Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow by BJ Neblett

Your summer fun starts at Hugo House with a trip to the past and into the future! Ever wonder about time travel? Ever wish you could go back and change something; or maybe see what tomorrow and the next day and the day after have in store? Ever be deeply engrossed in the latest sci-fi thriller only to have it ruined by an implausible, even ridiculous time travel scenario? Ever get tripped up in your writing about time travel? My next class, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow: Writing Believable Time Travel In Sci-fi and Fantasy, is a class you won't want to miss. We will address the popular beliefs, myths and facts about time travel; look at the problems and pitfalls of traveling to another time; examine the writings of some of the best and most popular sci-fi writers in the business, plus have open discussions about our own beliefs and feelings on the subject. There will even be guest lecturers revealing how they make their own time travel tales believable and engaging.
Classes start Tuesday, July 18th, and run for six weeks, every Tuesday night, 7 til 9 PM, at Seattle's Hugo House. For more info, and to sign up click here to check out their site. But get on it... this promises to be a fun and popular class and will fill up soon. Don't be stuck in the past!

:30 Minutes by BJ Neblett

:30 Minutes

by BJ Neblett

© 1992, 2013

            It was Sunday night, the kind of night when windows were left open to a breeze that never came; a night before air conditioning, before locked doors, before fear, before apathy.

            Lights were turned off.

            Shades were pulled up.

            Sheets were turned down.

            It was a hot Sunday night in July. It was bed time but no one slept.

            Outside, streetlights called to mosquitoes.

            Inside, mothers called to children; lovers called to each other.

            The small suburban community was close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses, it only seemed natural.

            Each house was the same; each house different.

            Each occupant was an individual, each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.

            It was 10:45 on a hot Sunday night in July. It was bed time but no one slept. The summer silence was shattered by a car careening down North Street at top speed.

            Rubber squealed on pavement.

            Metal twisted against metal.

            Glass exploded in the air.

            Exhaust hammered.

            It was a Sunday night in July. The residence of North Street lay sleepless and frozen in their beds by the sounds they heard coming from outside.

            “Was that a car?”

            “It sounded like trash cans.”

            “Did it come from up the street?”

            By the time reality seized the startled neighbors the car’s muffled exhaust had paused briefly then faded into the hot summer night. The momentary silence was broken by the sound of doors opening and closing up and down the street.

            Mother’s were in robes.

            Father’s were in pajama bottoms.

            Children with runny noses pointed.

            Each looked at one another, questioning, asking, puzzling.

            “Two cars had been drag racing.”

            “The police were chasing someone.”

            It was the Kelly’s blue Chevrolet that witnessed the truth. Once shiny and stately, now crumbed and humbled, smashed against a telephone pole.

            A spark ignited.

            A flame caught hold.

            A car blazed in the hot July night.

            Bob Thompson ran to call the fire department. Mr. Parker held his wife. Everyone listened to Mrs. Johnson exclaiming it was all so terrible; everyone but the Kelly’s.

            A shadowy figure appeared.

            A man was running.

            Mr. Martin carried a fire extinguisher.

            In seconds the white chemical had choked out the red-yellow flames. A final gray cloud billowed into the black summer sky.

            “How could such a thing happen?”

            “Did anyone see anything?”

            “Where are the Kelly’s?”

            At that moment, Mr. Martin was pounding on the front door of the Kelly home. Lights hop scotched through the darkened house, ending at the front porch as the door opened. Mr. Martin put his arm around Mr. Kelly.

            “It was an unidentified car.”

            “It had raced down High Street.”

            “It failed to make the turn.”

            Mrs. Martin comforted Mrs. Kelly.

            It was 11:05 on a hot Sunday summer night in July. No one slept. A police car rolled up silently to the scene of the accident. They had been in the neighborhood on a call.

            It was one block over.

            It had been a hit and run.

            A young girl was walking with her mother.

            Twelve year old Carrie Walker was dead. Everyone knew her. Her father had sold most of them their houses. Her mother was head of the PTA.

            It was a hot night in July. But there was a strange chill. The small crowd shuffled about.

            They felt the Walker’s loss.

            They understood the Kelly’s anger.

            Someone should be with the Walkers.

            Mr. Martin offered his towing service.

            It was silent and still. The police radio split the heavy night air. Twenty heads strained to hear. The accidents were related. An eye witness had seen a car traveling at high speed, its right front fender crumpled.

            The car was a convertible.

            It was dark green.

            The license plate number was familiar.

            The words struck like a hammer blow. The same thought was on everyone’s mind. Neighbors looked at one another questioning, asking, puzzled; in disbelief.

            “Young John Martin has a convertible.”

            “Didn’t he just paint it dark green?”

            “There’s dark green paint on Kelly’s car.”

            Mike and Louise Martin shrank from the crowd and slipped back to their house. Tom Kelly looked at his wife. Alice Johnson mumbled something about teenagers. Bob Thompson gathered up his children. Bill Hanks sighed, and Sam Parker took his wife’s hand in his.

            No one spoke.

            No one looked at the Kelly’s.

            No one looked at each other.

            The small suburban community was close. The people worked, played and prayed together. They knew and took care of each other. They had grown up together. In a neighborhood where a single fence stretched for blocks and the only difference was the color of the houses, it only seemed natural.

            Each house was the same; each house different.

            Each occupant was an individual, each individual a neighbor; each neighbor a friend.

            It was a Sunday night, the kind of night when doors were closed, locks were turned; windows shut and shades drawn.

            Outside, streetlights called to mosquitoes.

            Inside, mothers called to children; lovers called to each other.

            It was 11:15 on a hot summer night in July. It was bed time but no one slept.

                                                                                        Houston, Texas

                                                                                        July, 1992