Ripples Through Time

by Lincoln Cole

  Worrying about stuff like that was for little kids. He used to be bothered by it, when he was little, but now he was ten and becoming a man. Men were thick skinned, his dad said, and they didn’t really mind it when their little sisters laughed at them.

  But his dad didn’t really understand Jason. He wasn’t normal. He wasn’t one of those boring kids that got up in the morning and went to school just to play. He was going to be famous one day, someone that everyone respected. Like Hemingway. Or—if he got to pick—then like Isaac Asimov. He’d just finished reading the Foundation, and that settled it. He was going to be a writer.

  He had good ideas. Fantastic ones, actually. But the problem was, when the stories left his imagination and went down to the paper, they lost something: their essence. He would think of a scene, and he could actually see it playing out like cinema, but once it was on paper it became bland. Or worse, cliché.

  But sometimes that wasn’t bad. Cliché wasn’t always avoidable. Sometimes cliché helped a story along. He wasn’t going to stop writing just because his ideas weren’t original. He would just have to write better than the stories that made the concept common. He just had to find a good beginning, and work from there.

  Jason lowered the pen to the sheet of paper and scribbled out a quick sentence: The planet was the fifth from the sun, smaller than the others, but capable of sustaining life. Then he gently tapped the paper. It was a decent opening sentence, but not as remarkable as he’d hoped. Maybe he could wow the readers with the next sentence.

  The problem was, no more ideas would come to mind. It seemed so easy when Asimov wrote, describing a planet down to the most basic details with barely any effort. But when Jason saw the planet in his mind, all he saw was a big floating ball in space. Did it have cities? He couldn’t decide. Maybe it was a pristine planet, untouched by humans, and his characters would find and turn it into a new home for humanity.

  But what characters? Where were they now, when the story started? What were they doing? He had some ideas of things they would do, but he didn’t know how to get them there.

  He heard Beth shout something in the hall. Probably arguing with mom. A door slammed shut.

  Maybe he was wrong to start with the planet. Maybe he should start with the main character. Jason scratched out that first line and scrawled beneath it: Captain Jason Mallister stood outside the (insert ship name here). It was a medium sized vessel, fast and well-armed. The hull was made of a titanium alloy that kept it space worthy and protected the crew inside. Captain Jason liked his ship, and he was a good pilot. He took his watch out of his pocket and opened the lid, checking the time but also looking at the picture of his beautiful wife.

  When Jason set his pen down this time he was happier. He wasn’t sure why he decided to name the main character after himself—was that too arrogant?—but it was still good. He liked that the guy had a wife. That made him normal and believable. At least Jason thought it did.

  He was just about to pick up the pen to add another paragraph when the bedroom door opened. “Go away Rickie, I’m working,” he said.

  “Not Rickie,” his mom said, “and you told me you were going to—Jason what…what is all…Oh God.”

  He turned sheepishly in his chair, sliding it across the hardwood floor. He knew he was in trouble, and he knew exactly why. Wadded up sheets of paper littered the floor all over the room. Dozens, maybe more. His mom stood in the doorway, one hand covering her mouth in what he decided was exaggerated shock. She knew he was going to use the paper, so she couldn’t be that surprised.

  “What is all of this?” she asked.

  “I’m working, and I didn’t need those pages anymore. They weren’t any good.”

  She bent down and picked one off the ground. “This page is half blank, and the back hasn’t even been touched.”

  “I didn’t want to—“

  “You can’t waste paper, Jason.”

  “I’m not wasting it—“

  “Do you know how hard your father works to get this paper for you? And that desk?”

  Jason looked at the floor, suddenly abashed. “I just…I…I’m sorry,” Jason said. Guilt flooded him when he thought about what she said. He rarely ever saw his father, and even then it was only the short breaks between shifts. Calvin Greenwood worked two jobs to support the family, and they were still struggling to get by.

  And he knew how expensive paper was. He hadn’t been intentionally wasting it, he just didn’t think about it. All good authors tossed used sheets away when they didn’t need them. It was always about the next idea, and the one after. He climbed out of his chair and started picking up the sheets, un-wadding them and smoothing them out. “This one is still…I suppose I could use it some more.”

  His mom sighed. “We can put these in the stove for now so your dad doesn’t see them, but you have to use more of the paper. Don’t waste it. We can’t afford to keep buying more.”

  He nodded. “I’m working on my new book. I think later there are going to be giant river monsters, but at the beginning they don’t know about them. The crew is going to find them when they land on a small planet to explore.”

  “Do you have much finished?” his mom asked.

  “Some, but not a lot. I’m still trying to figure out the details. And I keep starting, but it’s not as good as I want it to be.”

  “Well let me see what you have done.”

  Jason panicked. “I uh…no…um…what I have done so far…it’s not finished yet to be read. And I don’t want to let anyone read it until it’s ready.”

  Emily smiled. “Well okay then, but I want you to know that I’m always here for you if you ever need me. And your father too. We would love to read it.”

  “As soon as it’s ready I’ll give it to you. You’ll be the first,” Jason said. He doubted his father would ever read it. It wasn’t a secret that Calvin wasn’t very good at reading. Plus, he didn’t have time. “And I’ll clean up the yard like I said I would. I just forgot when I was busy and all.”

  “Okay,” Emily said. She gave him a hug. “And you can’t lock your brother out of the room. It’s his room too.”

  “But he never shuts up! He just wants to go on, and on, and on, and he always reads over my shoulder and tells me I’m stupid.”

  “He said he tried to apologize and you locked him out.”

  Jason didn’t reply. It was all true, so there was no use arguing. But that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t like having his brother around. Rickie was just mean. He was bigger than Jason, stronger and more developed, and he liked to show it.

  Especially since both of them knew that Jason was smarter. Jason didn’t even try to point it out, but other people did. They said Rickie had a reading problem like his father, while Jason was writing the next great American novel.

  “I’ll let him back in, mom,” Jason said finally. She smiled again and told him that his father would be home later and they would have dinner in an hour.

  Jason turned back to his work, picking up the pen and settling his tongue back between his lips.

  ***

  “Still working?”

  “Yeah, Rickie, I’m still working,” Jason said in his best patronizing tone, refusing to turn in his chair. Rickie had come in a few minutes ago to change his clothes—he’d been outside playing baseball—and as far as Jason was concerned, it should have been obvious that he was still writing.

  “How far are you?”

  Jason had just finished his fourth paragraph, but he wasn’t sure where to go next. Captain Mallister had boarded his ship now and they were flying, but he wasn’t sure where they were flying to. And Jason didn’t really care right now anyway. He was hungry, and he could smell chicken roasting in the kitchen.

  He set his pen down and went with his standby answer: “A little ways into it.”

  “Do you have the first chapter done?”

  “No.”

  “Almost?”

  “I’m working on it.�
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  “Well when you’re done, I want to read it.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “No, I’m serious,” Rick said. “I can critique it. Help make it better.”

  Jason was mildly offended, despite being aware that any critique should be helpful. “You can barely read,” he shot back, then instantly regretted it. He was expecting an angry response, but what he saw instead was hurt.

  “I was just offering,” Rick mumbled, suddenly busy with his dresser. Toy dinosaurs stood on the top. They used to collect them, but neither of them had added to the collection in years.

  Jason wondered if he should apologize. He decided not to. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He did, however, add: “thanks.”

  “I think dinner is about ready,” Rick said. “I’m starving.”

  “Me too. How was practice?”

  “Good. We have a game on Saturday. Are you going to play next year?”

  “I don’t know, maybe,” Jason replied. The answer, they both knew, was ‘no’. Jason was too small to be considered for any sports teams, and he didn’t see any purpose in trying out for the baseball team if he was never going to get to play.

  And sports were dumb anyway. Repetitively catching or throwing a ball around proved nothing except that a person had general motor skills. Why did people always want to compete against each other when they could just as easily work together to do something really great? Like go out in space.

  Or…

  Sports…

  In space…

  Jason turned frantically back to the half-filled sheet of paper and began scribbling, hoping to nail the idea down before it slipped away. He felt his brother come up behind him and lean over his shoulder, but he ignored him.

  He just kept scribbling, needing to get this new idea out. Once it was on paper he could examine it. It might work, it might not. All that mattered was getting it down.

  These flashes of inspiration, the ones that had him climbing out of bed at three in the morning to write something down, were a blessing and a curse. He was terrified of forgetting something. Once he had a good idea, he rarely forgot it, but that wasn’t the point. If he did forget, it would be a tragedy.

  “Space smugglers?” Rickie asked once he’d finished reading.

  “What?” Jason replied, distracted.

  “They are space smugglers?”

  “Pirates,” Jason said absently.

  “Space pirates? That’s cool. What’s nitrous di-oxide?”

  “I don’t know,” Jason said.

  “Then…how do you know they are using it for fuel?”

  “That’s the cool part about science fiction. I don’t have to know. I can just write it, and since no one else knows they just take me at my word.”

  “I get it,” Rickie said. It was clear that he didn’t. “What are you working on now?”

  “In a minute,” Jason said. He continued scribbling, jotting the next few words to finish his sentence. A couple paragraphs, total, was all the new addition amounted to. At least for now. He could work on it, expand it, and it could become something else in the story. But for now he had the idea.

  Jason turned his chair around. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “Your story is about space pirates?”

  “My novel, and yes. Space pirates.”

  “What part did you just add?” Rickie asked, leaning forward again. Jason hated, hated, hated when people read things he’d just written. It had come out of his head, no refining, no editing, nothing. There might be glaring errors, omissions, and when people pointed those out it felt like a personal attack. They always expected perfection for something that could never be perfect.

  But he didn’t shove Rickie away. He was proud of these lines. The best ones, he knew, were the ones that came from inspiration rather than effort.

  “’Motor Ball?’” Rickie asked finally.

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “It’s like baseball, only with a motor bike.”

  “I like it. Sounds dangerous,” Rickie said. “Maybe you could change the name. Something like ‘Murder Ball.’ People could carry chains or something, and the point would be to knock other people off their bikes too.”

  “No,” Jason said, shaking his head. “You’re missing the point. It’s supposed to be futuristic. Like a future sport. It’s not dangerous.”

  “Why not? People like danger? And how wouldn’t it be dangerous? You’re riding around chasing a ball on a motorcycle.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the future. I think one of my characters will be a famous motor ball player.”

  “Cool,” Rickie said. “That’ll explain why he enjoys killing people.”

  “He what?”

  “You know, why he likes killing people since he’s a pirate. He can run them down on his motorcycle and stuff!”

  Jason felt his jaw hanging open. He fought down the urge to punch his brother. Instead, he crumpled the sheet of paper up in his fist.

  “What are you doing? I liked that part!”

  Jason threw the paper in the trash can. “Let’s go eat.”

  ***

  Jason was surprised when he and his brother arrived in the kitchen to find their mother wrapping tin foil over their dinner. He could still smell the cooked food in the air and his stomach grumbled. She glanced up at them as they came in.

  “Oh Jason, Rickie. Get your shoes on and grab your coats.”

  “What, why?” Rickie asked. Their mom stuck the pot and a tin-foil wrapped loaf of bread into the fridge.

  “You don’t need to ask questions.”

  Jason headed for the door and grabbed his shoes. It was cold outside, the middle of January, and he had a big overcoat hanging on the rack. He slipped it over his shoulder and headed for a chair to finish putting his shoes on.

  “Where are we going?” Rickie asked.

  Jason watched his mom set her hands on her hips. The glare she leveled at Rickie could have melted steel, but Rickie met it with a bland look on his face. Emily was skinny with long black hair tied into a ponytail. It hung loose over her right shoulder. Her lips were pursed the way she got whenever she was angry. Which, anymore, seemed to be any time she argued with Jason’s thirteen year old brother.

  “We,” she said, emphasizing each word, “are going to Mr. White’s house. They have invited us to dinner.”

  “See mom? That wasn’t so hard,” Rickie said, joining Edward and putting his own shoes on. Emily only sighed.

  “What for?” Jason asked. They’d gone to the White’s for dinner a few times before but not in a few months.

  “They invited us.”

  “Oh,” Jason said. “Why?”

  “Because it’s a nice thing to do,” she replied, “and Rickie is friends with Alan.”

  “Adam,” Rickie corrected.

  “Oh,” Jason replied.

  “Just put your shoes on.”

  Jason turned dutifully to finish his task. Once he was finished he stood up and finished putting his coat on. “Well, I hope we still have chicken.”

  “Not a chance,” Rickie said. “Jenny doesn’t like chicken, remember?”

  “Oh,” Jason remembered, chagrined. “Oh right.”

  Beth came bounding down the stairs, still in her school clothes and with her winter coat on. She was two years younger than Jason. She had her dad’s curly hair with her mom’s eyes; she was also a little monster, a fact she managed to keep a secret from adults. Bethany, Jason knew, could get away with murder if she wanted.

  “I’m ready!”

  “Okay good,” Emily said. “We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  “Is dad coming?” Jason asked. His mom glanced at him, a sad expression on her face.

  “No. Not tonight. He’s working late at the track for Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Oh, he’s at the track tonight? Can we go see him?” Jason asked. He loved going to the track and petting the horses. It wasn’t very often that Jason got to go with him. When Calvin did take one of the kids, he usual
ly took the little monster instead.

  “The track?” Rickie echoed. “I hate going there.”

  “Yeah, it smells there,” Bethany said, scrunching up her nose for emphasis. Jason knew that if her dad was here asking who wanted to go to the track, Bethany would be jumping in excitement. “Me and Rickie don’t want to go there.”

  “We can’t tonight anyway,” mom said, “since we have to go to your friend’s house for dinner, Rickie.”

  “Okay good,” Beth said, flashing that winning smile that kept her out of trouble. Jason wanted to punch her. She always got what she wanted.

  “Everyone out to the car,” Emily said. Rickie opened the door and the cold air spun its way into the kitchen, carrying a smattering of snowflakes that melted as soon as they hit his skin. Jason glanced past and saw that it was coming down hard.

  He hated snow. He wished they’d never moved from the south. He’d only been seven when they moved, but he still knew how much warmer it was there than here.

  He hurried out to the car, fighting the slippery surfaces to keep his feet. It was a ’72 Buick his dad bought a few months ago, not long after they came out, painted the ugliest shade of maroon.

  He waited impatiently for his mom to unlock the doors so he could climb in. By contrast, Emily had to call several times for Bethany to come get in the car.

  Bethany was standing in the middle of the yard, eyes closed and tongue out and spinning circles. It took three calls to wake the immature girl up, and still another thirty seconds to get her inside. Rickie was in the front and the other two in back.

  His mom turned on the radio but Jason tuned it out. Christmas music. Uggh. Instead he spent his time thinking. The motion of a vehicle, for whatever reason, helped his mind to relax. He found that riding in a vehicle was when he did some of his best thinking. Right now he was going over details from his newest story in his mind.

  He would have to scrap the Motor Ball detail now. It was corrupted; Rickie had that effect on everything. But that didn’t mean it was a totally useless idea.

  Maybe there was another game. Some other sport that people partook of in the future. He was going to set his book maybe four or five hundred years from now, and it was important to find the right details.