The Time Traveler's Wife by C. Sean McGee

Author:C. Sean McGee
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: CSM Publishing
Published: 2014-10-20T02:00:00+00:00

If the Mouth is the Asshole of the Subconscious Mind, What then of the Sound of My Thoughts?

By the time the guests arrived, John was busy rummaging through old records that had been collecting dust in a corner of the back room, between the cat’s litter trays and a stack of old wash cloths. He flicked through the cardboard covers manically, trying to remember the tune he had heard the girl in the elevator humming, only hours before. Whatever it was, it was here, in this pile of memories.

“Everyone arrived” Tracy shouted, leaning from the kitchen door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Just give me a second” John said.

“That’s what you said a second ago” Tracy replied.

John’s pressure was building, he wanted to break something.

“I’ll be there in a second alright? Just... go be a gracious host or something” he said, speaking clearly, under the heaviness of his frustration.

As he flicked through every cover, he felt small waves of familiarity, lapping at his conscious shore. They were landmarks, great weighted spikes that he had hammered into the asperous, rocky face of his youth, that which had given him footing and secured him should he ever fall, in the mountainous ascent from boy to man; from callow and inequitable expectation, to matured and dogged obligation.

And though each of these colored and spritely titled spikes felt familiar, as he ran his fingers from corner to corner, they didn’t seem like sure footing, not as much as they had when he was a boy. But he knew whatever the hell that song was that the girl in the elevator was singing, it was in here, somewhere.

And then he found it, near the end of the pile of warped and dusted vinyl, a record he hadn’t heard in a lifetime, since he was a young man, living life so differently than he did today; with more passion, with more exclamation, as if one day, his thoughts and his feelings and his ideas and his discoveries, as if they would account for something.

The cover was different than he imagined it; the same but different.

When he was younger, the images of human desolation and social disorder, and the scrawling illegible titles, they had more impact than they did now, and they stood out like a whore at a christening. Now, the images just looked poorly drawn and the scrawling writing, it wasn’t edgy or inauspicious; it was just annoying, no more artful or dimensional than a scuff mark on his shoe.

John slowly lowered the needle, wincing as it scratched its way on the warped ends of the record. He had forgotten the sound that a vinyl made, the warm crackling and grating, like the sound of thunder rolling about worn tires as they slowly turned on a loose gravel road. And as he listened now, his first instinct was to rattle a wire or a cable, or to hit at the back of the player, to fix that infernal, broken sound.

It sounded nothing like he had imagined. The

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