Notes from the Multiverse

By West Lothian Writers

Come on an adventure through time and space with West Lothian Writers' third anthology — Notes From the Multiverse.

Whether your interest is fairy tales, space opera, or just good old-fashioned murder and intrigue, these twenty-three tales will take your mind out of this world.

Carefully crafted by ten talented authors from the central belt of Scotland, these stories’ quirky characters, tender thoughts and exciting action will keep you amused for hours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244426033

Book preview

Foreword

West Lothian Writers was founded in 2006 and since then we have grown in numbers and experience. Every fortnight members present new and varied writing to the group for enjoyment and critique. Twenty-three fine examples are contained in this book.

The quality of the work made selecting one piece from each contributor difficult so there are several examples from each of our authors. At the back of this book you'll find more information about West Lothian Writers and how we support our members.

We hope you enjoy reading the pieces here as much as we did when selecting them.

Multiversal - Chris Young

One warm, sunny Monday morning, Bob Jones sat in front of his breakfast cereal and took a sip of coffee.

He had a lot to do today. The deadline for the submission of his budget proposal was 5 p.m. that afternoon. On top of that, he also had a meeting with the General Manager at 10 in the morning about the falling share price situation, as well as a lunch meeting with Herman Gruel from whom he was hoping to secure a new ship hull reinforcement system contract.

He poured milk over his cereal and picked up the science magazine he’d bought at the weekend. Holding the magazine in his left hand, he spooned the cereal into his mouth with his right, doing an admirable job of not dropping any flakes back into the bowl or dribbling milk down his chin. In his line of work, it was as important to keep up with scientific progress as it was to not have milk stains on your shirt. You never knew what was—

Bob’s spoon hand came to a steady halt inches from his mouth. He frowned. His eyes screwed up as his attention focused to a pinpoint.

The article. The sentences in the article. The meaning that they meant. Could it possibly be—?

He placed the spoon back in the bowl and opened the magazine up with both hands, leaning over the table and unconsciously holding his breath as he tried to take in what it was that the article was trying to say.

Suddenly, he let go of the pages and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

Gordon Bennett, he said to the empty kitchen.

He looked out the window opposite at the blue sky and wispy clouds drifting dreamily by. Then he looked at his briefcase sitting on the table next to him, open and almost full of documents, files and folders. Then he looked at his watch. Then his cereal. Then he picked up the magazine again.

Amazing, he said with a laugh of disbelief, once again placing the magazine down.

Gordon H. Alexander Gertrude Honeywell Bennett the Third, he said, and his gaze once again fixed on the sky outside the window.

I’m going to the beach.

Bob stood up, grabbed his jacket and, leaving his kitchen table with cereal uneaten and briefcase open and full of pressing business matters, he left his apartment.

The gentle crashing of waves on the sand, the salty sea breeze pushing his hair back from his face, the various shades of blue and yellow stretched panoramic ally across his field of view, the soft grinding of sand particles beneath his butt cheeks—ahh, it was good to be alive!

Bob Jones took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly.

His mobile vibrated in the pocket of his jacket lying folded on the sand nearby. He pulled it out, flipped it open and held it to his ear.

Hello? he said.

Jones, where the hell are you!?

It was Mr. Strychnine, the General Manager of his company. He didn’t sound too happy.

I’m at the beach.

You’re where!? We’ve postponed the meeting waiting for you to show up with your presentation! Now what on earth do you think you’re playing at!? I want you here at the office in thirty minutes or you can say goodbye to your new cubicle! Well!? Explain yourself!

Well, Mr. Strychnine, I read an article today in a science magazine, and it’s official. The multiple universe theory is no longer just a theory, it’s reality.

What the hell are you talking about!?

This morning I chose not to come to work. I chose instead to come to the beach. But other me’s in other universes did go to work this morning, a whole lot of them. So I figured if they’re all going to work, I might as well take the day off.

There was silence at the other end of the phone line.

Really!?

That’s what it said. A whole lot of scientists in a whole lot of important universities have agreed.

More silence. Then:

Gordon Bennett!

His boss hung up. Bob closed his mobile phone. He gave it one last look, and then threw it as far as he could into the sea.

At the office, Mr. Strychnine walked slowly into the conference room in front of thirty waiting employees. He stood at the front next to an overhead projector and shook his head to himself, seeming unaware of all the people sitting watching him expectantly.

He chuckled, scratched his head and walked over to the window to look down at the street below.

Er, Mr. Strychnine? said one of the employees. Is everything all right, sir?

He seemed not to notice. Then he turned and said, What? Oh, yes, Bryson, everything’s fine. Just… fine. He returned to the front of the room and addressed the expectant faces.

I’m afraid Jones isn’t going to be joining us this morning. Mr. Strychnine picked thoughtfully at the corner of a sticker on the side of the OHP. He… he’s gone to the beach.

Exclamations of surprise arose from the meeting room. The beach?

Yes, well, the reason being you see… he looked suddenly at Bryson. Bryson? Could you do me a favour?

Yes, sir, what is it?

Get someone to go down to the nearest off-licence and buy a load of booze, will you? Charge it to the company account. Anything you like. And caterers. Contact some local caterers and get some food over here. Good stuff. Steak, caviar, duck, that sort of thing.

Sir?

Go ahead. I think we’re going to have a kind of staff party.

Are we celebrating something, sir?

In a manner of speaking. I’ll explain to this lot while you’re busy with the refreshments. He called out to the rest of the room. Any objection to a little company-paid impromptu soirée?

Calls of, No, not at all, came back positively from the meeting members as they shared smiling glances of surprised gratitude.

Excellent, said Mr. Strychnine rubbing his hands. So, off you go, Bryson.

Bryson, with a quizzical but excited expression, left the room.

Now, Mr. Strychnine said to quieten the buzzing room. You see the thing is, it’s official. The multiple universe theory is no longer just a theory. It’s reality. I have chosen not to have this meeting, but in innumerable other universes we are having this meeting. In fact, in countless other universes we are all working as hard as possible for the good of this company. So I see no reason why we, in this universe right here, can’t have a little fun. He passed his gaze around the faces in the conference room. Do you?

It seemed that they didn’t.

Bob Jones, sunburnt and relaxed, pressed the elevator call button in the lobby of his office building. It was 7 p.m. and the sun had already set on the streets outside but, if he was lucky, Mary Green would still be at the office doing a bit of overtime.

He decided he might ask her out on a date, was the thing.

Her hair was the colour of golden leaves, her perfume the scent of wildflowers, her eyes deep pools of Greek freshwater ponds, her smile shafts of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Sitting on the beach that afternoon he suddenly realized that he’d secretly worshipped her all these months but had never plucked up the courage to ask her out.

Today was the day! Now was the time! This universe was the one, was what it was!

With a ding! the elevator doors slid open. Bob paused in mid-step as he saw there on the floor of the elevator—a crushed party hat?

As the lift ascended Bob realised he could hear music, increasing in volume and clarity until the title, band and year entered his consciousness just as the lift reached his office floor and the doors slid open. The Rolling Stones You Can’t Always Get What You Want was being pumped through the ceiling PA system.

The main lights were off, leaving the office illuminated by desk lamps, candles and, in one case, a red bicycle light revolving on a record player.

There