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Science Fiction and Fantasy
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| Lebria Two Zero | |
| By TomOBrien | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 28 February 2008 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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Chapter One. The Visitor. 1250 words A short Sci-Fi story that I've had rattling around in my head for a few months now. Please feel free to comment or offer suggestions as you deem necessary. I can use all the help I can get! Title suggestions, please. 
It was another cold, dreary, snowy New England day in mid February. A front had arrived overnight with promises of a full day of sleet, freezing rain, and all manner of seasonal maladies. Well, what did I expect? It was winter after all. This was the Northeast.
I had connected my I-POD to my laptop and plugged in a couple of good Bose speakers. I was streaming some cool jazz, Coltrane and Miles Davis over the sound system and I had a nice hardwood fire going in the woodstove. My daughter’s cat was curled up in a corner by her scratching post. I also had a pint of good pale ale going. A very nice, copper colored, hoppy micro beer from a local brewery. The house that I was living in was a raised-ranch style structure. The main area, the living spaces, were at second-story level. The TV room included a large picture window. From where I was standing in the living room I could see part of the street going south toward the main road as well as the driveway and front walk leading to my house. I had stopped molesting the game server a little while, hoisted the pint up for a long pull, then stood gazing out the large front window at the storm. I could hear the tic-tic-tic of ice crystals hitting the windowpane. I stood there, day dreaming just a little I guess. I was fifty-two years old on my last birthday and I was fighting that midlife depression – crisis, whatever you want to call it, "funk," that many people go through. As I stood there surveying the storm through the front window, I saw the figure of a man coming down the street from the south. Head bent against the wind, no hat, hands jammed into his pockets, the collar of his light jacket turned up. He sure isn’t dressed for this weather. I was thinking. The man stopped just then and seemed to study my road side mailbox for a few seconds, as if he were verifying the name and address. ____________ O'Brien 20 Lebria RD. Then, nodding to himself, started the trek up my driveway.
Now who the heck is this guy and what would he want on this cold, stormy day? I wondered out loud.
I moved toward the front door as I heard him mount the stairs to my front porch. There is a narrow, full length window there next to my front door and through the sheer curtain that covered the window I saw him standing, looking at the front door, hesitating with his hand just above the doorbell button. A strong wind gusted up blowing snow just then and he jabbed the doorbell button. The door bell rang as I covered the last few steps to the door. I twisted the door handle and pulled the door inward. The stranger was on the other side of the rapidly fogging storm door window. He looked vaguely familiar now that I was closer to him. He was a younger guy. Late twenties, early thirties I’d guess. “Where have I seen this guy before?” I wondered. I pushed the door open an inch or two and, raising my voice above the wind, asked, “Can I help you?” His teeth chattering against the cold, the stranger met and held my eyes for a second; he showed me just the beginning of a smirk, looked down and said, “CHRIST! It’s f-f-freezing out here!” I eased the door a little wider in an effort to hear him better and the stranger pushed uninvited into the entry way of my house, the door banging shut behind him. He stood there just inside the door scrubbing his arms and stomping his feet as he worked to get his circulation going. “My f-f-freakin’ feet have g-g-gone numb!” he proclaimed through chattering teeth as he threw me an accusatory glance. “Close that damn door will ya?” There was something in the cadence and timber of his voice that made me automatically follow his instructions. Well, I rationalized, I don’t want to let too much cold air in. Regaining my posture a bit after closing the door, and a bit perturbed I asked, “Who are you and what do you want?” His eyes met and held mine again. Vaguely familiar hazel-green eyes. That somehow all to familiar cocky, confident stance. “I’m your father!” He said, in a hoarse whisper while tossing me a lopsided grin and continuing to rub his arms to generate heat. The room went cold as the blood drained from my face. A sweat broke out on the back of my neck and shoulders and I momentarily felt dizzy. A primeval shudder went through my body. “My father?! What’re you, drunk?” I bent slightly at the waist and laughed outloud just then. More of a bark actually than a laugh. “Dude, I don’t know what you're on, but my father. . . . .” I stopped in mid sentence and, while quickly looking away, changed course. “My father would be a hell of a lot older than you are. Christ’s sakes pal. I’m fifty-two years old!” Originally I was going to say that my father had been dead for more than twenty years but for some, as yet not understood reason, I merely pointed out the obvious age difference between us. “You always were a quick study. Nice place you’ve got here,” he added while looking around. “It looks like you’ve done ok for yourself,” he continued while walking passed me, into the living room and toward the wood stove. “I like your taste in music.” He said looking around for the sound system and casting a wary eye on the laptop and mp3 player. “Hey, hold on, buddy. Where do you think you’re going?” I protested while following him across the room. “I’m going to thaw out a bit and then you are going to help me figure out what the blue hell I am doing here. And, more importantly, how I get back. What is the date today anyway?” He asked while scrubbing his hands together by the woodstove. “It’s Saturday, February sixteenth.” “What year?” “Oh-eight” I replied. He threw me a questioning look of annoyance. “Oh-eight? What the hell do you mean, oh-eight?” “Two-thousand and eight. That’s what year this is.” I replied, my voice fading away. His eyebrows went up just then and he looked at me kind of sideways while seemingly intent on warming up by the woodstove. “You said that you were fifty-two years old. You were born in ’56, so I guess that’s about right. This would be the year two thousand and eight.” I started to feel dizzy. The room seemed to tilt and rotate just a bit to my left. My stomach gurgled and did a slow flip-flop. That last swallow of beer was trying to come back up. I plopped down into a nearby chair and lowered my head between my knees.
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