READER: Lately, I've found myself having the urge to rework old short stories I'd written in years' past. This one, Missing Time, is one such story. Revising a work of fiction you've previously written after many more years of living in this crazy world adds a completely different dimension to the work. It's also a whole lot of fun. I hope you enjoy it. If you missed the First Installment of Missing Time it can be read here.
"Timothy Alfred Johnson, you be home by noon. I mean it." Joss patted her son on the seat of his faded Levi’s as he bolted for the door.
"Love you, honey!" she called after him, her hair tousled by the breeze he left in his wake.
"Love you too!" Timmy shouted back, already halfway to the porch steps. He imagined the wooden screen door slamming behind him like a starter pistol. And just like that, the race was on.
He slowed only when he reached the last house on the block, where the neighbor’s malnourished Boxer stood expectantly by the fence. From his pocket, Timmy pulled the sausage he'd swiped from breakfast and tossed it over. The dog devoured it, snorting as he licked the lingering pork grease from Timmy’s palm.
With a quick left turn at the corner of the fence, he took off again, weaving through two and a half blocks before reaching his destination—his beloved woods.
Parting the foliage, he stepped into the cool, earthy embrace of the trees and inhaled deeply. But something unusual caught his eye. About fifty feet ahead, dozens of butterflies flitted through a shaft of sunlight, swirling in a dazzling, undulating vortex. Monarchs, their orange and black wings flashing, danced among iridescent blues and an exotic lavender variety he’d never seen before.
Timmy inched forward, careful not to startle them, his breath catching in his throat. Time stretched and warped. A split second felt like eternity. It was one of those rare moments when the veil of reality thins just enough for you to glimpse what lies beyond.
He felt about this patch of woods the way pious people felt about church. Here, he was connected to something so vast, so ancient, that his troubles shrank to insignificance.
Ahead stood an old walnut tree, its massive trunk draped in moss, rising like a neoclassical column beneath a canopy of green. Someone, long ago, had strung a swing from one of its thickest branches.
Timmy climbed onto the weathered wooden seat, grasped the rough, prickly ropes, and pushed off. As he pumped his legs, higher and higher, the world blurred into streaks of green and gold. The musky scent of crushed walnuts filled the air.
Then—light.
A rush of warmth flooded his body, every inch of him vibrating like a tuning fork.
The last thing he remembered was indistinct shapes hovering above him, their faces blurred at the edges, their voices distant. Then, the memory softened, hazy and dreamlike, as though he were staring at a Monet through milky cataracts.
"Mr. Johnson, it’s time to come back."
Tim awoke to the light tap of Dr. Schiller’s fingers against his speckled, motionless hand.
"You went much deeper this time," she said. "The gong rang five times before you even flinched."
Tim blinked slowly, dragging his tongue across his dry lips.
"How could I have completely forgotten this?"
"Forgotten what?" Rachel asked.
"The woods," he murmured. "I spent most of my childhood in them. Right up until I started dating in the tenth grade."
Dr. Schiller shrugged. "Well, some believe that every moment in time exists forever in its own singular dimension. And that DMT, if only briefly, can bridge those moments together as one."
Tim frowned, still groggy.
Rachel backtracked. "I don’t subscribe to that theory, of course. We’re just beginning to understand how this works. But I do know this—memories can be blocked for all sorts of reasons. Our goal here is simply to clear the path so emotional processing can begin."
Then, like lightning streaking through the black void of a midnight sky, another memory splintered across Tim’s consciousness. It was vivid, brief, and disjointed.
Seven-year-old Timmy was pumping his legs manically, forcing the swing higher and higher. At the precise moment he reached the apex, he jumped—soaring twenty feet above the forest floor, straight through that golden shaft of sunlight.
The second he breached the light, time unraveled. His body tingled. Then, he was enveloped in an ethereal glow. For a fraction of a second, everything crystallized into perfect focus.
He ran through the woods, toward a grassy clearing where a small group of children sat. But they weren’t like any children he had ever seen. Their limbs were thin, their heads large, their dark eyes fathomless.
He felt no fear. Only purpose.
Before them hovered a projection of strange, intricate symbols—sacred geometry that pulsed with meaning just beyond his grasp. He had been brought here to learn, to understand.
His last memory was the sensation of his body collapsing onto the cool, damp forest floor, consciousness slipping, the cawing of crows settling in the treetops above.
Then—nothing.
"Are you still with me?" Rachel snapped her fingers.
Tim’s head tilted. His expression flickered with confusion, then something deeper. A memory just out of reach, teasing at the edges of his mind.
"Something extraordinary happened in those woods," he whispered. "I feel like… if I could just get back there, the whole memory might unravel."
His breath hitched. His shoulders trembled. A whimper escaped from the corner of his mouth, and then—he broke. A sob shuddered through him, raw and uncontrollable.
Dr. Schiller rose from her chair and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe here. Let it come."
Her words cracked something open inside him. The tears poured, soaking through the folds of his flannel shirt, sinking into his skin. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t want it to stop.
Tim sat there for a long while, going through an entire box of Kleenex from the side table. Rachel stayed beside him, holding his hand, squeezing his shoulder lightly.
Finally, he let out a long, ragged breath and wiped his eyes. "Christ, I’m sorry. This is… embarrassing." He forced a chuckle, his face flushed.
Rachel tilted her head. "You don’t cry often, do you?"
Tim stroked the rough white stubble on his chin. "Is it bad if I can’t even remember the last time?"
Rachel smiled gently. "We made real progress today. I think you’re ready for a higher dosage."
Tim let out a final, watery sniffle, then grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks, Doc."
She walked him to the door. "That’s why I’m here. I’m glad it’s working. Don’t forget to schedule your next appointment before you leave. Word’s getting out about the program—appointments are booking up fast."
Tim nodded, gripping the doorknob, then hesitated. "I need to go back to those woods."
Rachel studied him for a moment, then simply said, "Maybe you will."
And with that, Tim stepped out, the past and present threading together in a way he was only beginning to understand.
TO BE CONTINUED
Be well, make the most of this day. Thank you for reading!
Growing weary of the ads and divisiveness on mainstream social media? If so, why not try Hive? Click on this link to sign-up and join our growing global community.
Want to Keep Up with My Travels? Please subscribe to my YouTube channel.
