This is a story I wrote using the prompts from @mariannewest's #freewrite group (Day 357 see post here) and @mydivathings #365daysofwriting (Day 299 - see post here)

As part of my practice for NaNoWriMo I thought I would set myself a challenge of writing 2000 words based on the two prompts (see my post on NaNoWriMo here.

How did I do?

Well, to find out you can watch the video - includes a reading of the #freewrite part - of my progress here (and/or you can just read the story below it):

_{Note: I tried three times (and spent nearly 2 hours) trying to load the video to d.tube, but had to give up. Sorry.}

And here is my story:

A Stitch In Steem

Sophie was hot, and bothered. She was late. Sohie hated being late. She could feel the sweat soaking her shirt, in the small of her back and a dampness under her arms. She wasn't going to have time to nip to the bogs to add another layer of deodorant defense when she got there. She checked her fitbit again. Five minutes behind schedule and her heart rate was through the roof.

For fucks sake.

She checked google maps. She was three minutes away. The "Freedom of Personal Power" group was meeting in the very grand sounding "The International Center for Mental and Physical Improvement". Sophie didn't approve of the misspelling of the word "Centre" but apparently Bret Harvard was American and she did try no to hold that against people. She rounded the corner and the nice lady on google maps told her she was "two minutes from your destination".

Sophie wasn’t sure what she was expecting. A flash glass fronted building perhaps, with solar panels on the roof, or perhaps a roof garden - Sophie had heard that people had started to keep bees on the top of highrise buildings these days - or a large country estate, maybe, an old mansion with a long gravel drive that would crunch under her feet as she marched up it mouth open in wonder at the grandiosity of her surroundings.

Or… she wasn’t sure what else.

What she did know was it most certainly wasn’t what she was looking at. She pulled out the glossy leaflet from the bag she had slung over her shoulder (an old laptop bag, that she hoped said “take me seriously - I’m a professional”) and checked the address again. The postcode matched.

This was definitely the street.

Sophie tried not to be disappointed. There were rows upon rows of plain looking houses. No fancy office blocks, no country mansion. It looked like any other street in her boring suburban town. Had she really traveled all the way down into London at stupid o’clock on a Sunday to take a course - not fucking cheap either - that was being held in a three bedroomed semi?

She checked the house number. Number 43. Looking up the street she saw the house, looking identical to all the others. It had a sign that looked suspiciously temporary to Sophie, hammered at an angle into the front lawn of the house - a lawn that looked to Sophie as though it could have done with being mowed in the last two weeks - and when she neared she could read that it did indeed say “The International Center for Mental and Physical Improvement”.

It looked as though it was handwritten.

Not in a good way - like some pubs and restaurants manage to do on a chalkboard - in a sloppy, couldn’t-care-less childlike way. Sophie felt a familiar sinking feeling take hold of her stomach and give it a good jerk. She felt physically sick.

She was going to be sick.

In the driveway sat a black Porsche. This - and the crappy childish doityourself sign - was the only thing that distinguished the house from the others. The other driveways had the usual collection of Volvos, Toyotas and a couple of Audis. So, despite the disappointingly plain looking surroundings, Mr Brad Harvard was obviously doing alright for himself.

Sophie took a deep breath, and - reasonably sure she wasn’t going to vomit all over the Porsche as she passed it - walked up the drive. It was narrow, and Sophie had to lift up her bag to avoid scratching the car as she inched around it, stuck between the car and the waist high wall that divided this house from the other. On the other side of the car was a bicycle and a scooter. Not the motorized type. The oversized children’s toy that some adults seemed to have no sense of shame in using to get from A to B these days.

Sophie climbed up the steps, leaflet still in hand and looked for a doorbell. There did not appear to be one. She raised her hand, ready to knock on the wood next to the etched glass panel when she saw a movement on the other side. She paused. Not sure whether to assume the person could see she was at the door, and wait politely for it to be opened, or to knock because the person on the othe rside might not have seen her. She counted to five and as the door was not opened she knocked three times.

The door opened - outwards which surprised Sophie. She had to move backwards, to avoid being hit by it, looking behind her to avoid falling down the stone stairs. Looking back at the doorway she saw a young boy - maybe four or five - standing smiling at her.

“Hello,” said the boy.

“Er,” Sophie said, thinking she had made a dreadful mistake, checking again the address on the leaflet (forgetting the sign on the lawn told her that she had not made an error). “I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”

“That happens a lot,” the boy said, smiling, and stepping backwards. “Would you like to come in.”

“Er...” Sophie said, again, feeling more than a little bit stupid. “... is your Dad in?”

The boy looked a little bit confused.

“My dad? No, of course not! Come in Sophie, may I call you Sophie? At least, for now.”

Sophie felt herself go a little bit light headed and she grabbed hold of the open door, in an effort to stabilize herself.

“Come in,” said the boy. “We’ll sort all this out inside.”

Sophie didn’t know what to do, but she couldn’t stand out here all day looking like an idiot. She looked around the street, worried that she was putting on a show - as her mother would say - and the neighbours were all standing there, arms crossed, watching her. Or worse with their phones out, videoing her embarrassment, ready to upload it to YouTube for the amusement of their friends.

Like Jeff had done.

That had been the last thing in a string of things that had left her confidence level barely registering on “low”. But the street was empty. There was no one around at all. Sophie was so anxious, upset and angry she didn’t even stop to think that was odd.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll come inside and you can fetch a grown up and I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”

The boy stood back, the smile on his face warm and welcoming. Sophie walked up the steps and into the house, wiping her feet carefully on the large mat that had a picture of a cat holding a sign that said “welcome!” on it.

“That’s better,” said the boy. “I’ll show you into the living room, and get you a nice cup of tea.” He stuck out his hand. “My name is Bret,” he said. “Bret Harvard.”

Sophie almost fell over. Had she really just paid over three thousand of her finest English pounds to attend a course run by a five year old?! And - to add insult to injury - he wasn’t even American!

“But,” she said, hands on hips, trying to control the anger that was rising inside of her. “You’re not even American!”

Bret looked a little surprised.

“I am American, actually,” he said, his little boy English accent putting a lie to the statement. “I was born there. My father was American. My mother,” Bret looked rather strangely at Sophie. “My mother is English, though.”

“Where are your parents?” she said, looking around her at the hallway. There were three doors that led off it, and a staircase. “Are they in bed? Hello!” she called. “Bret’s parents?! Are you there!”

Bret smiled.

“Unfortunately, my father died,” he a little bit sad. “Before I really got to know him. But my mother is alive.”

Sophie tried to control her anger. After all, this boy was merely a child. Even if he didn’t really talk like one. And he had just stolen three thousand pounds from her.

“Is your mother home?” she said, her voice more gentle, although she could hear the anger shaking it still.

Bret smiled.

“Kind of,” he said. “Please, come into the front room. I’ve made tea. I need to explain a few things.”

Sophie took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said. “But I want my money back. And I want to speak to your mother too.” She looked at the young boy, her eyes narrowing. “Or I will have to call the police.”

“Once I have explained a few things,” Bret said. “All will become perfectly clear.”

Sophie followed the child into the front room. There was a large armchair and a sofa. The boy jumped up onto the sofa and patted the seat next to him. Sophie choose the armchair. On the small table, in between them, was a laptop computer, a pot of tea, a jug of milk, and two mugs.

“Will you be mother?” Bret said.

“What?” Sophie said.

“Could you pour the tea?” Bret said. “I would do it, but my muscle control isn’t great at this age. I tend to spill a lot of tea. It would be a shame to ruin the carpet.”

He really did have a peculiar turn of phrase for one so young. He seemed much oldern somehow. Sophie poured the milk into the mugs and then the tea. She watched as Bret picked up his mug and cradled it as if it were a tiny kitten.

“I am very cross,” she said. “I took a long time to save up that money. You don’t know how hard I worked for it and - ”

“Actually,” Bret interrupted. “I do.”

“You do what?”

“Know how hard you worked for it.”

“And how do you think you know that?” Sophie could feel her anger rising again.

“Because you told me. On many occasions.”

Sophie banged the mug of tea onto the table, spilling some. Bret looked a little shocked and put his mug down carefully.

“Now look here, young man,” Sophie said. “I have had quite enough of your nonsense, I really have. I want to see your mother and I want my money back. Not necessarily in that order, but I want it to happen quickly!”

Bret leaped down from the sofa and ran around the table and launched himself at Sophie. Fearing she was being attacked Sophie stood up, pushing the child from her.

“Oh mummy!” Bret said, wrapping his arms around her legs. “How I have missed you!”

“What!?” Sophie said, confused.

“I wanted to explain this a little bit better than last time,” Bret said. “But it really isn’t going very well, is it, mummy?”

Sophie tried to peel Bret’s arms from around her legs. But he was a stubborn little bugger, and surprisingly strong for his age.

“I am not your mummy!” she said, wondering what the little shit was up to now. “As you full well know! You’re… what five? I think I would have remembered giving birth five years ago. Now, where the hell are your parents? Mrs Harvard? Mrs Harvard! Would you come down here please?”

“I’m forty five, actually,” the boy said.
Sophie - about to shout for Mrs Harvard again - shut her mouth and sat down with a thud onto the arm chair.

“What?” she said. She took a deep breath and counted to five. Then, “Really, did your mother never teach you that lying was wrong?”

“Actually,” Bret said, smiling and walking back around the table to the sofa, where he levered himself up onto it. “You did. You taught me very well.”

Sophie didn’t know what to say. She had come across liars before, of course - in this day and age the truth seemed to be a rare virtue - but never one as determined, and as young as this.

“Let me explain,” Bret said, taking a sip of his tea. Watching him, Sophie couldn’t help but admit he did seem much older than he was.
“I was born about five years from now,” Sophie’s confusion obviously showed because he added, “In the future. No, don’t interrupt. Just hear me out. Please. It’s important that you listen to me this time. I won’t be able to try again. I was born five years from now. Of course, you have been already married for three years, and are living in America with Dad. And you will already have a working Marie, by that time.”

“Marie?” Sophie said, wondering how the boy had come up with that name.

“You always gave inanimate objects names. Cars, computers. Even our kettle was called George.” Sophie sucked breath inwards. How could he know these things?

“Marie was named after Marie Curie. Marie is what you called your time machine.” He must have seen the look on her face, because Bret nodded. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? By this time the seeds of your idea are pretty much planted, starting to bud, the shoots are beginning to grow into a solid theory.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sophie said. It was her turn to lie. “I’m just a cleaner.”
Bret smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “You saved three thousand pounds from your cleaning job and invested it in a cryptocurency platform called Steemit. Or at least you did in my version of time. You used the blogging site to share your ideas on time travel and my father - the man who was to become my father - saw your posts and invited you to come and meet him. The money you’d made from Steem paid for your flight - and much more, of course.”

So, that was it. Nothing is erased from the blockchain. Sophie knew this. This boy - or rather whoever was behind this ridiculous stunt - had seen her posts, and her interaction with the rather interesting man she’d met on Steemit - before she’d met Jeff and jacked that all in - and was exploiting her in some way. But to what end? She’d given up on Steemit, decided to spend the money on self improvement instead. But if they had her money, what else could they want? She looked around the room, searching for cameras. Was it Jeff, again. What did he want? More humiliation? Had he not done enough?

“You met John, my father, and you both talked and talked and fell in love and out of that love you gave birth to two things: me and Marie. Marie came first, of course. And you made a lot of money. A side effect of the time travel device you invented was every time a person uses it, they become ten years younger. So you set up a clinic, and a lot of people paid a lot of money to not only look ten years younger, but to be ten years younger.”

“A clinic?” Sophie said, who, despite herself, was being sucked into the boy’s story. “Isn’t that rather superficial?”

Bret nodded, a smile wide across his face.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Very! But you see, you discovered that the only possible good use time travel can be put to is superficial use. If it is used for the big stuff it creates all sorts of trouble. As I have found out to my cost! Superficial is the only safe way to use time travel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh mother,” Bret said, tears welling in his eyes. “I am so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you. All the trouble I’ve caused the world, too. I was spoilt. I was selfish. I was entitled. You tried your best to teach me that I needed to stand on my own two feet, to earn my own money, make my own way in the world. All I saw was you were rich and why wouldn’t you just give me some of your cash. By the age of forty I was just a big fat loser. I freely admit that now. And I was bitter and full of hatred. I stole Marie!”

“You stole my time machine!” Sophie was shocked, not just at the story he was telling. But also that she was beginning to believe it.

“Yes,” Bret said. “I stole it and I went back in time. You’d told me so often about your origins and how you had saved the money you had made from cleaning and made one clever investment that changed your life. So, I decided to mess with that decision. I interfered. You didn’t invest the money in Steem, you gave it to a man who promised you he could help build your time machine. Yes, I can see from your face you guessed who that man was. It was me. I looked around thirty five at the time. But, of course he ran off with your money and you never invented the machine.”

“But if I didn’t invent it, surely that would create a -”

“Paradox. Yes. But, fortunately, as you know - or you will come to know - time is extremely complicated. The strands take a long time to unravel - and even longer to stitch back together. When I picked at the knot that held my life together I could feel it tug at my very core, I could feel myself fading. I realised what had happened and I tried to fix it. I used the time machine. Not just the once. Apparently, fixing one mistake often leads to another one being created. This is the fourth time I have used it. I have grown younger by forty years. It is my last chance. I can not lose another ten years from my life. I can not use Marie again.”

Sophie sat, open mouthed. She didn’t know what to believe.

“I have your money,” he said. He pointed to the laptop on the table. “I invested it for you. As you’d originally planned to do. On Steemit. In two months from now the price of Steem will begin to rise sharply, as more and more people invest in it. You will have more than just the money you need to fly to America to meet my father. You will have enough money to build Marie.”

Sophie didn’t know what to say. She picked up the laptop, and checked her Steemit account. There, as the boy had said, was the three thousand pounds all converted into Steem Power. And, with Bret watching, she scrolled down her feed and found the a post from the man she somehow knew was going to be his father.

She really didn’t know what to believe anymore. But the story was so unlikely, so far fetched… it just had to be true!

“What have I got to lose?” she asked herself, clicking reply on the post.