A BELL RINGS

A bell rings. 

Thin streams of air jut from the tube and these streams rustle the hairs on the back of my neck. I swivel my chair around and watch as the cylindrical container slams to the bottom. I slide the door to the left, pulling the container out. I swivel back to my desk, open the container and find the same thing that’s always in there. A sliver of red paper, latitudes, longitudes, coordinates typed in a formal, bureaucratic computer font. I type in the coordinates, raise the panel on my desk and push the navy blue button.

Somewhere in the early part of the 20^th century, somebody dies for no apparent reason. No traceable cause of death. Doctors at the time call it a mystery or "just one of those things" and that person’s entire lineage in the timeline is erased. Instantly, future generations who were connected to that unfortunate soul are wiped out of existence.

I close the panel, securing the blue button in the process. I swivel to the tube and place the container back into it. I slam the door to the right. With a whoosh, the tube shoots back up to wherever it came from. I swivel back to my desk and almost nod off as I look through the newspaper.

A bell rings.




-SLL