Chapter 1

Growing up with Mom was like basking in the warm glow of the sun on a lazy summer afternoon. Her smile could melt the chilliest of winter days, and her laugh was the sweetest melody the world had ever known. She had this way of making every moment feel like a grand adventure, even when we were just baking cookies or reading a book together. Her eyes, the color of the ocean on a clear day, sparkled with a warmth that seemed to emanate from her very soul. Her hair, a cascade of golden waves, framed a face that could have been sculpted by the gods themselves. Her beauty was not just skin deep; it was in the way she moved, the way she talked, and the way she loved.

The day she left me was like a meteor crashing into my world. The car, a clunky old thing we called “Bessie,” had seen better days. I remember her saying she’d get it checked out soon, but soon turned into never. It was a Saturday, one of those days that’s so ordinary you don’t expect anything momentous to happen. But fate had other plans. The brake lines, worn and unyielding, decided that day was the day they’d give up the ghost. The car barreled down the hill, picking up speed, her eyes wide with terror. I watched from the sidewalk, my heart in my throat, as she struggled with the wheel. The screech of metal on asphalt was the last sound I heard before everything went silent. The car smashed into the oak tree at the bottom, the impact so fierce that the air was knocked from my lungs. I remember the world spinning around me, my legs giving way as I fell to my knees, screaming her name. The world had gone gray, and the only color left was the crimson that stained the pavement.

As I sprinted down the hill, each step feeling like an eternity, the weight of the world seemed to press down on my shoulders. I was the only one who could save her, the only one who knew what was happening. But as I reached the car, the doors crumpled like paper, the horror of what I saw will be forever etched into my mind. Her body, once so vibrant and full of life, was limp, her beautiful eyes closed. Blood pooled around her, a stark contrast against the white of her blouse. Her hair, once a shimmering halo, was matted and dull with the crimson of her life force. The smell of gasoline and fear filled my nostrils, making me gag. My hands trembled as I reached out to touch her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew if I did, I’d confirm the nightmare playing out before me. But I had to try. I had to save her. So I screamed again, louder this time, and the world snapped back into focus around me.

The first responders arrived with a cacophony of sirens and flashing lights. Paramedics in their blue uniforms rushed to the scene, pushing me aside with gentle but firm hands. They moved with a precision that spoke of years of training and experience, but their faces were grim. They worked tirelessly, trying to revive her, but their efforts were in vain. With every passing second, the color drained from their faces until they looked at me with a mix of pity and resignation. They whispered to each other, sharing glances that I couldn’t bear to meet. And then, the moment I had been dreading, the lead paramedic turned to me, her voice heavy with the weight of her words. “We’re sorry, son. There’s nothing more we can do.” The world around me grew dim again, the sounds fading into a distant murmur. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of despair, the waves of grief crashing over me, one after the other.

The next few months were a blur of funerals and condolences, the house eerily quiet without her laughter echoing through the halls. I retreated into myself, my mind racing with thoughts of what I could have done differently. How could I, Steve Wilson, have stopped this from happening? The question consumed me, pushing me into a deep obsession with time travel. I devoured every book, every article, every piece of information I could find on the subject. The local library became my sanctuary, my fortress of solitude. I spent hours poring over texts and blueprints, scribbling down notes and formulas that seemed to dance in the candlelight, taunting me with their complexity. But with every failure, every dead end, I grew more determined. I had to save her.

In the shadow of my grief, my father’s presence grew more pronounced. A man who had always been more of a specter than a parent, his alcoholism had painted him in shades of despair and defeat. His eyes, from photos of his younger days I know they used to be a green counterpart of Mom’s ocean blues but now they’re clouded and bloodshot, the laugh lines around his mouth etched with sadness and regret. I never knew why she had stayed with him, why she had chosen to be with someone who couldn’t hold his liquor or his own life together. He was a shadow of the man she deserved, and his inability to be there for me in my darkest hour only served to fuel my resentment. Our interactions grew terser, our exchanges reduced to the bare minimum, like two strangers sharing a space haunted by a love lost.

The house felt like a tomb with him in it, a constant reminder of mom’s joy that had once filled its walls. The only solace I found was in my makeshift lab, tucked away in the attic where Mom had once stored her old clothes and knick-knacks. There, amidst the cobwebs and dust, I had built my fortress of hope. For twenty years, I toiled in the quiet of the night, crafting the machine that would be my ticket back to her. Each gear, each wire, every bolt was a testament to my love for her, a silent promise that I would right the wrongs of the universe. The smell of burnt circuitry and the hum of machinery became the lullabies that soothed my soul when the whiskey-soaked yelling from downstairs grew too loud.

The years slipped by in a blur of late-night epiphanies and feverish experiments. The teleportation device grew from a jumble of ideas scribbled on notepads to a sprawling contraption that took up the entire space. It was a monstrous creation of steel and wire, pulsing with the potential to rewrite history. The day I finally flipped the switch, the air around me crackled with electricity. The lights in the house flickered as the machine whirred to life, a symphony of power and purpose that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the universe. I stepped into the chamber, my heart racing, and whispered a prayer that seemed to echo through the ages.

This was it, decades of relentless toil culminating in this moment. I programmed the physical coordinates and time before pushing the activation switch, causing the machine to reverberate with a deep hum that transferred throughout the whole building. Suddenly the temporal control circuitry burst into flames and an arc of plasma shot out and struck me in the stomach. I blacked out.

The world around me disintegrated into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. When the chaos subsided, I found myself lying on the floor of my own bedroom, the walls adorned with the same posters of rockstars and sports heroes that had been there when I was fourteen. The bed was smaller, the blankets threadbare, and the smell of teenage angst and cheap deodorant filled the air. It was a stark contrast to the sterile lab I had left behind.

I looked down at my hands, expecting to see the calloused, aged fingers of a man who had spent a lifetime in pursuit of his obsession. Instead, they were smooth, unblemished, and tingling with the excitement of youth. I pulled my shirt up to see if the plasma bolt had injured me - no trace.

I rushed to the bedside table, where an ancient digital clock blinked the time at me: 12:51 PM. My heart skipped a beat as I did the math in my head. Two hours and nine minutes. Two hours and nine precious minutes before the world I knew would be torn apart by tragedy. Two hours and nine minutes to save her.

I had done it - I was 1994! But what went wrong with the temporal circuits? Why did the plasma bolt shoot out? It must have been a leak in the tank holding ionized gases, the vibrations from rest of the machine must have dislodged one of the seals.

If more plasma bolts shot out it could have set the house on fire! It was always a one-way trip to this timeline to save mom but in the timeline that I’d just departed from, dad was passed out drunk in the burning house! He might be in trouble but I can’t get back to that timeline to help him - I can help mom though.

I rushed downstairs to the family room and with trembling hands I picked up the phone and dialed the number for AAA roadside assistance. The operator’s voice, a blend of boredom and professionalism, floated through the receiver. “Hello, how may I assist you today?” I took a deep breath and cleared my throat, adopting the gruff tone of a man I hadn’t been in two decades. “Yeah, it’s about the car,” I lied, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack. “I heard something snap when I pressed the brakes.”

“Alright, sir, I’ll need the member number.” The words hung in the air like a noose, and I glanced over to Mom’s purse, the AAA membership card sticking out like a lifeline. “It’s 453-982-736,” I recited. The operator tapped away at her keyboard, the clacking a comforting reminder of a time before the silence of the attic had been my only company.

“I’ve got it. We’ll have someone out to you shortly. Do you know your location?”

“It’s 145 Maple Street,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Thank you, sir. We’ve dispatched a tow truck to your location. It should arrive in approximately thirty minutes. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

The line went dead, and I stared at the phone, the reality of what I had just done setting in. I had changed the course of history, at least for now. Thirty minutes. That was all I had to save her, to prevent the accident that had sent my world spiraling into darkness. I had to make the most of it.

With wobbly legs, I made my way down the stairs to the living room, where the outdated CRT TV hummed with empty babble. Surfing the channels, I tried to drown out the incessant ticking echoing in my thoughts. The lineup—familiar shows from my past, lackluster broadcasts from 1994, the year I’d landed in—offered no spark, and I was about to shut it off.

And then, it appeared. An advertisement, bright and cheery, for something called a “gestation chamber.” A machine that you use to have a baby. The rental price flashed on the screen - $50,000, at this time (1994) that’s an annual household income for an average family! My jaw dropped. In my world, babies grew in the warmth of a mother’s womb, not in some cold, government-issued contraption. Here, reproduction was a transaction, a commodity to be bought and paid for like a new car or a fancy gadget. The very idea is alien, I can’t understand why people don’t just make babies the normal way.

Curiosity burning like a wildfire, I dashed to the bookshelf and pulled out the encyclopedia. The pages, yellowed with age, held secrets that whispered of a world both like and unlike my own. I flipped through the pages, my eyes searching for answers. The entry on human reproduction was sparse, detailing the process of blood mixing and mechanical gestation. The prospective mother and father place a sample of blood into the machine and it takes care of the rest for 9 months. The words swam before my eyes, a swirling vortex of confusion and disbelief. There was no mention of sex, of sexual love, of kissing, of the intimate dance that brought life into existence. This place was a mirror universe, reflecting a society that had somehow bypassed the most fundamental aspect of human connection.

“FUCK!”

This wasn’t a past version of my world - it was a screwed up parallel reality in the past! The teleportation machine had malfunctioned, it must have been that fire in the control circuitry when I activated it! That means I can’t save mom from my universe, only the mom from this universe. Does mom even exist here? If she does is it the same mom as in my universe? One thing is for certain though, I can’t go back now. I’m not going to spend another 20 years re-inventing my time machine - even if I did, what’s to say that I could use it to go back to my universe? I need to make it work here and hopefully the version of mom from my world is almost the same as mom in this world, I need to go through with getting Bessie repaired.

My thoughts raced, my pulse quickening as I considered the implications. An entire world of females, untouched by the caress of a man, their bodies a mystery to themselves and everyone else. The prospect was both thrilling and overwhelming. I felt like a lion in a field of gazelles, my every instinct screaming at me to claim what was rightfully mine. Yet, I knew I had to be cautious. This was not the world I had left behind, and the rules were as foreign as the very concept of intimacy here. Was everyone here that was also in my universe? Are there any other changes in this world that I don’t know about yet?

The encyclopedia’s anatomy section laid bare the stark reality of this new world. The male genitalia, depicted in medical illustrations, were minuscule and seemingly useless, there was no mention of penises being able to become erect. The accompanying text described a society where procreation was a cold, clinical process of using the gestation chamber, devoid of passion or pleasure. The very idea was alien to me, a world where the raw power of sexuality had been buried under layers of ignorance and naivety. I couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of superiority, a primal urge to conquer this untouched land with the gift of my knowledge and my body.

Then I moved onto a subsection of the article that warned about severe physiological effects of the toxic pheromones from female humans if they are touched in the wrong place by a male and vice versa...

The sudden knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts, sending the dusty encyclopedia crashing to the floor. My heart hammered in my chest, the sound echoing through the silent house like a gunshot. The clock on the mantelpiece read 1:16 PM. It was five minutes before the tow truck was due to arrive, and with it, the potential to save Mom’s life. I took a deep breath, composing myself, and cautiously approached the door.

When I opened it, the tow truck driver looked at me quizzically, his eyes flicking from my face to the house and back again. “You called about your car?” he asked, his tone skeptical. “Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound casual despite the tremble in my voice. “It’s parked out back. Something’s wrong with the brakes.” He nodded, his expression unreadable, and followed me through the kitchen and out to the garage. The sight of Bessie, sitting innocently in her usual spot, brought a fresh wave of grief. I knew that in the original timeline, she would soon be a twisted wreck at the bottom of the hill, my mom’s lifeblood seeping into the earth.

The driver, a burly man with a thick mustache and a name tag that read “Gus,” took one look under the car and his eyebrows shot up. “You’re damn lucky you didn’t take this thing out for a spin,” he said, showing you the split brake line. “These are shot.” His voice was gruff, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “You could’ve ended up in a real mess.” I nodded, feigning ignorance. “I guess I’ll have to get it fixed.”

Just as Gus was about to load Bessie onto the tow truck, the sound of the door opening echoed through the garage. My heart nearly stopped when I saw Mom walking towards us, a basket of laundry in her arms. Time had not changed her, she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on. Gus looked from me to Mom and back again, noticing the unshed tears in my eyes. “Ma’am, you might want to look at this,” he said, his voice thick with gravity. “Your son here might have just saved your lives.”

Mom set down the basket and bent beside him, her eyes widening as she took in the severed brake line. “Steve? What happened?” she gasped, her hand flying to her chest. I swallowed hard, willing my voice to stay steady. “Just a little problem with the brakes,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Gus is gonna take care of it.”

Her eyes searched mine, the same shade of ocean blue that had once been a source of comfort and strength. “How did you know?” she whispered, and for a moment, I thought she’d seen right through me. But she couldn’t have. I was just her kid, a moody teenager with a penchant for science fiction. “It’s just luck,” I replied, shrugging it off. “I heard a weird noise earlier.”

Gus nodded solemnly, his expression serious. “Ma’am, it’s not just a little problem. This is a big deal. If you had been driving that car...” His voice trailed off, and the gravity of the situation hung in the air like a leaden weight.

Mom’s eyes searched mine again, and in that moment, something shifted. She saw that I was trying to downplay my role in avoiding the disaster that could have occurred, the desperation in my voice. Her arms wrapped around me, and she pulled me into a fierce embrace. “Thank you,” she murmured into my ear, her voice trembling. I felt the warmth of her body, the softness of her hair against my cheek, and all the years of pain and regret rushed to the surface. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears I had bottled up for two decades spilled out, soaking her blouse. She didn’t pull away, didn’t question why. She just held me, her grip tightening as my shoulders shook with sobs.

“Stevie, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice soothing, so much like it had been when I was a child. “Why are you crying?”

“I just can’t imagine losing you,” I choked out, the words catching in my throat. “It scared me to think about what could’ve happened.”

Mom pulled back, her eyes brimming with understanding and concern. She reached up to wipe away my tears, her thumb lingering on my cheek. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “It’s okay. It was just a scary moment.”

Gus cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the raw emotion on display. “Ma’am, if you’re okay with it, I’ll take the car to the shop. Get it fixed up before you go anywhere.”

Mom nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you so much.”

I stepped back, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “Don’t mention it,” I mumbled, trying to play it cool. But the truth was, I felt like I could fly. I had done it. I had changed history. I had saved her.

Mom’s eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she could see the future reflected in my gaze, the countless hours I had spent in the attic, the endless nights of tinkering and planning. But she said nothing, just nodded and turned back to the house, her heels clicking against the concrete. “Come on in,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s get you a sandwich. You look like you could use it.”

The kitchen was a time capsule, the same avocado-green appliances and flowery wallpaper that had been there seemingly since the dawn of time. The smell of bread toasting filled the air, a comforting scent that I had not realized I had missed. I slumped into one of the vinyl chairs at the kitchen table, feeling the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. As she moved around the kitchen, pulling out the mayo and slicing the bread, I couldn’t help but watch her, drinking in the sight of her like a man who had just been granted a reprieve from the gallows. Her movements were so familiar, so soothing, and yet so alien in this new world where she had never been taken from me.

Mom set the sandwich in front of me, her eyes still filled with the echoes of my tears. “Eat up,” she said, her voice gentle. “Heroes need to keep up their strength.”

“Mom, stop,” I said laughing, my face turned red with embarrassment.

As I took a bite, the reality of my new world hit me like a sledgehammer. In this pristine, unblemished universe, my mother was not just untouched by the grief of her own death, but by the very act that had given me life. The sandwich turned to ash in my mouth as I chewed, the realization hitting me like a bolt of lightning. She was a virgin.

The room spun around me as I choked down the last of my sandwich, the bread sticking to the roof of my mouth. The innocence that surrounded her, the purity of her being, it was intoxicating in a way that I had never experienced. I felt a heat building in my groin, a confusing mix of arousal and guilt. I knew I had to leave, to get out of there before the thoughts in my head grew too loud, too overwhelming.

I mombled my thanks to Mom and bolted out of the house, the screen door slapping shut behind me. The sun was high in the sky, casting a harsh light that seemed to mock the darkness that lurked in my thoughts.

‘FUCK! I hate myself!’

I save my mom but I have developed incestuous feelings for her ... I need to get rid of these stupid thoughts right now! She was the whole reason for me spending 20 years building the time machine, my whole purpose in traveling here in the first place! There is now way I can live with mom with this shit going on inside me. No, saving mom is my redemption. I need to find a way to live with her and be a good son, I need to protect her.

I wandered down the street, trying to figure out what to do next, where to go. That’s when I saw him, my friend from high school, Philip Mace. He was riding his bike, his hair a mess of unruly curls just like it had been all those years ago.

“Hey, man!” he called out, skidding to a stop beside me. “Long time no see!” His grin was wide, his eyes sparkling with the kind of innocence that could only exist in a world where the concept of heartache was as foreign as a unicorn. “You okay?”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just had some car trouble.”

“Oh man, that sucks. You wanna come over and play some video games?” Philip suggested, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “We’ve got the new ‘Galactic Conquest’ set up. It’s badass!”

The mention of video games was like a balm to my soul, a reminder of a simpler time before the burden of grief and the weight of the world’s ignorance had been placed upon me. I nodded, trying to shake off the dark thoughts that threatened to consume me. “Sure,” I said, swiping at the last of the crumbs on the table. “Let’s do it.”

We pedaled our bikes down the quiet suburban street, the wind whipping through our hair as we raced to Philip’s house. The sight of his mother, waving from the front porch, brought a pang of longing for the life I had left behind. As we stumbled into the cool, dark sanctum of his basement, the smell of stale pizza and teenage angst filled my nostrils, and for a brief moment, I felt like I belonged again. The room was a shrine to our shared adolescence, posters of scantily clad video game characters plastered on the walls, a dusty couch that had seen better days, and the holy altar of our youth: the gaming console.

We wasted no time diving into ‘Galactic Conquest’, our thumbs flying over the controllers as we piloted our digital ships through the cosmos, battling for supremacy. Thirty minutes flew by like seconds, and I found myself lost in the simple joy of competition, my mind a million miles away from the gravity of my mission. But all good things must come to an end, and as my bladder began to protest, I realized I needed a break.

I bolted for the bathroom, the cold tiles of the floor sending a jolt through my bare feet. I barely had time to relieve myself before I heard the door creak open. Mrs. Mace’s eyes went wide with shock, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp. My heart plummeted into my stomach as I realized I had forgotten to lock the door. In my haste to go for a piss, my cock was still in hand, thick and heavy, a stark contrast to the tiny, limp organ that was the norm in this universe.

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she stumbled back, her eyes unable to tear away from the monolith of flesh in my hand. I hastily tucked it back into my pants, mortified beyond belief. “Mrs. Mace,” I sputtered, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were coming in.”

Her eyes darted from my crotch to my face, and she took another step back, her hand still clamped over her mouth. “It’s ... it’s okay,” she finally managed to say, her voice trembling. “Just, just remember to lock the door next time, okay Steve?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumbled, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. She turned and practically sprinted out of the bathroom, leaving me to finish up in a hurry. When I emerged, she was nowhere to be seen, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Mrs Mace works a biologist in a large research firm, what she saw must have shaken the very foundations of her understanding of this world. In this world of micropenises and virgin minds, my very existence was a walking anomaly.

Back in the basement, Philip looked at me expectantly, his thumbs poised over the controller. “You okay, man?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. I nodded, trying to ignore the image of Mrs. Mace’s horrified face burned into my retinas. “Yeah, just had to pee,” I said, sitting back down on the couch. “Where were we?”

Mrs. Mace appeared at the top of the stairs, her cheeks still flushed. In her hands, she held a tray of refreshments: a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of freshly baked cookies. She was beautiful, with curly blonde hair that went to her shoulders. I couldn’t help but study her as she descended the stairs, her hips swaying with a grace that seemed almost alien in this world of innocence and ignorance. Her eyes met mine, and for a split second, I saw something in them that I had never seen before: curiosity.

Maybe this was a good distraction from the weird feelings I was getting about my own mom. If I could have sex with a pretty lady like Mrs Mace then I could get the lust out of my system and still be OK around mom.

I had spent two decades relentlessly pursuing a way to save mom and in that time I had purposely denied myself any serious relationships. All my girlfriends in my previous life were just for sex, I didn’t want anything to distract me from my goal of saving my mom. My 35 year old self from 2015 was well versed with sex, I had received glowing praise for my performances from my partners in my previous world. Now that I’ve finally achieved my dream of saving mom’s life this is now an opportunity to enjoy life, to finally live for me. I’ll be damned if I miss an opportunity like this.

As she set the tray down on the coffee table, I took a deep breath, my mind racing. I decide to put on the facade of the spiritual healer, the man with unconventional techniques. “Mrs. Mace,” I began, “I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit ... flushed. Is everything okay?”

Her brown eyes darted to the floor, and she fidgeted with the hem of her apron. “I’m OK Steve. It’s just seeing your um thing,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Mrs Mace’s first name is Sarah but I don’t think I’d like to call her anything but Mrs Mace as it just seemed sexier to refer to my friend’s sexy mother in the same formal way.

“Ah, I see,” I said, my voice filled with a gentle concern that I hoped seemed genuine. “Sometimes, the body can react in strange ways to stress due to surprises.” I took a sip of the lemonade, my mind racing with the possibilities. “You know, I’ve been studying some ... alternative healing methods lately.” I paused, letting the words hang in the air like a promise. “Would you be open to a little spiritual healing?”

Mrs. Mace’s eyes lit up with hope, her curiosity piqued. “What kind of healing?” she asked, her voice tentative.

I leaned in, speaking in a hushed tone that suggested secrets and miracles. “It’s a special kind of treatment,” I said, “one that involves the power of touch and the mind’s connection to the body.”

Her eyes grew wide with interest, and she nodded eagerly. “I’m all ears,” she said, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

I put down my controller and leaned back, crossing my legs. “In my studies,” I began, “I’ve learned that the human body is an intricate web of energy. Sometimes, when that energy gets blocked or disrupted, it can manifest in ways that might seem strange or even scary.” I paused for dramatic effect, watching the wheels turn in her head. “But with the right kind of ... attention,” I continued, letting the word linger, “those blocks can be removed.”

Mrs. Mace leaned in closer, her eyes searching my face. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

The room grew warmer, the scent of her perfume a siren’s call that I couldn’t ignore. I had always found Mrs. Mace attractive, even back when I was a kid, but now, in this world of untouched beauty, she was a beacon. I knew I had to tread carefully. “Well,” I began, my voice low and soothing, “sometimes, a gentle, healing touch can help unlock that energy.”

I reached out, placing my hand on her knee, feeling the softness of her skin beneath my palm. She didn’t flinch, instead leaning into the touch, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s all about finding the right ... pressure points,” I continued, my thumb tracing lazy circles. “These points can be located anywhere on the body, and once activated, they can release a flood of positive energy.”

Philip looked up from his game, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. “Steve? What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.