I know! It’s been a while! Refresh your memory here!
“Pumpkin?” David said, surprised, when he opened the door to find me standing there.
“Hey Cupcake,” I said, smiling and trying my best to pretend like I didn’t hate those nicknames with every fiber of my being.
“What are you doing standing on my doorstep looking the way you do?” he asked, leaning against the splintered doorframe. He’d put on more then a little weight since I’d last seen him, and the flab of skin hanging out from under his faded Wayne’s World t-shirt was less then cute. Still, I put my game face on and smiled my best come hither smile.
“I miss you, David,” I said, stepping forward and putting my hand on his shoulder. His shirt was slightly moist to the tough. Ugh.
David stepped back, puzzled.
“Oh?” he replied, “That’s funny, because the last time I saw you, you told me that if you ever saw me again you’d get a restraining order and a gun.”
In my periphery, I saw Casandra-3 make a sneaky dash from the back of the house next door to the side of 31 Throuse, holding a large purple stick. She’d told me she needed to to get close enough to touch him with her technical sounding word thingy and that my job was to distract him with my – well sexiness wasn’t the word she used, but it was the word I was going to use.
Clearly, the sexy was not working.
“Did I say that?” I laughed. God, this is why I was still single.
“You did,” David affirmed, scratching his belly with right hand.
“Well, I said a lot of rash things. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Cupcake, and I need you back in my life.”
Casandra-3, crouched low on the side of the building, made a rude gesture which I ignored.
“Boo bear?” a voice called from inside of the house, “who are you talking to?” The sound of approaching footsteps made me involuntary step back.
“Who’s that?” I asked, upset in spite of myself.
David glanced guiltily behind him as a lean, booby redhead appeared in one of his t-shirts and nothing else.
At that moment, Casandra-3 lunged.
“Phkow!” she screamed unnecessarily. David flinched, but my alter-ego made contact with the long purple baton, and they both disappeared in a crackle of energy that smelled vaguely of burnt toast.
The redhead and I were left staring at each other, dazed.
“What the fuck?” she said.
“Are you interested in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?” I stammered, before turning and sprinting down the block.
to be continued.
Continued from here.
“So anyways, how did the rebellion or uprising or coup or whatever go?” I asked.
“Oh, you know how it is,” Casandra-3 said wearily, even though it was obvious to both of us that I had no idea how it was. “One minute you’re traveling to Dimension-5 on a routine terrorist squashing mission, the next minute you’re tracking the lead suspect in an assassination attempt on your transdimensional-5th self through the chaos of space and time.”
“I see how that could be trying,” I said in response.
“I was hot on his trail in Dimension-23 when David Benetar gave me the slip, and now I’m somewhat at a loss, to be honest.”
“That’s funny you should be chasing a David Benetar,” I said, getting up to pour myself another cup of coffee. “That was my ex-boyfriend’s name.”
I heard a shattering sound as Casandra-3 dropped her coffee mug onto the floor.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, startled. “Could you at least pretend to try not to break everything in my house?”
“David Benetar was here?” Casandra-3 hissed at me.
“My ex, yeah,” I replied, sitting back down at the table, “but I’m sure it’s probably not the same David Benetar.”
“What did he look like?” Casandra-3 asked.
“Tallish, blonde, grey eyes? We broke up two months ago.” I said.
“Do you have a picture?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not your guy.”
“Humor me. There can’t be that many tallish, blonde, grey eyed David Benetars running around.”
“Oh really, because there’s apparently thirty-seven of us,” I replied, but I went to get my computer anyways.
David Benetar popped up immediately in my Facebook search bar.
“Stalking your ex on Facebook is a little sad, don’t you think,” Casandra-3 snorted.
I clicked on his profile picture, which was a close-up of his big, doofus-y grin and his deep dimples.
“Is there a picture of him shirtless on here?”
I mindlessly clicked through 4 times without waiting for the images to upload. Casandra-3 mercifully ignored this.
The picture showed him standing on a mountaintop after a long hike. He wasn’t a very muscular guy, but he liked to show off the large tattoo splashed across his chest.
“That’s the guy. Dammit, 37! You dated this asshole?”
“I’ve had worse,” I said defensively. “Besides, he makes a really decent pie.”
Last week’s prompt was so fun I figured I’d visit it. Welcome back, Casandra-3.
It was another 3 years before I saw Casandra-3 again. I was still living in the same downtown apartment with the same very-hard-to-give-up rent control. I was 26 and right on the edge of too-old-for-this-shit when she made the same haphazard crash landing in the living room, taking out an orchid that had finally started to bloom and a very nice recliner my ex-boyfriend had left behind.
I came running out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, eggs on the stove, to see her sitting on the top of her glider thingy, looking very much the same as when I’d seen her last, give or take the bloody scratches and the smell and the fact that her hair really needed to be re-dyed.
“Hi,” she said, by way of greeting, picking shards of my potted plants out of her dirty blonde hair.
“Do you even know how hard it is to get those to bloom?” I asked. The recliner, which had been speared by the front end of her craft, chose that moment to flop heavily over onto its side.
Casandra-3 shrugged and swung her legs over the side of her glider.
“I smell something burning,” she said.
Shit. The eggs. I ran back into the kitchen and turned off the heat. The dried-out husk of my omelet flopped heavily into the garbage can and I looked at the clock, wondering if I had time to make another before work.
“Call in sick,” Casandra-3 called from the other room, reading my mind. “I like my eggs scrambled with toast, coffee with milk and maple syrup, if you have any. I’m taking a shower.”
“Sure, make yourself at home,” I spat under my breath, but I texted one of my trainees to cover my classes and cracked the rest of the container of eggs into the pan anyways. It wasn’t often that my transdimensional 3rd-self came to visit, and I hadn’t prepared a sequence for today anyways.
Casandra-3 appeared ten minutes later in a pair of my flannel pajamas, dark roots peeking out from her garrish orange blonde hair. She’d managed to wash off all the blood and dirt, but there was still a nasty looking scratch running down her right arm and a scrape running down the left side of her face.
“No toast?” she asked when she sat down.
“No toast,” I answered, already halfway through my own plate.
“Just as well,” she said, pulling at the waistband of the pants she had borrowed which were sliding down her hips.
I scowled and took a huge bite of eggs just to spite her. Casandra-3 polished her own serving in record time. She ate like she hadn’t seen food in four days.
“How was Cassandra-5?” I asked, as she was pouring herself another cup of coffee. “You were there for a long time.”
“I was there for 4 months. What year is it here?”
“Jesus, this dimension moves quick.”
“Wait, so does that mean I’m older than you now?” I asked.
“Yeah, by what, two years and change?” she replied, clearly too lazy to do the math.
“Wow, so you’re, like, a baby.” I said.
“You can’t even rent a car here. Infant.”
“Shut up!” Casandra-3 took a long swig of coffee. “I’ve travelled across 7 different dimensions in 4 months. What the fuck have you done in the past three years that’s more impressive? Gain weight?”
That shut me up.
to be continued…
Today’s Fiction Friday is inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt–
Craft a scene in which you meet an opposite version of yourself — or a story in a bizarre, backwards world.
My immediate first thought was that I was glad that I’d never quite gotten up the cojones to dye my hair in high school, because blonde hair made me look like a radiation patient fresh from a vacation on Jersey Shore. My immediate second thought was that my previous thought had been a shitty, shallow first thought, and that I should be more concerned with the more pressing, reality bending implications of the situation. Like, what the fuck was happening, and who was this spruced-up tart claiming to be my alter ego?
“Am I on acid?” I asked myself, or, to be more specific, Myself Two: Back in Blonde. “Did somebody slip acid into my coffee this morning? What is this? Why is this here? It’s getting mud on my carpet.”
I gestured to the slick, grey, hovercraft looking thing that was currently taking up most of my floor. The Blonde was sitting side-saddle on it, idly flicking cigarette ash onto the shattered remains of my antique-door-turned-coffee-table DIY project that I’d been a hot-glue-gun squirt away from finishing. She sighed, as if my obnoxious questions were ruining her day. It’s not like her tracks on my living room floor would cost her the remains of her security deposit. Bitch.
“I told you, this is my dimensional slider,” the Blonde said, ashing her cig on the side door. “I’m you, from a different dimension in space. I’m traveling through to visit me in the next dimension over and I need a fuel charge, so I figured I’d drop in to say hi. I’ll be out of your hair in another 5 minutes and you can get back to doing whatever this is.”
She gestured at the broken table in obvious disdain.
“Okay,” I said through my teeth, “So why are you visiting me – us – me? You?” I stumbled for the appropriate pronoun, but my alter-self rolled her eyes at me.
“Cassandra-5. Cassandra-5 needs my help subduing a terrorist sect.” she explained, with the air of a school teacher trying to correct a five-year-old who keeps fucking up her multiplication tables.
“And why does Cassandra-5- wait, Cassandra-5 is involved in what, exactly?” I stuttered.
“Cassandra-5 is the President of the Colonies in her dimension.”
“Really?” I asked in spite of myself. “What do you do?”
“I’m Casandra-3. One S. I’m the leading CIA operative for the United States of Canada.” Casandra-3 looked down at her fuel gauge as if she was very bored with our conversation and was looking for an out.
“The United States of- wait, do I have a number?”
“You’re Cassandra-37. The last Cassandra.” The way she said last made it feel like she’d said lowest. I contemplated making an obscene gesture at Myself, but decided against it.
“I thought you were going one dimension over from mine?”
“They’re not in order,” she sneered.
“Oh. Well, what is the terrorist sect doing, exactly?” I asked.
“Look, it’s all very complicated, and I’m having a bit of a long day,” she responded.
“Well, do you need any help with anything? I could, like, come?” I asked, immediately feeling stupid for having asked.
Casandra-3 looked at me like I was somewhat dimmer then she’d expected.
“I think I’ve got this covered. Agent and all. Very routine.”
“Right, right,” I nodded sagely.
An awkward moment passed.
“What does your ship refuel on, anyways?” I asked.
“It coverts quasi-mellatonic-crystalline-semi-structures into sub-atomic-hybridized-freson. From the air. For the vibrations. The sensors can suck plasmatones right out of the quarks.”
“Mhmmm.” I’d understood one or more of those words.
Casandra-3 checked her fuel gauge, stubbed out her cigarette, and swung her legs back into the what’s-it-called.
“Well, it’s been great, 37,” she said, “Good luck with the landlord.”
“Uh, good luck saving the 5th dimension, I guess,” I said. “Tell President Me I say hello.”
She waved as the air around her just sort-of went sideways, her orangey-blonde hair wafting gently in a trans-dimensional breeze, and then she disappeared, and I was left with nothing but the mud tracks in my beige carpet and my poor ex-table.
“Welp,” I said, to no one in particular, calmly resolving, then and there, to go back to bed for the rest of the day.