On To A Different Age
— a short story
--
Sol was aware that time travel was real.
He was also aware that you didn’t need Doctor Who’s TARDIS or the car from Back to The Future to do it.
You just needed to find the red telephone box on Yesterday Street.
So one day, Sol set off to find it.
It was November 2019.
It was a cold night, too. Autumn had carelessly opened the door to let the winter cold in.
Snow thundered down. The London wind howled violently, scattering wild storms of frozen leaves into the air.
Sol buried his nose into his scarf and hurried into the red telephone box. He shut the door behind.
He pulled off his winter gloves, and with a trembling hand, he dialled 730076 into the phone.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of the automated answering voice from the other end of the line:
‘Would you like to return to the past?’ The voice said. “Press 0 for yes. 1 for no.”
Sol hesitated a little before he pressed the 0 button. Yes, he understood the dangers of time travel, but he had to return to the past.
It was the only way he could save his younger brother’s life.
The only way he could stop Stefan from stepping onto that crosswalk the moment the 2008 BMW rushed down the road at 60mph, cutting his life short.
He had to return to the past. Stefan deserved another chance at life.
Sol would return to the past, save his brother’s life and live in that timeline. That was the grand master plan.
“What date do you wish to return to?” The automated voice on the phone said. “Key in the date or say it aloud.”
“Saturday 17th June 2017.” The words poured out desperately.
17th June 2017. That was the day Stefan had turned 18. Together, they drove to London to celebrate. On that night, Stefan had drunk his first bottle of beer. It was also his last one.
“You would like to return to 17th June 2017. Is that correct?” The automated voice on the phone said. “Press 0 for yes. 1 for no.”
Without batting an eye, Sol pressed 0. His choice was made.
“Please hold while we send you to the past.”
The red telephone box suddenly began to tremble as Sol was sent to the past.
A violent gust of wind blew the snow into the air, covering the telephone box windows with a cloud of white.
Looking out the window, all Sol could see was white.
When the wind settled and the cloud of snow fell, it was no longer a dark and cold November day.
Sol stepped out of the phone box.
He had reached his destination; two years into the past.
It was a sunny June day. The sky was blue, the sun was bright and burning, the wind was light on his skin.
All around Sol, crowds of people were strolling across the streets in tank tops, shorts, dresses and skirts.
Sol looked a little out of place in his heavy black Helly Hansen jacket.
Sol checked for the time; the big hour hand on his wristwatch declared it was 5:54 p.m.
Stefan had been struck dead by the BMW car at 6:42 p.m.
Sol had just short of an hour to change the fate of history. He took off his Helly Hansen jacket and scarf and began to run across the London streets.
Towards his brother, towards a life he needed to save.
Sol arrived at the bar at 6:30 p.m.
A warm fireplace crackled at the heart of the bar. Silent strangers lounged in the warm shadows. Johnny Cash’s I Walk the Line was playing on the radio.
Sol found his younger brother sitting alone at a table, at the corner of the room.
It took all his might to not burst out crying. It had been so long — two years since Sol had seen him in person.
Stefan waved a little, with that smile that could mend a broken heart. Sol had missed that smile so much.
‘You know, punctuality has never been your greatest talent,’ said Stefan, ‘but one hour late? I think that’s a personal record. Well done.’ He clapped patronisingly.
His sarcasm — that’s another thing Sol missed about his brother. ‘Well, what can I say,’ Sol quipped. “I strive to be a high achiever.’
‘I’ll forgive you if you let me take your car for a spin.’
Sol sighed in defeat. “Fine. You win,” he smiled.
Stefan punched the air in victory.
Sol laughed. “Ok. Come on. Let’s get going. The movie is starting soon.”
They walked out of the bar together. And even though Stefan wasn’t aware, these minutes were supposed to be his last moments alive.
But this time, it would be different. This time, Stefan would survive. Sol would make sure of that.
After a couple of minutes, they arrived at the pedestrian crossing — the pedestrian crossing where Stefan had once died.
Sol turned, meeting his younger brother’s eyes. ‘Stefan, listen,’ he said, his voice stern. ‘A couple of moments from now, a red BMW car will rush towards this crossing. I need you to stay back until after the BMW passes. Ok?’
Stefan raised an eyebrow. ‘Um. Ok?’
‘Just trust me. Promise you will stay back.’
‘Promise.’
A moment later, a 2003 BMW car sped towards the crossing. It flew past them.
A look of horror passed across Stefan’s face and came back to camp there. “How did you know that would happen?” He stuttered.
‘The less you know the better,’ said Sol, breathing a sigh of relief. The pounding in his heart had slowed down. That was it. The danger was gone. Stefan could live.
They hurried across the pedestrian crossing together, Stefan a couple of steps ahead.
Suddenly, Sol heard the sound of car tires screeching, followed by a large thud.
It all happened so fast.
Sol’s heart stopped. He wasn’t too sure how long he stood there, frozen in place. Seconds, minutes?
He was sure about one thing, however:
Stefan was dying on the concrete floor, as a frantic crowd of onlookers gathered around to help.
Just like last time.
Panicking, the driver who hit Stefan jumped out of his car, bot hands on his head. “I swear I pressed the brake,” he yelled hysterically. “I swear I pressed the brake.”
Sol turned away and ran as fast as he could, back to the telephone box on Yesterday Street.
‘What date do you wish to return to?’ said the automated voice on the phone.
Sol dialled in the phone digits to choose the date and time. He was returning 20 minutes in the past.
A moment later, he was sitting at the bar table with his brother again. Johnny Cash was playing on the radio.
‘I’ll forgive you if you let me take your car for a spin,’ Stefan quipped.
‘We need to go,’ Sol pulled his brother by the hand and he hurried out the front door.
This time, he avoided the pedestrian crossing
‘W-Where are you going?’ Stefan protested. ‘The movie theatre is that way.’
‘I’ll explain to you later on. You have to trust me for now.’
They hurried down a narrow alleyway that winded between sleeping buildings.
‘So, are you going to tell me what all of that was about back there?’ said Stefan. ‘You owe me an explanation.’
They came across a hooded man in the alleyway.
The man happened to be wielding a sharp machete.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ said the mugger. ‘Empty your wallet now. Everything you got.’ He had a quiet, gravelly voice.
Sol’s heart stopped. Not again.
‘Ok, ok. Just don’t hurt us,’ he pleaded. He took out a leather wallet and handed it to the man.
There was £120 in it, but his brother’s life was worth far more than that.
Stefan, perhaps in a reckless attempt of bravery, suddenly decided to jump at the man and grab his knife. The tussle quickly ended with the knife in Stefan’s stomach.
The man grabbed the wallet and sped off into the darkness.
‘No, no, no, no.’ Sol took out his phone and called for an ambulance.
He applied pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.
But when the ambulance arrived, the paramedics had pronounced Stefan dead on the scene.
Sol had failed again.
He tried to save Stefan’s life again after that. Perhaps twenty or thirty more times. Truth be told, he had lost count.
But every time Sol tried to change the past, Fate would not allow it.
There was always another way for Stefan to die.
It was as if Fate had decided that Stefan was destined to die on this day, no matter what.
Still, Sol was not deterred. The crimson fire of stubbornness burned in his heart. He continued returning to the past again and again — searching for a loophole, a way to save his brother.
He failed again and again, forever reliving the agony of watching Stefan die.
Eventually, Sol gave up on his dream to save his brother.
It was time to return to his own timeline.
He had to accept the reality of a world without Stefan.
He had to let the wound of grief in his spirit heal.
He stepped into the telephone box, but this time his destination was the future, not the past.
Suddenly, leaves began to swirl around the telephone box as Sol was sent back to the future.
Looking out the window, all Sol could see was a wild storm of leaves that seemed to appear out of thin air.
Moments, no, minutes had passed.
On this occasion, the journey across time was taking a little longer than usual.
But that was not the oddest part of Sol’s journey back to the future.
As the moments passed, Sol was beginning to feel more and more tired. Weary. Exhausted.
He slumped down on to the floor of the telephone box.
He felt as though a puff of wind could knock him over.
His hand began to tremor.
His back began to ache.
His vision slowly sunk into blurry darkness.
But the most disturbing part was the wrinkles — wrinkles began to shrivel his skin. Grey hairs fell from his head.
He was ageing rapidly.
The door of the telephone box creaked open, allowing Sol to step back out into the future.
But Sol couldn’t even walk; he had to crawl out of the telephone box.
The painful feeling of death closing in was enough to spark Sol’s realisation.
‘Oh no,’ he mumbled, in a dying groan. Now, he was able to connect the dots.
Sol was so consumed with the urge to change the past that he had forgotten the number one taboo of time travelling:
You should never time travel recklessly. Doing so can dramatically warp your sense of time.
Decades can feel like minutes. Years pass by like fleeting seconds.
Sol was under the illusion that he had only spent a couple of hours travelling through different timelines.
In reality, he had probably spent dozens of years constantly entering the red telephone box, constantly returning to the past. Again and again and again.
But those years felt like hours — minutes, even.
And now that he had returned to the future, to his own timeline, so much time had passed.
So much so that he was no longer twenty; he was now an old man.
Sol staggered to his feet, his bony knees creaking.
A ‘Vote for the Conservatives Party’ poster on the wall behind the red telephone box told Sol that the year was now 2,138.
Sol’s first return to the past was in 2020.
118 years ago.
He had spent 118 years trying to change the past.
And the price he paid for that choice was losing the present.
They told Sol that time travel is dangerous. He only wished he listened.
And with that passing thought, Sol collapsed to the ground, dying.
