Short Lived

  Except none of it had happened yet.

  Thrilled to have something so fascinating and something to take the edge off my mood – I slid off the bed in search of my own passport. It took scrabbling through several drawers, and the upending of a few unlucky ones before I found the item in question. I took off back to the bedroom, frightening Bosley on the way and laid the two passports side by side.

  The older, more used one was definitely the same. Every element was identical… It was only time that separated them. I wished I could have made sense of it. I wanted it to be a joke – because how else was this bizarre happenstance reality? The facts rolled around in my head like snooker balls. Nobody I knew would go to this effort to trick me. Nobody would dare, yet I was sitting there, believing more so in the possibility of time travel than anything else. It made no sense. It was utterly absurd. This wasn’t an HG Wells novel, things like this just didn’t happen, and contrary to what may have been going on behind the closed doors of science – time travel certainly didn’t exist.

  What would Granddad have thought?

  For the first time in so long, I smiled at the memory of him. At the thought of his amused shrug and that well-travelled and all-knowing incline of his head. You’re losing it, Jessie. You’re madder than me!

  Tickled, and for once, happily reminiscent of Granddad, I opened my own passport; my present one.

  No stamps.

  Not a one.

  The sight was far more disappointing than I had anticipated, even though I had already known the outcome. No medals of honour for the unadventurous. I would have been okay with that before Granddad had passed away, but now that I had seen the blank pages of the present passport, compared with the vibrant, smiling stamped ones of the future, I felt exposed and afraid.

  The realisation made me feel as though I was teetering on a see-saw, dipping and resurfacing – and I knew right there, that regardless of why, or how this passport had ended up on my bedside table, wrinkled and loved, I had to honour it.

  For me, and of course, for Granddad.

  *

  Just under a year later, I was at the airport, loaded up with bags, confidence and love. Eva and Mum had come to wave me off, and they watched me with trepidation – as though they were seeing Bambi step out onto the ice.

  ‘This is your last chance, Jessica. You can still come home.’ Mum’s eyebrows were knitted into an all too familiar frown, which I tried to extinguish with a smile.

  ‘It’s a bit late now. I’m scared, yes, but I was far more scared before this.’

  ‘We should just be glad she’s leaving her flat, mum. Bosley’s had a lucky escape,’ Eva said good humouredly, giving me a wink. It was too true for an argument.

  The past year had been hard – almost more than the immediate aftermath of the clearance of Granddad’s house. I had enthusiastically broken into years’ worth of savings for my travels, and the rest had been planning and saving, planning… and saving some more. I’d even taken on extra shifts at work to cover my bills in the meantime. The passport from the future had watched me knowingly from my bookshelf, giving me support as much as photos and letters from Granddad had. Slowly but surely, I had stepped into the metaphorical sunshine, and winced at how difficult the journey so far had been.

  Now I would say goodbye to my family for the next few years and hello to myself.

  *

  Australia

  I tried not to think about where the passport was leading me and why. I could only hope that my future self wouldn’t have sent me the passport for anything but a good reason.

  I began to care less and less about the motives of the Jessica I didn’t know yet as I stepped onto the white sand of Cottesloe Beach in Western Australia.

  I had my sandals in one hand, teetering from my fingers as I strolled. It was approaching sunset, and crowds were already gathering to stare out at the blue expanse of Indian Ocean; waiting for magic.

  Already, my head felt clearer. It was an amalgamation of the foreign sand between my toes, the distinct scent of adventure in the humid air… and the view wasn’t bad, either.

  The beach itself had been recommended to me by a local and so, keen to throw myself into my adventure with enthusiasm, I had made Cottesloe my first stop as the night drew in.

  While busy and not exactly private, the beach held a charm that made me feel I had my own special connection to it, despite sharing the sand with hundreds of others. The sea crept forward, and over it, like pink flames licking at the heavens, was dusk. The sun hung low like a medallion - oddly reminiscent to me of Granddad’s commemorative armed forces badge, presented to him by the Queen. I remembered with a fond tear in my eye, that he had displayed it proudly – bringing it up whenever the conversation steered remotely close to his past, and even when it didn’t. I had loved his pride, and it had been something that had rubbed off on me, too. While it had made me a force to be reckoned with at one time, it also made me closer to Granddad.

  The sun sank lower, painting lazy shadows over the beach, dashing hues of oranges, blues and finally purples over the sky: its very own canvas above. My eyes danced as I watched, entirely certain that I had never seen or experienced anything more beautiful.

  I thanked myself for Australia; no longer a possibility in my future, but a certainty in my present.

  *

  Bangladesh

  I had planned my trip around the world to the point of an obsessive compulsive, but it was worth it. Each country or city had something separate I wanted to experience; for Bangladesh, I had hired a tour guide to save me from bumbling down the heaving colony of streets in the city.

  Her name was Amala, and she was already my favourite person. I was more than thankful for her and the companionship. Together, we traversed the food markets India had to offer, and eventually ended up just outside Srimongal, where Amala introduced me to Seven Layer Tea. I had jumped at the chance to visit the tea capital of Bangladesh, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  I won’t forget the humid day we spent in Nilkhantha Tea Cabin, drinking syrupy tea, striped in glasses that proudly displayed seven shades of rich browns ranging from coffee to toffee. Waves of flavour washed over my tongue, teasing me with cinnamon and the bitter tang of black and green teas. It was deliciously detached from anything I could have consumed back home, and it gave me confidence.

  ‘Have you ever lost anyone?’ I asked Amala suddenly, watching as her dark eyes flicked to mine questioningly. We had been getting on wonderfully – we shared passions and opinions, but now the conversation juddered awkwardly.

  ‘Yes,’ Amala said finally, ‘my dog, actually. Just recently.’ She shook her head, and smiled sadly. ‘My best friend. Why?’

  I almost wished I hadn’t brought it up. There was hurt, there, but I ploughed on, sipping the tea to empower me.

  ‘How did you cope?’

  Amala swallowed some of her own tea and I got the impression that she was using it for the same reason as I had.

  ‘I did not,’ she explained. ‘Not at first. But I made sure I never felt bad about the grieving process.’ She span her glass around distractedly in both hands. ‘My favourite writer, J.R.R. Tolkein once said: ‘do not weep, for not all tears are an evil’, and I believe that to be true.’

  For a moment, I was struck by Amala’s earnest reply, and tears sprung to my eyes as the words hit me. I wanted to tell her why I had come and why I was alone, but how could I explain about the passport and the fear it had induced of a life going unlived? I could feel it burning in my backpack – watching me with its knowing eyes. It was an unnerving thing to have around, something so weighed down with knowledge of my future. While I had got used to its presence, the moments I really considered it sent shivers down my spine.

  I couldn’t say anything, and so I finished my tea, letting it soothe me. Amala was regarding me with obvious worry and discomfort. I cut her off before she could comment.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said with an assured s
mile. ‘Thank you.’

  Noticing that she too had finished, I rubbed my hands together eagerly. ‘So, what can we try next?’

  *

  All of the countries I visited were memorable. The passport took me to corners of the world I would have never known to exist, and each time the little blank book received a stamp, I swelled with pride.

  I travelled to Russia in winter – most specifically Moscow, which was a city iced in snow, blazing bleach white.

  I traversed the flat terrain of Egypt - stared at the Pyramids that reached the sky, sampled delicacies and made friends in the hotel bar.

  I watched over the manmade Rice Terraces of Yuanyang, China – a place lacking in tourism but rich in beauty and ethnic minorities. I was struck by the sense of community there, and the sight itself of the rice fields - lips of settlements trailing down hills like steps to a giant’s haven.

  Morocco frightened me, but in ways that made me grow. The streets were full of intense poverty, but the markets were a thing to behold – made up of rich colours that set my eyes alight.

  It was only certain nights when I remembered my loss. Those dark times were unavoidable; they closed in on me with sharp claws of anxiety and pain, puncturing my new found veil of confidence until it was left torn and tattered. Only when the sun rose again, did it heal.

  *

  America

  The great form of the Lincoln Memorial watched me imposingly from his throne of marble, and I sat on the steps, my attentions focused on the length of pool opposite. It reflected the clusters of tourists standing at its perimeter, snapping away with oversized cameras. I ruminated there, tuning out the humming background noise of traffic and people.

  I was on the last leg of my travels and it was an odd feeling – almost like a new loss. It was there, that for the first time in a while, that I thought about Granddad, and with a surprising finality, too.

  There had been a time when I couldn’t have thought of him in the past tense; it was too hard – it made my heart and my head hurt. Now it came easily. I wasn’t sure I liked it… but I had let it happen. I was surprisingly okay with the realisation. It had been so long, such a vast adventure. I had grown like a thriving plant, reaching for the stars, standing tall, healthy and beaming. My past self was a shadow and I was the light.

  I took out a pen and a wad of post cards. It seemed like a pivotal moment, and a fitting location for it. Amala would be first – we had hit it off, and I had promised to keep her updated on all of my adventures. On the reverse of a cheesy collage of Washington landmarks, I began to scribble… only to be interrupted.

  ‘Do you mind if I borrow your pen once you’re done?’

  I looked up and caught the gaze of a man who was more ‘touristy’ than me – if that was possible. His t-shirt declared him a visitor to Niagara falls, and his smile flattered his playfully bright eyes. In one hand, he held an even bigger bundle of post cards than I had. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Ah, you have a waiting audience, too?’

  I was surprised at how smooth and confident my reply was, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been, in wake of the changes I had made.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ Came the amused reply, and I recognised his English accent immediately – Londoner.

  I giggled and fished about in my bag, muttering ‘actually’, before producing another pen entirely. He looked impressed and took it with thanks. Together, we sat in the sun and wrote to our loved ones.

  A conversation soon began, wherein we discussed and described who each recipient was to us, and why. We learnt an awful lot about one another in that hour, sun soaked and bright with holiday giddiness. By the end of the talk, we knew one another’s best friends, siblings and parents by name.

  ‘Yours is about the only name I don’t know,’ he pointed out, and I let out a faux gasp of horror.

  ‘How awful of me. It’s Jessica.’

  ‘And I’m Matthew.’

  We shook hands. The touch lingered. Matthew licked his lips hesitantly. ‘Perhaps I could add you to my postcard list?’

  *

  Matthew and I ended up travelling the USA together. We were inseparable. Before the trip, I would have questioned how easily such a thing could have happened, but the same could have been blustered by someone who had never fallen in love.

  We ate s’mores by a campfire in Yellowstone National Park, kissed by the edge of the Grand Canyon and revisited our childhoods in Universal Studios.

  We found ourselves hiking through Yosemite Valley in California, surrounded by monoliths – proud and commanding over-sized teeth of granite, which waited to consume us in their jaws. High brush strokes of green made up the surrounding sequoia trees and as Matthew and I walked hand in hand, I reflected that this was more like a fantasy – one I had stepped into by luck alone.

  Perhaps it was the amazing and beautiful surroundings, the crooked chasms of rock and the watching lake. Perhaps it was the serenity – reminiscent of Granddad… but it was there that I finally confided my loss, and the story of the passport… all to Matthew.

  Together, we sat amongst the trees and I showed him both – now nearly identical; equally battered and stamped alike, apart from one - the leaving stamp for America. In a week, I would gain that, too. One was a totem of the future, and the other… my present. I could scarcely tell the difference in the two passports any more. It was refreshing.

  Matthew turned each tiny book over and over in his hands, looking puzzled. He was evidently unsure what to think. I didn’t feel nervous – I had come to accept them for what they were, regardless of where they came from, or how, or why... I knew I was at peace with that.

  ‘What happens when you get the last stamp? What do you do?’ Matthew tapped the empty page of my present passport, balancing it on his lap beside the other one for comparison. I frowned and leaned in.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I said honestly, feeling suddenly exposed. How was I supposed to get it back? Time travel hadn’t been invented, and wasn’t necessarily possible. What was I supposed to do? My past self needed it! I tried to articulate my words again, but all I could manage was ‘I…’

  A warm hand was on my cheek in a moment, and soft, loving lips pressed to mine; Mathew, so supportive, even of who he must have perceived to be a mad woman.

  ‘You got this far,’ he soothed, once he had pulled away, ‘You can go further still.’

  Warm hope and love flooded in my veins.

  He was right.

  *

  Home

  I expected all of the grief to come roaring back when I touched down in England for the first time in two years. I expected to relapse, even though I had grown so much…

  But I didn’t.

  Even when I set foot in my flat, there was only that quiet sense of something being missing… but above all else, there was happiness and there was hope. I stayed there for a moment, taking it all in – a once familiar sight almost alien to me now, and that’s when Matthew slid a comforting arm around my shoulders.

  I relaxed and stepped in.

  *

  A canopy of Autumn tree branches hung over my head as I stood by Granddad’s memorial. The leaves from above lay in a jumble of crimsons and ambers at my feet; it had been my idea to plant a tree to commemorate him, and in his favourite season, it was the most fitting. A place I could truly feel connected with him.

  ‘Hello, Granddad,’ I began, as though it was him I was conversing with and not a plaque beneath a scrawny tree. ‘You won’t believe where I’ve been.’

  I sat down in the leaves, crossed my booted feet and told him everything. I described the sun set in Perth, the magnificent foods in Bangladesh, the culture of China. I described Amala, and detailed my love for Matthew.

  …And I told Granddad I missed him. I told him with tearful eyes and a tremble in my voice… and I held up the passport; not my ‘future’ copy, but my present. The one my grieving self needed so much.

  A strang
ely confident part of me knew how to get the passport back – knew there was only one person up for the job.

  I set it at the base of the tree trunk, kissed my fingers and pressed them there. Then I stood once more, ready to meet Matthew by the gates.

  We departed hand in hand, the diamond ring on my left finger flashing in the Autumn light as we walked into our future.

  *

  It had been a whisper of a sound – something hitting something so softly it could have been placed down with human hands. Bemused, I looked around, and almost immediately my gaze settled on my bedside table... and the passport resting lazily atop it.

 

  The Literary Vision

  Henry saw her every day; same time, same place, same platform... Two dozen or so other commuters caught the train alongside him every weekday, battling the capricious British weather and erratic ticket office opening times of the tiny suburban station, to journey into the city for that looming 9am start – and she was always one of them, catching his eye without fail.

  It wasn’t that she was supermodel beautiful; Henry wasn’t that clichéd. Nor had she ever seemed to notice him in return, drawing his glance through mutual agreement. It sounded silly when he said it out loud – which he only ever did over Saturday night pints down the local with his brother – but what really caught his eye about her wasn’t the bobbed brown hair, feathered with layers, or the dark blue peacoat over her office skirts; it wasn’t even the skirts themselves, although Henry couldn’t help but notice them in passing, naturally.

  No, what captured his attention most were the books.

  Because – every day – without fail, she was sat on the platform, reading a book.

  Yes, it sounded ridiculous, Henry knew that; Ben, his brother, had told him often enough. But she was always reading a book and in these days of Kindles and iPads and smart phones, yes, Henry found that eye-catching. And the speed with which the book changed too! She read fast, that much was obvious – he enjoyed turning up for the boring commute and trying to subtly catch a glimpse of the colourful paperback she was deeply engrossed in that day. The paper rustled in the breeze, the cover and spine always well-creased beneath her eager fingers and Henry simply found the whole sight entrancing at 8am: a small speck of rainbow imagination dotted amongst the sea of office blacks, browns, greys that filled the rest of the platform between them.