Picture Of Time

“Yaw!” Verillion yelled as the blue button shocked the Time Ship out of space.
Time Ship, Verillion thought, what a generic name. But then again, what would you expect from a civilization that still held its ancient gods in reverence. Better Time Ship than some over-used godly bore.
A few wobbles and the ship stabalized into a fading hum. Verillion went around the console – which stood in the middle of the control room, filling it with its bulky mass – checking the readings the manual told him to check. He’d failed the Time Travel Navigation exam but not the sticking to the manual section.
Why not do things your own way, you’ll be the one operating the damn thing, he thought.
And now he was.
He’d taken the ship to prove that he’d be able to operate it on his own, as a stubborn proof that he was capable of handling time on his own.
Be back in a jif, he’d said.
Worst case scenario, he’ll go back the long way around – Time Ships didn’t exactly have to move through space.
But that was the point; he’d do it on his own and push aside any problems that came up.
He’d thought about that time old thought experiment: if time travel was doable, where are the future time travellers. He’d imagined himself stepping out of the Time Ship and saying “Hello there, future dead persons, the future is fucked, you’re all ganna die”. Or whatever.
As far as paradoxes are concerned, he’ll deal with them when they came up. There’s no such thing as a paradox expert so he felt justified in ignoring those mathematical anomalies until they actually manifested themselves.
Readings checked and engines still fading their humming; Verillion stood in the console room – the only room – and looked around. Now what. Should have paid attention in class.
There was a steely pop and then hissing and the ship settled. YEY!
Now the shitty part – meeting the locals and the spoiler-free responsibility that came with it. He’d known an archaeologist who’d stressed the importance of no-spoilers but she wasn’t here yet so: free pass.
Time to put time to the test.
He paused at the door.
He cracked it open and peeked outside. A lush pasture and a herd of Brontosaurus sticking out like a boil on an attractive woman’s face. Nope, wrong era and he closed the door.
Back to the manual.
Really should have paid attention in class.
Time Ship logs wouldn’t be enough, he’d have to get solid undeniable evidence of the journey.
But that presented a problem. You’re removing something out of its comfy time period – a molecule of air; sunshine; or even a little hope. How would you account for it being removed from the stream of entropy, with all the effects and events that it could have led to; all the consequences it could have imparted to the world and all the energy it would have exhueded to unknowing recipients. You could leave something in its place, but switching things between the future and past could be a dangerous game.
So much for time travel.
He really should have paid attention in class.
The camera.
Was the first thought that jumped into Verillion’s head as he awoke from a nap in prehistoric times.
Maybe a selfie, as they called it in the olden days. That would be more efficient than a paradox.
He tore through the knapasack, finding the camera through touch rather than seeing it. Pulling it out with a eurika moment, he shoved the knapsack aside and admired the product of technology he held in his hands. He could feel the warm welling of validation – even if it’s his own – for thinking of and finding the camera but that soon withered as a thought over-powered the validation: he can’t go out there. The problem of misplacing an item out of its time and space was one thing but if he stepped outside, he’d be breathing air and absorbing sunlight; resources – by inference – that were to go to creatures that are long dead by the time he existed.          What was that old saying about a butterfly flapping its wings?
No, stepping out caused anxiety, something Verillion was running away from – so was everything ever alive! He’d already peeked his head out once and found roaming Brontosaurs so gods knew how he’d affected the future with that. Maybe that’s why he’d made the decision to take the Time Ship. Maybe that’s how the dinosaurs went extinct: by being seen.
No – there has to be better way. Not to make the dinosaurs extinct, but a way to get proof of time travel.
He cracked the door of the Time Ship open only slightly, shoved the camera out for a second and pressed capture then quickly retracted his arm.
Fuzziness.
He repeated the process half a dozen times before he found himself with a still of Brontos walking away.
Meh, but it’ll do.
Better leave now before I ruin something by accident, he thought.
He shuffled to the console and spun dials, setting the coordinates to his time zone and warming up the engines. He stared around the ship, its curves offering comfort.
An earthquaky shock sent him flying across the ship, again.
Every fuckin time, Verillion thought as he landed across the Time Ship’s inner curing wall. But the curve had recieved him well, like the time machine knew something was coming – from the shock of its entire being so it prepared itself to catch it. Verillion landed and slid to the floor, the thudding he felt dissipating. He felt the ship ascending upwards like an elevator speeding up to its button induced destination. It felt as if the top quarter of the ship had made a ninety degree inward drop and the other three quarters eased into the new position. The ship felt like it was hovering around itself. Verillion stood and headed for the console. He had to set the final adjustments that’ll rocket him home – another shock to send him back to the curve of the Time Ship wall.
Was he starting to like it? Even enjoy it? He looked at the blue button his fingers were hovering above.
He started to smile even before he pressed it.
He felt satisfaction as he flew against the wall again. Lying against the curve, he glimpsed the big red button on the underside of the console.

The Pen

“Dearly begathered: we are gathered here today to celebrate the gathering of letters by an illustrious pen into superb wordplay and emotional wordings. Much to the disappointment of our civilization, writing implements rarely got their due credit fot the morphing of emotion into words. Today, we make a stand behind this very stand to give value to the exhuberance of an implement’s bodily fuilds that turned mere thoughts into emotional punches. We celebrate the contribution and fluidity with which this pen so selflessly furthered our understanding of ourselves. We pay homage to all the pens before him whom recieved no praise for what they’d had a big hand in accomplishing. It is with great pleasure that I introduce our speakers at this illustrious evening, thanking them for their acceptance and contribution.
“Firstly, we have the Minister for Culture: Kimi Kamilion, who helped in organising this fine evening and whom created this very special award for a very special device.”
There was the requitted clapping as Kimi Kamilion made her way to the podium. She stood behind it and nodded at the assembly.
“The curse of man is that words only appear inside his mind. They are trapped; travelling along neurological pathways, from one end toward the other, holding with them packages that will be voiced toward recepient ears which will send them to be dismanteled neurologically in the brain. There would be no great scheme of things if we hadn’t discovered how to assign drawings to words. We would still be lonely skulls, reverberating with our own internal voices and stagnating into a short termed social order. All the revolutions throughtout history – that we know about; through books and digital mediums by the way – have been led by the spread on information, their disection and by being studied.
“When I set out to write this speech, I hoped it would do justice to this prestigious Pen which has given us rivers of tears and gorges of pain. I hoped that it would be as easy to paint the words out of my head unto this blank page as it is for the pen to emit its volumous discourse. It has not been easy – Im not a pen after all – but I have addressed my gratitude to the celebrated Pen as best as I could do.
“But again, how do you exalt a pen? How do you express what an implement has sealed the door on expressing through the force of sheer worded might? The only way we thought of to kick start this path of admiration is by presenting an award with the hope of creating a precedent for future exaltation. Hopefully this award will open the seal of acclaim to many many more instruments.”

“Thank you Kimi Kamilion for your wonder full words. We are graced now by a man who needs no introduction. Please welcome him.”
There was clapping. Throats were cleared, including the speaker’s.
“I have not written a speech out of respect for the now illustrated Pen; I have instead chosen to type and print it and so have I done.
“Pens have always been marginalised for long. For as long as there had been inked writing, pens have been used and drained of their bodily secretions to do the bidding of a writer. They have been enslaved, thrown away and crammed in dark places and no one raised a voice, neither in support nor in call for action. This award today and our begatherment are the ways we choose to attone for our enslaving sin and our inexcusable actions. Distinguishing a Pen like this – now – opens doors and new epochs in the history of writing; it illicits awe and creates new sentiments that will flow through the ages – future and past – and resonate into our hearts the love of implements. When contemperary readers and future generations look at our achievement today, they will no longer fall victim to negative thought or apathetic dismissal towards untapped greatness of devices and instead will allow for florish to expound on its trapped emotion and give us an unvisited dimension in which we will be able to escape from our daily tomb of civilization.”
No thank you was heard over the applause.

“I would like to also thank Habitol, the writer and user of the Pen for attending.”