Reynold's Home for Retired Time Travelers

By David Macpherson

Marcus works at the most amazing retirement home around. Everyone who resides here claims to be a time traveler. Traipsing through time is fun and exciting, but it is also exhausting. These folks need a comfortable place to end up. And that's Reynold's, a wonderful home for the wayward.

Marcus shares his stories of the people he works with. He watches movies with them, eats cake with them, and takes care of their needs. They are a loud, boisterous lot who have a lot to say about history and the future.

Reynold's Home is a place for many stories, and here are a few of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Macpherson
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393845591

Book preview

A Note from Marcus, Who Will Be Narrating These Stories

Dear Dave,

Well, here are the first few stories about my job that I promised you. I really don’t know why you think that anyone might want to hear about it. It’s working with old folks and an old folks home. Okay, that’s not true. It’s a retirement home, and I really care for these folks. They are good to a person. They are peculiar, sure. But who isn’t.

When we were talking about me writing these for you, you said folk want to hear about these people. And I agree. But I don’t know how I feel about the title you came up with. Reynold’s Home for Retired Time Travelers? That’s just not the name. I know you told me about artistic license and all, but come on Dave. No smart retirement home would call themselves that.

But I ain’t the writer. I’m just the guy who works there, so I will leave that part to you. Just do me a favor. Whatever you do, don’t be making fun of any of my people. They have lived long lives, they don’t deserve to be a source of sport, you know? I trust you, but I feel better telling you that all the same.

I have been working at Reynold’s long enough to know that I ought to be proud of working there. I am proud.. I hope that comes across. IF it doesn’t, can you do something with what I send you to make sure that everyone reading is aware I am lucky to be there? Like I said, I trust you Dave.

Your friend,

Marcus

A Policy for Visitors at Reynold’s Home for Retired Time Travelers

A boy. A boy will come to see me on some day when it’s raining. Mr. Torrance said. You can’t let him see me. He’s going to say he’s my grandson. He’s not my grandson. You can’t let him see me. Got that Marcus?

I might want to say when he told me this, where I was, what I was doing. But I can’t tell you, because he told me this a bunch of times. Sometimes when he was in his bed. Sometimes, while I made sure he was eating his lunch. I could check in on the rec room and get this statement.

My responses were always pretty much the same. I might say, Sure thing Mr. Torrance. I will tell your grandson that you don’t want to see him when he shows up. No grandson visit, check. That was usually it. Nothing else to say. But one afternoon I couldn’t help myself and asked, Why would you say that Mr. Torrance. I mean you don’t get visitors at all. And now you are telling me that if a kid shows up you don’t want to see him. I mean, me and the other attendants are great company, but I don’t think we’re the same as a grandson showing up.

He looked up from his fruit salad and said, Because it's not my grandson, Marcus. It’s me. Me as a young temporal traveler. I know he’s coming, and I have nothing to say to him. Never have. Never will.

At Reynold’s Home, that’s where we end the conversation. Now the thing about this place, and why we attendants get paid pretty good coin, is that all the people who reside here claim to be time travelers from way back. Yeah, I know. What’s that about? I’ll tell you what that’s about. It's about five dollars more an hour in my paycheck, so the residents who live here are whatever they want to be. And who’s to say that they aren’t? There are things out in the world that I don’t comprehend, so why bother. Besides, the place is well run and the folks are as good as you would want.

So when Mr. Torrance says his grandson is actually him on a different timeline, fine, let’s move on with our conversational topics, shall we? Days passed. Months passed. Things pass like that at any rest home. Time moves on.

Then one afternoon, I was leaning against the help desk, making flirt talk with Agnes when a cute ten year old with apple cheeks came up saying he wanted to see Mr. Torrance. That he was his grandson.  Agnes, adorable thing that she is, was going to let him pass, when I put the halt on. I said I had