Addict: A Time Traveler's Tale

By Paula L. Jones

Norm Fischer is from the future, and he's addicted to time travel. For years, he's been traversing the time spectrum, desperately chasing the high that only a time jumper can understand. But now that his daughter is sick with an illness that only a futuristic serum can cure, Norm has a different reason for making each jump. Addict: A Time Traveler's Tale is a short story that follows Norm's attempts to outsmart his enemies and retrieve the futuristic cure that will save his child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paula L. Jones
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223410584

Book preview

Addict

A Time Traveler's Tale

Paula L. Jones

Copyright © 2023 by Paula L. Jones

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This book is dedicated to my Dad, Aldoph Jones.

Contents

1.Chapter One

2.Chapter Two

3.Chapter Three

4.Chapter Four

5.Chapter Five

6.Chapter Six

7.Chapter Seven

8.Chapter Eight

9.Chapter Nine

10.Chapter Ten

11.Chapter Eleven

About the Author

Other Books By Paula

Chapter One

March 25, 2024

When I was a boy, I was a swimmer.

I competed in meets and won a few.

Before every competition, my dad would stoop beside me, look me in the eye, and say, You don’t need to be the strongest, and you don’t need to be the winner. You only need to keep trying. Don’t ever give up.

He’d smile, ruffle my hair, and tell me to, Go get ‘em.

I’d head to the pool, aglow with nervous energy and the best feeling of euphoria. Dad recited that phrase every time we went to a meet, and it never got old. I think that’s because I loved the feeling his words triggered.

When I’d dive into the water, endless possibilities ran through my veins like adrenaline. There was nothing I couldn’t accomplish.

And then Dad died.

I decided to quit the swim team after that. The intoxicating feeling of standing on the edge of endless possibilities also fled the scene. But feelings have a way of reappearing when you least expect.

As a clueless and despondent teen who missed his father, I began a one-sided love affair with alcohol and street drugs.

My mom found out, subjected me to her own, much more animated, version of Dad’s speech about trying, made me see a therapist, and cut me off from friends who encouraged my questionable habits. It wasn’t long after this intervention that hope made a reappearance.

I think that’s the way hope works. It shows up when you least expect it and when you need it most. This may explain why, just over a decade after escaping those rocky teenage years, I once again find myself in mandatory group therapy, and I feel a twinge of hope.

Either that, or I’m just as bonkers as my fellow patients. The other crazies and I are temporary residents of a New Orleans-based facility called Linear Horizons Addiction Treatment and Behavioral Health Clinic.

My name is Bob, the woman beside me says.

Her name is not Bob. It’s Rachel.

I watch her carefully as she continues, I was eating cereal when the cops burst in. I punched one. That didn’t go down too good. They sent me here instead of jail.

Rachel was brought to Linear Horizons last night. This morning, her eyes are still dilated to a frightening degree. She’s also been scratching so much her face and arms are marked with red streaks. She should be secluded and in detox instead of in a group therapy session.

But this is no surprise. If I’ve learned anything in the past three weeks I’ve been stuck here, it’s that best practices are not a priority in this treatment facility.

I worked for Global Green Initiative, Rachel goes on. I ain’t no addict. It’s the company that’s bad. Not me.

As she mentions Global Green, fear tunnels through me and I shiver. Briefly glancing down, I take a deep breath and try to relax.

Global Green manufactures all kinds of things, Rachel continues, I seen their plans to build some kind of super advanced weapon. When I asked about it, they acted sketch and before I knew it, they was drugging me!

They drugged you? a guy in the group repeats, aghast.

Yeah, man, Rachel shakes her head in disgust. Then they called the police, lying and telling them I’m on meth. Before I knew it, I was high as a kite sitting on my front lawn eating Cheerios out of my right shoe with a fork when the cops pulled up and arrested me. But I ain’t no addict.

I can’t help but feel for Rachel. She may be half delirious, but she’s telling the truth about Global Green.

Mark, our therapist, clears his throat. The expression on his face silently shouts, ‘Yeah, right. And I’m Santa Claus.’

Thank you for that, Rachel, Mark says in a bored tone. He sighs and scans all six of us. Our chairs form a circle in the west corner of the treatment center’s activity room. It’s a small, dark room. Very depressing, which is great for a mental hospital. I guess that’s why this facility has been the scene of 21 suicides in the last thirteen months.

Justified sarcasm aside, the activity room isn’t all bad. It has some light, which comes from a dimming fluorescent bulb above our heads and a sliding glass door against the west wall. The door is kept locked but serves as a window.

A few feet away from our circle, several other patients are seated on a brown couch. They’re eating snacks and watching cartoons on a television that sounds like it’s been turned up to maximum volume. The entire room smells like urine and will continue to smell like urine until 1:34 p.m., which is when a janitor will arrive to mop the floor and empty our unit’s trash.

The janitor is scheduled to arrive at noon, but he will be late today.

I glance at the clock on the wall behind Mark and catch myself inadvertently touching my left wrist, a subconscious search for the security of my watch. But I’m not wearing it. The device is under lock and key in Nurse Laura’s office, as are my other belongings.

A twinge of anxiety barges in on my hope.

I need that contraption more than anything in the world. And once I get my hands on it, I’ll need to put it to use faster than I ever have.

My mouth goes dry with nerves. I gulp as I read the hands on the clock. 11:56 a.m.

Norm, Mark says, interrupting my thoughts. "You’re one