looked at the bruises on his head, the band-aided cuts.

“What goes wrong?” she asked.

“The president is gonna’ die. Assassinated. Tomorrow at 12:30. A guy named ‘Lee Harvey Oswald’ shoots him.” The woman looked uncomfortably at her watch. The bus was pulling in to another stop. Jerry looked out the window, the Zapp Ruder film playing over and over in his mind.

“His death causes a death spiral for the whole world. It starts off small, but then gets out of hand. We get involved in Vietnam, and that goes on forever, and we lose, and that sabotages all the social reform projects, the economy goes in the crapper, and of course that brings in the conservatives. That revives the economy, but it also destabilizes it, and internationalism effectively becomes dependent on any one of a zillion factors not going wrong. Granted, the cold war ended, but that just let a flood of missing nuclear weapons on the world….”

The woman got up without him knowing it and moved to the back of the bus. He rattled on. A new passenger sat down next to him.

“…which resulted in 9/11 and the even worse collapse of the economy, as well as increased tensions and of course the environmental damage I told you about keeps getting worse and worse, and all of that, all of that, all of that stems from the death of Kennedy. If he was in the right place in the right time, and if he hadn’t been shot, the world would be a much, much better place.”

“The president’s been shot?” the woman said. He turned to look at her. Once again, he didn’t realize she wasn’t the same one he’d started off the trip with.

“Oh, yes” he said.

“When?” she asked, frightened.

“Forty seven years ago, but it’s not going to happen until tomorrow.”

She got up and walked to the back of the bus, where two other women were pointing at Jerry, and motioning her to sit with them. He hopped up in the seat, and looked at her as she walked.

“But don’t worry,” he shouted, “I’m going to fix it!”


A lifetime of obsessive study had convinced him that there hadn’t been a conspiracy. There had never been a shortage of gun-toting whack jobs in American history. Linclon, Garfield, and McKinley had all fallen prey to twisted men working alone, and later today, Kennedy would be killed. Again. For the first time. The mission, then, was a simple one: Save Kennedy, save the world.

He spent the night in a motel, reveling in the overwhelming ‘sixtiesness’ of it, the look, the feel, the smells, all unlocking vaults of memories. He marveled at how bad the picture on the TV was, on how slow and boring the news coverage was, how prim everyone, even the liberals, seemed.

He checked out early, then, on a whim, checked back in, went to his room, and climbed out through a window. What did it matter? It’s not like his timeline was going to last much longer. If he pulled this off - and he had to pull it off - then the world would be on a different timeline, a different track. While six-year-old Jerry Weeks in Ohio would live a long, normal life, he’d never become the shambling mess that the fifty-three-year-old Jerry had become. He’d have a nice life, a nice family, a son that wouldn’t die in a pointless war, effectively a new future would be created in an instant, and as the circumstances that gave rise to Jerry’s madness would never have happened, that crazy 2010 iteration of Jerry would never have existed. He thought it was a nice gift to give himself, saving the world as a selfish gesture. He broke into hebephrenic laughter.

He got to the area that would eventually become infamously known as “The Grassy Knoll,” because, since there was no conspiracy, he knew that was the one place no one would be. He knew there were no cops anywhere near it. It was curious: the weather, the smell of the plants, the gasoline tang in the air, the sounds of the bugs buzzing, the street chatter, all faded from his mind the closer he came to the knoll. It was as if it was a fulcrum about which all the world spun; as if all the million-and-one details were being spun out of his mind by the numinous whirlpool of time itself, roiling and boiling beneath that spot.

He had a folding sniper’s rifle, and a modified camera tripod in his briefcase. He found a ridiculously open spot, but no one seemed to notice, and he looked at the Book Depository. He knew which window Oswald would be shooting out of. How could he not? It was burned into his brain, everyone’s brain who lived through that awful day, endlessly repeated on the news as the details started flooding out.

He patiently watched the window through the hunting scope, a really top of the line model. He’d had to sell a lot of meth to afford it. By noon, he was already getting sunburned, and he was sweaty and ruminating on the woman’s comments about hell being cooler than Texas. He wished he’d brought some sunblock, or at least a hat. A cooler with some drinks would have been nice, too.

The motorcade came into view, but he was the only one in the city that wasn’t watching it. He kept his eyes and his scope fixed firmly on the window. The limousine moved along, painfully exposed, closer and closer.

“Come on, show yourself,” Jerry said to no one. He could just make out a shadow moving on the wall behind the window. He felt something stinging his eyes, and assumed it was sweat until something started running down his face. He belatedly realized they were tears, and he was momentarily confounded as to where they’d come from.

The motorcade came closer, closer, closer, arrogantly closer still, its open top practically daring someone to shoot. The clock display in the scope said it was twelve twenty six, four minutes to go until the president was cut down, his blood spraying everyone around him, his skull ripped open. Closer and closer, a painfully slow, easy target. Three minutes to go, two, thirty seconds…

“Dammit, show yourself you son of a bitch” Jerry screamed.

As if on cue, he saw a glint of gunmetal, and a head bobbing through the window. He took the shot. It was an automatic, and he got off five shots. He’d always intended to save Kennedy’s life, but he’d been practicing at the range ever since his son died and his final plan took shape. He was sobbing openly, but didn’t realize it.

In just a fraction of a second after he pulled the trigger, Two of the bullets hit the concrete on either side of the window - it was a really hard shot, since he was aiming from below, on a very oblique angle. Three broke the glass. One buried itself in the interior wall, one hit Oswald’s rifle, the impact yanking it at a crazy angle.

A hot, sloppy tear dripped fell from Jerry’s chin.

The fifth bullet found its mark, straight into the madman’s head, spattering his brain all over the wall of the room. He was dead. Kennedy was saved.

Jerry’s tear never hit the ground. His entire timeline - and he along with it - instantly ceased to be, ceased to have ever been.


Jerry Weeks looked out the window. It was raining, both outdoors and in his mood. His husband was yelling at him for the last time. He looked at his watch. It had been his father’s. His mother gave it to him after the old man passed away. That was right before she’d disowned him when he married Ron. It was Saturday, June 26th, 2010. Five-forty PM, exactly.

It was a terrible world.

“Are you even listening to me?” his husband grumbled.

“Yes,” he lied. Ron yelled at him all day long, all night long. Jerry learned to tune it out. Presumably his husband was about to move out again, run around with some of the locals for a few days, blow all of Jerry’s money on a group rate for a geriatric actual, real female hooker - both of them preferred women, but no one wants to grow old alone, and there weren’t really any women to be had - and then he’d stumble back in, bombed out of his mind.

“I’m leaving you for good this time,” Ron said.

“Yeah, whatever. The world is a terrible place, but it doesn’t need to be.”

“Oh, I am so sick to death of all your ‘Kennedy was the Antichrist’ shit! I…God! You make me want to…”

“Well he ways,” Jerry said without turning around from the window. The landscape was parched. It hadn’t rained here in years. Something to do with the war, but no one knew exactly what.

Ron lunged at him, and punched him hard in the square of his back. Jerry went down hard, but he didn’t scream, he just took it, the way he always had. It was a bad relationship, but it’s not like there were a lot of options, particularly for a crazy person. It’s not like he could get a Breeder’s License, such things were very strictly regulated these days, and he had no particular skills to justify it. Well, he was smart, a desirable trait, but it was offset by his ulcerative colitis, and his somewhat schizoid tendencies.

Ron kicked him a few times, stole his wallet, and left. He didn’t bother to close the door.


Jerry looked at his time machine. It didn’t look like much. Eight vertical coils, four hanging from the ceiling, four standing on the floor. He’d been Ten when Vietnam blossomed into World War III. He’d still been ten when it ended. It was a short thing, longer than most would have expected of a nuclear war, but technology was pretty primitive in those days. Things had a tendency not to go off as planned. Ten months after it began, it ended without resolving any of the basic issues that led to it. It was simply because both sides were too punch-drunk and bloodied keep fighting. There had been another, smaller nuclear war around the turn of the century, the tattered remains of both countries fighting over the tattered remains of the world,though most of that one had taken place in South Africa. Another war was definitely brewing, though it might not get here for another thirty years. It was a terribly, terribly bad world.

But it didn’t need to be.


He wandered through 1963, awash in the sights and sounds, the smells. The thing that jumped out at him were the smells, the most fragile of memories, the most primal. One would imagine that in the semi-squalid future he’d spent most of his life in, the most stunning aspect would be the crowds, how well-fed everyone was, the absence of Biological Police on every corner, an industrial economy that didn’t revolve around food production, or perhaps simple things like American flags. But no, it was the smells. He wandered through the crowds, reveling in them, drinking them in - the chemical odor of women’s hair spray, the exhaust fumes, the acrid scents coming from the electronics, the entirely forgotten smell of machine oil in the stereo shop, the stale, wet air smell coming from the pneumatic equipment in an automotive shop. Coffee smelled terrible to him, though, and he winced from that. He’d been too young when the war happened, he’d never developed a taste for it, and afterwards there had been no coffee at all to develop a taste for.

Chocolate! He’d had his first taste of chocolate in thirty-five years. It wasn’t nearly as good as he remembered. Too rich. His stomach got a little upset.

He had a little money. Pre-war bills were useless as useless as confederate dollars in 2010, they were easy to find, lining bird cages, used as padding in pillows, some poorer folks used ‘em as toilet paper. It had been a simple matter to pick out bills printed before ‘63. He was flush for a week at least, though he’d only be here for two days. He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen to him if he successfully changed the future. Would he cease to ever be? Would he just live out the rest of his natural life on the alternate timeline? What of paradoxes? As with all first-time tourists, he tended to over-pack.

He found a little two-screen theater (Though the locals seemed to think it was a big two-screen theater) and watched “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World,” and sat stunned by the faces and voices of actors he’d long, long since forgotten existed. Buddy Hackett? As forgotten as Cyrus the Great. Phil Silvers? Might as well have been Ozymandeus.

Such a hopeful little world, he thought, and I must save it.

He’d spent a lifetime researching Kennedy. Who hadn’t? After his death - inside of the first half our of World War III - he’d become something of an obsession for the survivors, a spectacularly incompetent Shiva, destroyer of worlds. The man’s gross misunderstandings of realpolitik got America involved in Vietnam, and insisted on handling it with total mobilization, as though it were some forgotten corner of World War II. “No More Koreas” was the slogan. China felt threatened, and it snowballed from there. Kennedy was regarded - not just by Americans - as the greatest and most incompetent monster who ever lived.

It was commonly known that there had been a failed attempt on the man’s life on November 22nd, 1963. A man by the name of Lee Harvey Oswald had apparently been attempting to shoot Kennedy as his motorcade drove past. Oswald, himself died before getting a chance to pull the trigger. Jerry had come through time to make sure that it didn’t fail. Details were sketchy, but common wisdom said it was an CIA or Special Forces sniper that took the assassin out. Everyone knew about “The Grassy Knoll Gunman.”

The job, then, was simple: Kill the gunman, Oswald survives, the president dies, and the future is saved.

It was curious: the weather, the smell of the grass, the smell of the stale coffee he‘d spilled on his jeans earlier, the sounds of the cars in the street, the chatter of birds, all faded from his mind the closer he came to the knoll. It was as if it was a fault line, along which two timelines struggled inexorably against each other; as if all the million-and-one details were being ground out of his mind by the numinous plate-slippage of time itself, trembling and quaking beneath that spot.

He was startled by what he saw in the knoll: Not a slick, faceless sniper, but a skinny, bruised, gummy old fool sobbing away while he looked through a rifle scope. The rifle looked wrong, the scope looked wrong, all futuristic and high-tech. Definitely out of place in 1963.

The man heard him come through the bushes. He jumped and turned with a start. They saw each other’s faces. Both their eyes went wide!

“Me!” Postapocalyptic Jerry said.
“Wait, now there’s three of me?” the crazy Jerry asked.

Postapocalyptic Jerry recovered first. He was in better health, and clearly less crazy. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing his pistol at the other Jerry’s head.

“Is sitting down moving?” Crazy Jerry asked.

“No, crosslegged, and move away from the rifle,” the other Jerry said, paused a second, and asked, “What did you mean by the ‘three of me’ thing?”

“There’s three of me: Me, you, and our six-year-old self in Ohio.”

“Ah.” That was as far as Postapocalyptic Jerry could go, logically. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. They stared at each other for a few minutes.

“Whatever it is you’re going to do, I suggest you do it quickly,” said Crazy Jerry, “We don’t have a lot of time here. Either you kill me, or I kill Oswald.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on…how can I be…how can we be in two places at the same time?”

“Three places,” said Crazy Jerry, who was still had tears streaming down his face, but rather disconcertingly he had not a trace of emotion in his voice, “Obviously we both come from alternate futures. Obviously we’re working at crossed purposes. The future is a terrible place, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“Ok,” said Postapocalyptic Jerry, once again not sure how to process this.

Crazy Jerry looked nervously at his watch. Postapocalyptic Jerry did, too. They had to wrap this up, and fast. A calm came over Crazy Jerry’s face, he was clearly looking inward.

“I must have created the future you came from by changing the outcome of the assassination, and you must be here to stop me from doing it.”

“Yes,” Postapocalyptic Jerry said, “How are you putting all this together so quickly? I still don’t really understand what’s going on.”

“Crazy: Reality and I don’t get along, so it’s easy for me to accept things that make no sense. I’m assuming you’ve had a better life than me, as you don’t seem nuts. Is your world a better place than mine?”

“How would I know?” Postapocalyptic Jerry said.

“Good point.”

“Ok, how about this,” Postapocalyptic Jerry said, “We compare notes, and whomever’s got the worst future gets to protect the other one. Deal? So how bad is your future?”

“Terrible. My wife left me, my son is dead.”

“We had a wife? We had a son? We had a normal family?” Postapocalyptic Jerry said, he looked haunted by the idea.

Crazy Jerry ignored him, “The US is engaged in two Vietnam-styled wars in Asia, and we’re teetering on a third.”

“There’s still an America?” Postapocalyptic Jerry said under his breath.

Crazy Jerry continued, “The entire Arab world hates us, Gas prices are high, the ecology’s in the toilet, there’s an endless oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico that’s cranking out…well, no one will tell us the real numbers, but probably something like three million gallons a day, and it’s been going on for months with no end in sight. Around the world, the oil is running out. The global economy is in the crapper, and it’s simply not going to get better because we outsourced so many jobs overseas that there’s not enough industry inside the country to recover. We’ll always be dependent on foreign industry. Neither political parties will talk to each other. There’s crime, drugs, disease, moral decay, which I myself have contributed to in order to get here…there’s more, but that’s the worst of it. I can only imagine that whatever concerns sent you back in time to stop me must pale by comparison. Can your world be any worse than that?”

“Yes.” Postapocalyptic Jerry said softly, looking at his watch, “Did your world have a nuclear war?”

Crazy Jerry looked thunderstruck, “No!”

“Are you in an ice age?”


“Is eight tenths of humanity dead? Are there six times as many men as women in your world? Do you have a one-party dictatorship that tenuously holds together what’s left of North America? Do your people have to do twelve-hour shifts in the fields to grow food, because there’s no fertilizer or combines anymore?” Postapocalyptic Jerry shouted.

It was true, his future was a nightmare: The US had ceased to exist nearly forty years before. The east and west coasts of the former United States were a nightmarish no man’s land of overgrown plants, half-melted ruins, and rubble so radioactive you couldn’t come within a mile of it without getting sick. Much of the rest of the world was likewise. Southeast Asia was completely uninhabitable, as was eastern China. The Soviet Union had swollen to absorb all of Europe, but such hypertrophy had resulted in endless civil wars up until the point where a crashing population had collapsed the government. The USSR remained the dominant power in the world even today, but it was more sham than substance, a kind of latter day iteration of the Holy Roman Empire. Africa and South America and Australia were untouched, but all three set to chewing their own legs off once food shipments from the United States ran out. The Secondary Kill of the nuclear war - famine, disease, plague, - was worse than the war itself, though Fallout wasn‘t nearly the problem people would have anticipated. One year, the global population had been three billion people. The next year there were only one and a half billion, the next year only seven hundred and fifty million. The population kept dropping. It wasn’t until Postapocalyptic Jerry’s on present - 2010 - that the numbers had held stable. The gene pool was running very, very low, and while no one thought humanity was going to go extinct, it was unclear what this continued existence would be like. Men outnumbered women six to one. Women, it seems, are very easy to kill.

Crazy Jerry said nothing. There was a long pause. They could hear the crowd cheering, the motorcade coming closer. “May I stand?”


“There’s a tendency to assume that the road you didn’t get to travel is better than the one you did,” Crazy Jerry said. He’d never stopped crying, though his voice had been icy, but after his counterpart’s harangue, sadness came into his voice. His tone finally matched his expression.

“Logically, that doesn’t make much sense,” Postapocalyptic Jerry replied, “The other road might have been just as bad as the one. You did take. Or much worse.”

“Or much worse,” Crazy Jerry agreed. There was an instant of silence that seemed to last much longer than it really was as he looked inward again. What little remained of his sanity was cracking, slipping away. When he spoke again, his voice was shrill, unhinged, “All those people who died in your world, I killed them. It’s my fault. You can’t let it happen again for the first time, you have to make sure it didn’t happen. Kill me. Please.” Tears had been gathering at his chin all along. As he spoke, they broke free and fell. “You’d be doing me a favor. Take this cup of su - “

Postapocalyptic Jerry pulled the trigger. Simultaneously, a rifleshot was heard a few blocks away, the president fell. This time his tears hit the ground, though Postapocalyptic Jerry, having prevented his own future from ever happening, flashed out of existence.


Jerry Weeks looked out the window. It was raining, both outdoors and in his mood. His wife was yelling at him for the last time. He looked at his watch, given to him by his son as a birthday present some years before he died. It was Saturday, June 26th, 2010. Five-forty PM, exactly.

It was a terrible world. The US was involved in two wars, verging on a third, the global economy was in the crapper, the gulf oil spill was raging out of control, the environment was falling apart, humanity had turned their back on space exploration, most of the world was only two or three missed food shipments away from famine, the oceans were rising - or were they falling this week? It was hard to keep track. President Obama, the last great hope of pulling out of the tailspin, was a huge disappointment, and had, if anything, made matters worse. A dozen countries were on the verge of war, and the world faced a new round of nuclear proliferation, a recipe for disaster. It was a terrible, terrible world.

His wife yelled at him while her new paramour watched, then she beat him up, hit him with an ashtray, dazing him, knocking him to the floor. She served him with divorce papers, and stormed out.

Presently he got up and headed down stairs to his time machine.

It was a terrible world, but it didn’t need to be. “Yesterday will be better,” he said as he went down the stairs to his time machine…


Copyright 2010, Republibot 3.0


Thanks for reading, everyone!

I need some your help on this story: I'm not sure if the ending is clear enough, or if I need to rewrite it. If you'd be so kind, please sound off in the comments to let me know what you think is going on, that'll help me to judge if it needs fixing, and how to do that.