Amendments by Quinn Tyler Jackson

First, the murder. How he’d ended up witnessing the murder wasn’t important. All that mattered was that he’d seen through the walls as the box-headed man strangled his wife.

Panic and instinct brought him into the past. Only thirty minutes, but enough. His purpose was clear, and he hated that he knew he would have to avoid his coffee at the corner place and run to the house where the deed was going to occur. Fifteen minutes. Like a swimmer, he paddled through the air — maybe eight feet up — but this would get him through yards, over the fences, and give him time to intervene and save her life. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know her; he could save her.

He arrived at the house with minutes before it would happen. He swam to the bay window, looked in, and saw the man. There was still time, but he needed to go to an automated banking machine. It didn’t matter why. Without twenty dollars, he wouldn’t be able to save this maniac’s wife from her fate. So he swam through a few more yards and across the endless miles to the city center, where he found a bank machine. The line was long, but he waited patiently. He had to get twenty dollars. One at a time those before him got their money and left. He was almost next. His turn eventually came, and he was up.

But he had no wallet, no bank card, and her fate was sealed.

He hated amendments. Those amendments self-introduced in midstream. Those little alterations to the clarity of purpose. What use were all those freakishly impossible powers of time and space if it all got amended in the end to be a matter of twenty bucks?

© 2012 Quinn Tyler Jackson

Quinn Tyler Jackson is a poet, novelist, musician, visual artist, and computer scientist. His work has been published online and in print internationally. He lives a quiet but passionate life in Canada with his wife and two cats.

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