Dear Diary

This piece was written for the Winter "Wonder" Writing Battle.

Prompts:

1000 word max

Genre: Sci Fi

Object: A Diary

Character: An Investor

Dear Diary

Shanna had never been one to talk to herself, but today she was excited to start. She ran her fingers over the diary’s leather cover before cracking the spine. Shanna knew stealing one of Dad’s funded projects guaranteed a lecture into the next solar cycle. However, the pull of a time-bending diary seemed to be worth it.

Her pen wrote:

Hi Shanna, it’s you! From the year 2230.

Of course, her younger self would never buy it. Skeptical by nature, Shanna never believed in ghost stories or time-travel.

I know what you’re thinking. But I can prove it. I know you stashed the databanks in the bottom compartment of section 18, just left of the missing screw.

The databanks were illegal contraband, writings the library had set to destroy. All the fun stuff kids like 12-year-old Shanna weren’t supposed to read, lest they become murderous psychopaths. Or so they said.

You know how Dad likes to fund everything around here, including science projects? Well, he finally paid for something cool: Time traveling words. I can write to you and the words will find you exactly six years before they are written, or whatever time lag I set the diary to.

Her Dad was known as generous, but not to Shanna. She had to beg for a few credits, just like all the other kids without wealthy parents. He funded this diary idea as a way for people to apologize to their younger selves, process their trauma, maybe warn themselves of impending doom (if the board allows it). Shanna had other plans.

Put something in the compartment that I wouldn’t guess, and I’ll prove I am future you.

Dad always said changes made weren’t instantaneous, but caught up to the present. By the time she made it to Section 18, her past self’s surprise had appeared: a sock adorned with turtles. Shanna darted out of view, pulling out the diary.

You only sent one sock? Rude. I still love those turtle socks.

Okay, now that you believe me (I hope), I have an idea to make us some money. I want you to get the tiny allowance Dad gives you and buy as many Rascar dolls as you can. They should be pretty cheap for you. About five credits each. By the time it gets to me, they’ll be worth 1000 credits.

Why you ask? Well, when the factory ship which made them got crushed inside a blackhole, they kind of became collector items. Remember, you spending money now helps me (you) in the future.

If young Shanna bought one or two a year, Dad wouldn’t suspect anything and by the time the factory turns into a galactic pancake, Shanna would have amassed enough of a fortune that Dad’s generosity to everyone but her wouldn’t matter.

When she arrived back in her apartment, twenty Rascar dolls lined her bed. Their porcelain cheeks and glass eyes all stared at the genius before them. She pulled out the diary once more.

You did it! I’d ask you what you’d like to spend it on, but I think I already know. We are the same person, after all.

Satisfied with her investment, Shanna listed her dolls on the intergalactic market. She

tucked the diary back into Dad’s desk, careful to rip out her scribbled pages. She knew how to hide evidence. The ripped pages may not continue to function, but she’d gotten what she needed. For now.

Suddenly, she felt just as discombobulated as if the space cruiser jumped through a wormhole. She inspected her tingling fingers, only to see bits of her skin dripping onto the bed.

The pounding of Shanna’s heart drew attention to her throbbing head. She leaped across the room and pulled the diary pages from under her bed. The torn edges bled with sludge. The dairy clearly caused her ailment.

            Shanna screamed.

            Dad burst through the door. “What’s going on?”

There was no use in hiding it. With her solid hand, she held up the pages, their edges dripping down her forearm.

            His eyes grew wide. “What is that?” His question balanced between calm and tense.

            “Your time diary,” Shanna admitted. “What’s happening?” She braced for the impact.

            Dad rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger before letting out a deep sigh. “You tore your own time continuum. You know not to touch prototypes!”

            Shanna burst into tears. “Help me! I don’t want to melt away like ice cream in a solar ray.”

            He grabbed the diary pages from her hand, and shuffled through his desk drawer. “I should let you melt for messing with experiments!”

            He placed the diary before Shanna, open to a clean page. “You’re going to get out of this the same way you got into it.” He handed her a pen. “Tell your past self to not hide things from dear old dad before it’s too late.”

            Shanna scolded herself for not thinking of the obvious. She wrote hastily, hoping the message would fix things before time caught up to her.

WARNING: Don’t tear out the diary pages in 2230 or you’ll rip time and melt your face off (my face). You wanna live past eighteen?

She closed the diary and let out a trembling breath. “If I know not to tear out the pages, then I’ll never tell myself to invest in Rascar dolls.”

            “You what?” Dad’s face was as red as the dolls’wigs. “You’re in so much trouble. If you continue to exist, that is!”

            But Shanna stopped melting. The pages of the diary were no longer on the bed; never torn out. The tingling in Shanna’s hands receded. She laid back on the bed, now empty of dolls. Past Shanna never used the diary if she couldn’t hide the evidence.  

            Her father folded his arms. “I’d like to say you learned your lesson, but time loops are confusing. You’re confined to this sector until this memory is rewritten and I forget.”

            At least she wasn’t a time puddle.