Science-fiction short stories, mostly from the less-serious end of the spectrum. You'll find zombie presidents, talking sharks, world-endangering sub-woofers, coffee-toting terrorists, an unhealthy number of 80s references and a whole lot more. Th...
Your main character is a manager of time, tasked with the esteemed duty of ensuring time is functioning as it should, with no kinks or distortions mucking things up.
Your story should detail a potential catastrophe, with the Time Manager sent forwards or back, to set things right. 1800 words.
Tid stomped into his office, dumped his keys and wallet in a drawer, slammed it shut, tossed his time-orb onto the desk and then threw himself into his fire-engine red office chair. "Bloody women," he muttered, before pulling a silver flask from his jacket and taking a hefty swig.
He fired up his PTC, drumming his fingers on the desk as he waited for the OS to load, took another swig, and then swore lengthily and vehemently when he entered his password incorrectly, before finally managing to log onto the Time Bureau's portal. "It's not you, it's me," he snarled. "Yeah, right."
Viciously, he stabbed a handful of search parameters into his keyboard, before impatiently scrolling through the results. "It's just that I need more excitement," he mimicked, in a moderately ridiculous falsetto. He found the entries he was looking for, and grinned mirthlessly as he cross-linked them, clicking the mouse with enough force to break it. "You want excitement, you heartbreaker? Try this." He drained the flask, and after wondering for a brief moment when he'd gotten a second monitor, passed out. He collapsed face-first onto the desk, so hard that his head actually bounced.
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"Tid Memento!"
Tid screwed his eyes more tightly shut, reasoning with perfect drunken logic that if he couldn't see whoever it was that was yelling at him, then they wouldn't be able to see him.
"Open your freaking eyes right now, Memento, or I'll send your arse to the middle ages and the rest of you to Trump-era America."
Reflexively—catastrophically high blood-alcohol level notwithstanding—Tid's eyes flicked open. You could say what you liked about Mr Chronolina (and Tid frequently did) but when he threatened, he threatened like a boss. Which made senses, given he was one. Specifically, he was Tid's boss.
Groggily, Tid peeled his face off the desk, licked his lips with a tongue that felt and tasted like a rat that had been lightly sauteed in lighter fluid, and mustered up a smile for his superior. "Hello"—despite his pounding headache, and the world of pain that his boss' thunderous expression portended, he couldn't help continuing—"Mr Chronalina, Mr Bob Chronalina."
Somewhat unbelievably, Chronalina's expression grew even more thunderous. In fact, it would be fair to say that it now bordered on typhoonous. "You just lost three of your weekend-doubling bonuses, Memento. Keep it up and I'll start docking lifespan extensions."
With a conscious effort, Tid reassembled his features into an expression he felt would portray a winning combination of complete attention and abject contrition. "Yes, Mr Chronalina. Sorry, Mr Chronalina."
