My coffee was getting cold as I checked my WhatsApp messages at the Twilight Zone. The door opened and I made eye contact with a stranger. He was easy to spot; he wore clothes like I’d never seen, but that’s quite usual in Lark Lane. His blouse seemed to have been made from Bacofoil.
He sat at my table although there were many unoccupied.
I thought I recognised him and wondered if we knew one another and I’d forgotten who he was. Or, maybe I’d seen him on TV, or the Internet, or was he a famous footballer?
Immediately, he started talking. His voice puzzled me; he spoke in Pidgeon English: some words I couldn’t understand and his accent sounded like a comic country yokel.
‘I have come from the year 2245,’ he said and I understood that well enough. I blush easily when I’m embarrassed and I didn’t know how to handle the young man. Was he a lunatic, or was I part of an elaborate prank? I looked around to see if anyone was recording us; was I to be the victim of some podcast?
‘I want information from you before it is too late,’ the man continued. ‘I am researching my family history and you are,’ he hesitated and began to count on his fingers, ‘my great-great-great-great…’
I interjected and told him to fuck off back to the future. He was undeterred. ‘I must do this immediately,’ he said. ‘According to my notes, next Monday you die.’
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 