Title: Todds of Future Past

Callout: Looking forward to looking back.

Logged: 04 Aug 19 (Sunday in the AM)


Time: 2 minutes

Replies: 4

Revisions: 2

Publicity: Workshop

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In a remote corner of Todd’s coffee table sat Todd’s remote. Unlike many of the other items in Todd’s house – his exercise bicycle, his cloning machine, his writing pen – the remote was not dusty from disuse but displayed sharp and crisp lines of cleanliness via frequent activity. Even the inner concavities of the molded plastic body from which protruded the various soft rubber buttons were free from atmospheric debris.

Todd walked into his living quarters from the kitchen, where he’d prepared and consumed a meatball sandwich and microdosed an appropriate amount of military grade LSD to make the next six hours of Snorks watching a religiously transcendent experience. Todd had watched more than six hours of The Snorks in a row before – oh, he’d watched far more – but that watching was of inferior quality. Todd, Todd realized, had been watching The Snorks without really seeing. Today, though, that would change.

As Todd settled in, he began to think, though he knew he’d have to curtail thinking momentarily. Recently, Todd had been considering history, its application to life and vice versa. Todd knew that history was essentially a mop-up or brush-under-the-rug operation – that is, it made one of far more or far less import than had been perceived in the present. History, Todd knew, could be used to twist, modify, manipulate events to create new and even predetermined narratives based on a random assortment of only loosely connected happenstances. Remote control, meatball sub, LSD, Todd, Snorks – Todd knew this was the clay to be molded by history. All he had need do was plug in.

For Todd knew that the cable company, Lazenby Incorporated, Inc., recorded every instance of Todd’s day through his exercise bicycle, his cloning machine, his writing pen, even his remote. The data, Todd knew, would be compiled and eventually pored through – someone somewhere someday would see what Todd had done, watch the Todd-watching footage, understand its significance, and recreate it in a way that would crystallize an essence that Todd, sitting there watching, would be only peripherally aware of. And to the annals of history, Todd’s name would be added.

Everything was set – Todd tuned out his thoughts, then quieted his mind completely until it hummed slightly with a perceivable silence. He slowly picked up the remote, felt its reassuring weight, and sat back into his purple velour couch. He used his tongue to fish a small crumb of meatball from the inner concavity of his left second premolar, removed it from his tongue with his left forefinger, studied it momentarily, then put it back in his mouth and swallowed. He felt it glide on a bed of saliva down his throat, making its way toward Todd’s stomach where it would break into its constituents, each to find a place in the ecosystem of Todd.

Momentarily, Todd became still – a new life he could never conceive was about to find purchase in a future he would never know or even need to consider. All was as well as could be.

But when Todd hit the Power button, nothing happened.


Bear » Authorship
Bear » 9:24 AM 04 Aug 19
Bear » 9:23 AM 04 Aug 19

The Thread (4)

 Author's voice in spacey orange. 

  1. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion nothing didn’t happen.

  2. Concavity twice?

  3. Also, I was not a little disappointed Todd didn’t nosh that residual nugget of balled meat like every other red-blooded Earthling would have. But maybe that’s just the sort of thing that makes Todd Todd.

  4. Didn’t he? I thought he did.

    What makes Todd Todd and like every other red-blooded Earthling is his capacity to disappoint. We are all constantly disappointed in our own. That’s what makes us us.

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"Art, though, is never the voice of a country; it is an even more precious thing, the voice of the individual, doing its best to speak, not comfort of any sort, but truth. And the art that speaks it most unmistakably, most directly, most variously, most fully, is fiction; in particular, the novel." – Eudora Welty