I said nothing of names. Never even told her about the contact with my future self. I wanted to, but she was so proud of me that I didn’t have the guts. I told myself she would never believe me, and maybe that was right. It was her that proposed the name Claire one night over dinner and I almost choked on my macaroni. I tried to dissuade her, clutching my last shred of personal choice in all this. But in the end, she had her way, and in the end, the dedication read: “To my daughter Claire.” By then I didn’t care anymore. No need to fight it. It was my dream coming true after all. Claire was still a month or so away from joining our family when the first copies arrived in the mail. It was an amazing day. But nothing could prepare me for what came next.

Cyborg Genocide was a bonafide bestseller.

The book debuted with strong reviews. One of my favorites: “Todd Goldstein came out of nowhere to become of the most promising new talents in science fiction.” Book signings followed. A few stores had me in for talks. Invariably would come questions like, “What was your biggest inspiration for the book?” and “How long did it take you to write?” I was thrown off at first, but before long I had canned answers that sounded as inspirational as possible. Sometimes, I told the truth, and we all would have a good laugh.

I had crossed that mysterious threshold from writer to author. No matter that I clung to my own coattails to get here. This is where I was meant to be. Who I was meant to be. I got so caught up living the dream that I almost forgot about “that guy.” I was here, right? So what did I need him for anymore?

One night in early spring of that year with the house to myself I lit up the fire pit. I went inside and lifted the floorboards beneath my desk, retrieved the copy of my book from the future. I grabbed the note underneath and ran outside into the cool night. Took one last look at that snobby grin and impeccable silvery hair. I hadn’t realized it until then, but there was something different about this copy and the new ones after all. The picture. Same pose, same backdrop, but mine had a younger version of me. After tonight, every trace of my mysterious benefactor would be gone. It’s what he wanted anyway, and I didn’t mind one bit. I even reluctantly hoped that in following his instructions I had returned the favor. I had changed his past, and therefore his future. Now he would reach his fame and fortune much younger, and I imagined him out there somewhere bragging about his twentieth bestseller over martinis. Would he even remember sending the note? It didn’t matter, because his new present was now my future. And it was looking pretty sweet.

“You’re welcome,” I said and slid the note inside the book.

Then I tossed it into the fire and watched it wither and blacken until it was gone. I stood there for a long time, breathing in the smoky air and watching the firewood pulse with the heat. The finality of it! All trace of contact with the future me was gone, and with it the evidence that could endanger my good name. It was a relief, but panic suddenly sank into my mind like a dagger.

The rest is up to me, I thought. No more shortcuts, no more freebies.

I had been so focused on the book’s success that I guess I hadn’t realized that I and I alone would have to write the rest. The publisher had already been asking about sequels and prequels. I wonder if deep down I was expecting those to write themselves too. The familiar sting of fear and self-doubt returned to me like an old friend.

No. He and I are one and the same. I can do this.

Just then I got an idea. A few minutes later I returned to the fire. It was dwindling, but I had fuel. One by one I tossed in the rejection slips. As each one sizzled to dust, I got a little bit of myself back. I can do it. I have to.

It was all pretty inspirational stuff—hero conquers inner demons and rides off into the sunset. It would have been a great time for the orchestral score to swell and the credits to roll, but instead I had to keep on living. I told myself I would start worrying tomorrow. And savor my own personal victory at least for the night.

I strolled out to the mailbox, Claire sleepily wrapped around my neck. Her golden hair that smelled of fruity candy bounced in front of my face as I walked.

There was a single envelope inside. I squinted at it in the sunlight. From Stan. I perked up a little. Good news I hoped, but then again he did normally email.

Todd,

Listen. I don’t know what to tell you kid, so I’ll cut to the quick. Your drafts for Cyborg Genocide 2 and 3 just don’t have it. I passed one to the publisher to see if they’d bite, but they said the same thing. The X-factor’s just not there, not like your first one. I don’t know what changed, but you’ve got to find a way to get your groove back. Nobody wants to be a one hit wonder, but you will be unless you can find a way. It’s my reputation on the line too, you know. Call me when you’re ready, and not before.

Stan

“What are you so angry about, Daddy?” Claire said from the sidewalk, rubbing her eyes.

“Nothing, sweetie,” I said through my teeth.

I imagined my future self, standing there with a silk robe and snakeskin loafers and shaking his head. This is what you do with the head start? he says.

Never did I want to punch myself more. Did you ever even sell a second book? I asked him. Either way, if I go down, I’m taking you with me.

I waved to old Mrs. Clausely who sat watching us from her window like a shriveled gargoyle. Then I crushed the letter in my fist, reared back and hurled it into the street.

Michael Stroh lives in Richardson, Texas with his wife Libby and their three children, where he tries to balance the roles of pastor, teacher, and writer. He is currently taking a brief hiatus from writing short fiction to focus on finishing a YA sci-fi novel, which, according to his future self, is going to be pretty great.

From the Closet

Robert Neilson

Art: Becca McCall

Caught by his own reflection, Gilbert paused by the plate glass window of Clery’s department store. The Fedora might be a little overstated, but the brown check jacket and matching waistcoat were perfectly set off by the crisp white shirt. The narrow tie, casually pulled down to reveal the open top shirt button was a touch he had worried over but in retrospect it was the detail that slipped informality into his presentation. Sharp. The navy slacks over brown brogues were inarguable. The girl from the internet was getting exactly what her profile asked for.

The girl sat in the back corner of Foam, a copy of Cider With Rosie by her hand as agreed. There was nothing special about Foam’s coffee or menu but the decor gave it a bohemian ambience he loved. That alone would supply fifteen minutes conversation as both parties assessed their date. A coffee in the afternoon was always the best bet. There was no suggestion of a need for over-commitment but if it went well they could always go somewhere for a drink, or an early dinner.

She looked as he had expected; not too much digital airbrushing on her contact shot. He liked the way she dressed: an array of fabrics and colours that made it difficult to tell where one garment began and the next ended. He wondered if she might really be an actress rather than a waitress with unfulfilled ambitions. She wasn’t stunning but there was an intriguing and attractive quality to her face, a softened angularity that suggested she would age well. Her hair was lovely, a dark brown with hints of auburn that could actually be natural.

Gilbert composed a smile on features that now felt a little too narrow. She saw him approach. Her hand went to the novel. His smile broadened and he nodded. She stood and offered her hand.

“Deirdre,” she said. “People call me Dee.”

“I’m Gilbert,” he said, careful not to hold onto her hand too long. He stepped behind and drew back her chair slightly for her to sit. She looked over her shoulder, her mouth set in a half-grin somewhere between surprise and amusement.

They sat and spoke about the clutter of bric-a-brac that festooned every spare inch of the walls and several side tables set into odd recesses that could never seat customers. The waitress brought him a pot of tea and refilled Deirdre’s coffee.

“Tell me a little about yourself, Deirdre,” he said, attempting to prevent it sounding like the beginning of a job interview.

While she spoke he watched her mouth, her eyes, the flutter of hands to her hair, to her blouse, the way she delicately sipped her coffee. Her voice was low, but possessed a tuneful quality that made him want to hear it more. For a while he simply appreciated its tone rather than the words. He allowed his tea to go cold.

“And what about you, Gilbert?” she asked.

He picked his way carefully through the background he had prepared to suit the person she appeared to be on the net. There were some minor adjustments needed; she was more intelligent and engaging than he expected given she was trawling the net for dates. No, that was unfair. She was new in the city and had few contacts and no friends. He was fortunate to have found her before she discovered her niche. He stuck as close to the prepared text as he judged sensible. Changing too much left room for error.

As he spoke he thought how similar they were. She watched his face. She studied his clothes. She interrupted once, reaching across the table to rub the sleeve of his jacket with her fingertips. “Nice material,” she said. “Beautifully cut. Is it new?”

He admitted it was, relieved she didn’t enquire about the shirt and tie and the trousers and the shoes. They were all new. He hadn’t used this persona before and there was no wardrobe to match.

At Deirdre’s prompting he continued to talk about the self she was meeting but he felt uncomfortable. She stared at him as though he had a piece of food on his face, or had cut himself shaving. After a while he excused himself and went to the bathroom. In its harsh neon light he examined his face. Perhaps the skin was stretched too tightly across his cheekbones. His forehead looked glassy, his eye sockets tight, his lips thin. His shoulders appeared hunched. He had to concentrate to stand properly. He pushed his shoulders back and held his chin straight, looking every inch of the six feet Deirdre had professed a preference for. Was it a stretch? Should he have worn shoes with a heel?

Back at the table the girl was gone. She had paid for her coffee and his tea. She could have been the one. If only he had made himself right for her. Gilbert slumped home to his apartment. All it contained was furniture. He sat for a while in an armchair thinking about where he had gone wrong. He looked down at the new slacks, wrinkling behind the knees. The jacket was probably creasing at the tail. It showed how she had discomforted him. She still had a hold on his mind. He stood and went into the bedroom to undress. Carefully he hung the jacket and trousers, stripped off the shirt and tie. The tie went on the rack, the shirt in the laundry hamper along with his underwear.

Gilbert crossed to the second closet on the other side of the room and opened the doors. Reaching behind his head he grasped the flap of skin over his shoulder-blades and began to pull, ducking his head so it would slip easily across the skull. Tugging gently, he drew the sheath of flesh down his arms, over his hips and along his thighs and shins before stepping out of it. Laying the flesh across the foot of the bed he selected his favourite skeleton from where it hung. Taking a deep breath, even though he knew it was unnecessary, he reached a hand behind his skull and drew his brain from its cavity, sliding it into the replacement skeleton. He shivered in his new home, his mind successfully transferred.

He moved his lungs and intestines into their cavities and hung up the tall skeleton. It clacked familiarly. His flesh felt looser and more comfortable on this frame. Now he measured an equable five feet six inches. He looked down at the slackness about his waist. He closed the door and examined himself briefly in its full length mirror. Chubbier all over but the double chin was comfortable, the wrinkles well-earned. This was the real Gilbert.

Bob Neilson lives in Dublin, Ireland, where he runs a retail business in the city centre, ably abetted by his adult children. He is editor of Albedo One magazine (albedo1.com) and his short stories have been widely published. He has also written plays for radio, comics and a graphic novel.