The dig had gone well. The Inca, vanished but not forgotten, left valuable clues. As had the Anasazi and the Clovis People. Clues for second chances that is, the ability to go back and set things right, to hopefully turn tragedy into romance. Only time, of course, will tell.
NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.
I’d suspected these people, all the vanished civilizations, had somehow devised a way to transport themselves through time. It did, of course, stand to reason that a group with such an advanced knowledge of the celestial heavens, of how the universe around them operated, could indeed transcend their boundaries and move not only from Point A to Point B, but also to any point in between, or backward or forward along the path. In other words, become masters of time travel.
And here it was, staring at me from across the ages: the proof I needed, had so long been searching for.
The stones at the bottom, nestled along the ground, nearly covered by vines and grass and roots, led me to the dreaded discovery: the Inca had left in search of a better place, with no wars, no invading hordes, and plenty of land and food and resources. There was, however, no way to find them, no clues as to where this place existed along the time path -- and worse, much worse, the portal only went in one direction. In other words, if I attempted to follow them, I wouldn’t make it back to report my findings. All I had were these stones, evidence that would make me a laughingstock if I chose to publish my belief in them.
A society lost with no desire to be found. But could their knowledge help me in other ways? Could my life be altered, not by fame but by something even more tangible?
A second chance?
My mind reeled at the option thrust before me, causing my cock to stir inside my shorts. The Inca had their reasons for escape, and I had mine. Twenty years forward, twenty in reverse.
Late summer, 1984.
A crossroads.
The symbols pointed the way, the stones pulling back, back, back as time sunk ever downward into a pitch-black vortex, yanking me right along with it -- and all it took was touching them in a certain sequence, an order only I now knew, obtained through so many years of research. I landed, not in a strange land, as the Inca most probably had, but in a place I knew all too well. My current spirit, my intellect, had replaced the old one, as I had also predicted.
My college dorm room. Senior year. Alone. Nearly naked from the shower. I raced to the mirror and smiled, a grin with no creases around the eyes, no lines scrunched together along my forehead, teeth a gleaming white, chin and jaw firm and strong. I dropped my towel and stared in awe at the body I’d lazily left behind, rife with dense muscle, sinew, tanned flesh. My cock instantly stiffened, rising, arcing up and out, the wide head slick with glistening, translucent precome. It throbbed at my touch.
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