This one has been submitted to but a few places, because of the strange nature of it. It's really hard to explain, so just jump in and see what all the Reflecting gnitcelfeR is all about.
No Devil Lived On
Upon reflection, perhaps my whole life was a mistake.
No, I should have never trusted him to begin with. The only truth of the matter was the fact that he was never there for me when I was growing up. What made me think I could trust him now? Who knows? Perhaps it was just my overeager ambition to impress my father. The man and the machine. The machine, while wondrous, proved to be too much temptation. I tried too hard and asked it to do things it was not created for. But he pushed me, and I pushed it. There are limits to all things, especially time.
Time.
I never thought much about it before the machine. Even when I was working on the blueprints and building the prototype, I never gave it the respect it deserved. I suppose it’s just as well that the whole thing blew up in my face. My father insisted that it was possible, that time could be controlled. And was he right? I don’t think it ever really mattered to him, just the promise of being correct. He never noticed that I, the newly reconnected son, was only eager to please. After so many years of believing him dead, what else could I do? Looking back on it, I could hardly believe that my father actually wanted my help to build his glorious machine.
I was never much for the theoretical sciences. I always looked to biology and chemistry as the wave of the future, turning my mind on matters of a medical nature. My father pointed out that the human body was just a slave to time. He said the human body should be programmable, like living clockworks. I only agreed to help him because his ideas intrigued me.
We both realized how wrong we were when we first tried the machine out. All the usual theories about time were wrong. You see, time was not a string, or a ball or an endless loop. Time was a mirror, forever reflected on itself. The further you were from the focal point, the less you realized this. But as you drew closer to the center, the distortion became nauseatingly obvious.
A mirror.
But as you drew closer to the center, the distortion became nauseatingly obvious. The further you were from the focal point, the less you realized this. Time was a mirror, forever reflected on itself. You see, time was not a string, or a ball or an endless loop. All the usual theories about time were wrong. We both realized how wrong we were when we first tried the machine out.
I only agreed to help him because his ideas intrigued me. He said the human body should be programmable, like living clockworks. My father pointed out that the human body was just a slave to time. I always looked to biology and chemistry as the wave of the future, turning my mind on matters of a medical nature. I was never much for the theoretical sciences.
Looking back on it, I could hardly believe that my father actually wanted my help to build his glorious machine. After so many years of believing him dead, what else could I do? He never noticed that I, the newly reconnected son, was only eager to please. I don’t think it ever really mattered to him, just the promise of being correct. And was he right? My father insisted that it was possible, that time could be controlled. I suppose it’s just as well that the whole thing blew up in my face. Even when I was working on the blueprints and building the prototype, I never gave it the respect it deserved. I never thought much about it before the machine.
Time.
There are limits to all things, especially time. But he pushed me, and I pushed it. I tried too hard and asked it to do things it was not created for. The machine, while wondrous, proved to be too much temptation. The man and the machine. Perhaps it was really was just my overeager ambition to impress my father. Who knows? What made me think I could trust him now? The only truth of the matter was the fact that he was never there for me when I was growing up. No, I should have never trusted him to begin with.
Upon reflection, perhaps my whole life was a mistake.