I applied to a scholarship last month to go to a writing conference. The instructions were to write a 500-750 word essay on why I wanted the scholarship.
Why I wanted the scholarship: I wanted to go, but I didn't want to pay for it.
That does not sound like a convincing essay. But I didn't know a whole lot about what the conference was going to be like. The titles of the talks sounded interesting, but I hadn't heard of any of the speakers. This is the first time they've done the conference, so other than the list of speakers, there wasn't any information on what the event could offer me. And as for why I wanted to go: I've been wanting to go to a writing conference for a while that was more focused on talks about craft than focused on a book fair, and this one was like that. Plus, it is conveniently located in town.
This does not make for a stellar essay either.
Instead, I wrote this. I'm pretty proud of it, and I'm honestly disappointed (if unsurprised) that it didn't win. What, they don't want a smart-ass answer to their vague prompt? Yeesh.
So enjoy my non-winning essay!
I didn't submit this application the first time I came back in time.
Time travel works differently from how it's usually shown in movies. We can only travel back to November 6th, 2017 at 2:14 AM. The entrance from my home time is a round platform like a manhole, surrounded by lasers on mechanical arms. They all point at you as you stand there, heart rate rising, everything you'll need for six months strapped to you in an era appropriate backpack. The tips of the lasers turn blue, brighter, brighter, a hum building that you can't hear, but you can feel in the marrow of your spine. Your breathing is shallow, and you can't tell if it's nerves or time-space somehow freezing in your lungs. Your vision blurs. And then the floor falls out from under you, and you stumble onto the platform of the 95th/Dan Ryan Redline stop.
There are other time travelers there, blinking and holding their heads.
No one ever sees themselves. Every time I go back, I erase whatever I did before. Overwrite it. There's a big philosophical and scientific debate in my time about whether I also overwrite what other people have done. In short, it's hard to tell.
If I do my job correctly, I'll never make another jump.
The time travelers all nod to each other. We all got our gear from the same place, so we wear similar beanies and similar backpacks. Some of them might be the same beanie. We disperse, because the police drive by up at 2:36.
We're all here until May 19th 2018, 6:02 PM. Then we are pulled back to our rightful times. Any changes we need to make, any chance we have at saving our world, changing our fate, has to be done in those six months. We make small adjustments, hoping they will ripple through history, the effects building into a wave that will wash away the horror of our past. Your future.
Our options are limited, and as much as the scientists and historians surely have a method, there is a lot of luck involved. A lot of guess and check. A lot of unexpected variables.
Like many of my generation, I believe that the universe is looking out for us, that it provided us with a way to save ourselves, and that's why time travel works the way it does: something between November 2017 and May 2018 has to change.
Other travelers have their own missions, but I was assigned the first annual CWA conference, March 10th, 2018. Something happens there.
I didn't fix it on my first trip. I didn't fix it on my second. Or my third or fourth.
But this time, there's something different: the scholarship deadline is January 15th instead of the 1st. That has never happened before. It might be optimistic to think of it as a good sign. I may be delusional to think that it's guiding me, showing me the way.
With hope in my heart, I am applying for the scholarship.
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