Welcome to the Spot Writers! This week’s prompt is to write about a superpower that only exists one day per week.
Today’s story was written by Phil
Yeats. He recently published his third novel using the pen name Alan Kemister.
His first two were cozy mysteries. This one has a more serious theme. The
Souring Seas is the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards
of ignoring human-induced climate change. For information about this book and
others in what will be a series of three (and possibly more) novels about this
important topic, visit his website.
by Phil Yeats
Once, they called me a genius, a child protégé
with a BSc at seventeen and a PhD at twenty. Now, they think I’m crazy, a
nutcase with wild ideas and premonitions.
My problems erupted after I arrived in
the United States to begin postdoctoral studies. I learned within minutes of
arrival that I was a fish out of water, someone who couldn’t drive in the land
of the automobile. Public transportation was almost nonexistent, and I was
unprepared for the more hectic pace of life in America. Problems with my work
visa and a difficult first meeting with the university professor who hired me
added to my troubles.
I persevered. I found an apartment in
a semi-rural enclave that was a half-hour walk from the university. Then I
spent several days learning everything I could about my temporary home while I
waited for the university to sort out their problems with my work permit.
My premonition in a region struggling
with poorly controlled wildfires upset everything. Sunday, in the middle of my
fourth night, I saw my apartment building engulfed in flames. I packed my few
belongings and charged through the building, hammering on doors and warning my
neighbours of the danger. I then walked in the predawn darkness past the
university and into the urban centre. The wind was howling, and I smelled
smoke.
After breakfast in an all-night café,
I checked into a hotel and turned on the TV. Fires had erupted in my
neighbourhood. According to early reports, hundreds of buildings were ablaze. Many
residents had succumbed to the rapidly spreading flames. I slept until noon,
and then ventured forth to see the damage. The small wooden apartment building
I’d escaped from only twelve hours earlier was a smoldering ruin. A newspaper
reporter approached me as I stared at the mess.
The next day, I visited the university
to tell them I’d return to my family home in BC’s Okanagan Valley until they
sorted out my visa. The professor, my boss to be, was unavailable, so I met
with the chemistry department head.
He accepted my decision without
question and quickly offered to cover all transportation and accommodation
costs related to my trip south. He then reached into a drawer and produced a
letter, one of those to whom it may concern letters. It attributed blame for my
aborted sojourn to problems generated by the university, not to any fault of
mine.
He handed it to me. “We must solve
some problems in the department. You may want this if you choose to look
elsewhere for another position.”
Three days later, I considered my brief
visit to the US as I flew north. I had a generous cheque that covered my
expenses. They issued it hours after I submitted my expense claim.
It was clear they didn’t want me to
return, and I wondered if my comments to the reporter were to blame. They
generated a flurry of media attention for the Good Samaritan, me, who’d foreseen
the fire and warned people to escape.
Concerns about my visions or premonitions
or whatever I wanted to call them had been tormenting me since I looked at the
devastation left by the wildfire. I could barely sit still on the airplane as
wild thoughts about the cause and significance of my apparent ability to
predict the future rampaged through my mind.
My visions began innocently enough
when I was twelve. I knew then that I wasn’t like other kids my age. I was
intolerant of the normal antics and chatter of other kids. I’d become obsessed
with whatever topic caught my interest and. And then there were my visions. They
showed everyone I was different.
They always occurred on Sunday night. At
first, they weren’t much, usually explanations of problems I’d encountered
investigating my latest obsession. I attributed these insights to my habit of
clearing my mind on Sunday nights before the coming school week. I always
struggled with noisy, crowded places. Dealing with the cacophony created by my teachers
and other students demanded a clear mind. I figured my decluttered mind reprocessed
everything I’d learned over the previous days.
Over the years, the weekly visions
continued. I refused to accept them as anything more than insights I gained
from careful analysis of the information I’d gathered during my reading and
research.
By the final year of my PhD studies, I
could no longer defend that explanation. I was seeing my experiments over the
coming week and predicting the successes and failures. I saw the new chemicals
I would produce, whether they were solids or liquids, and what colour they’d be.
No one had made these chemicals, so how could I envisage them? But I always got
them right.
The fire was the last straw. I had to
admit I could see into the future. I couldn’t see far, but I could accurately
predict what would happen to me over the next few hours and days.
Did this mean I was mentally unhinged?
I didn’t buy it. My visions were accurate, and the last one probably saved my
life. I had to return home, hide away from the distractions of human voices,
and learn to live with and perhaps benefit from my strange ability.
*****
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento