Extracts from The Diaries of 'Professor' Cornelius Crane
November 28th, 1965

I’m back!

Somethingwent wrong; terribly, terribly wrong. I was only supposed to be transferredback some twenty-odd years. I had expected my consciousness to revive inside alate twenties or perhaps early thirties physical body. I guess Steve was rightabout the reactor; it must have spiked, creating a power surge, thrusting mybrain’s energy patterns back much further than anticipated.

I am trapped,a prisoner of my own design. I have no choice now but to start my new life as achild of six; a six-year-old having all the memories and experiences of a fiftyfive-year-old man.

One of thefirst things that need mentioning is the problem of becoming accustomed to thismuch younger body. Just writing this first entry is an elevated task. Theseunfamiliar hands are small and have trouble holding the pencil.

But let merather start at the beginning; at the point when I regained consciousness andknew that we had been successful with the mind projection.

The sensationwas more that of regaining consciousness after a faint, as opposed to waking upfrom a deep sleep. I felt nauseous and disoriented. If it had been like wakingup from a deep sleep, then the dream would have become a nightmare; a very realnightmare.

I opened my eyes to replace myself staring atMikey Keel (Of course, at that moment, I had no idea who he was), the next doorneighbors’ kid with whom I used to play and hang out a lot. At first I thoughtI was on my knees, but on gazing down I quickly realized the seriousness of mysituation…my predicament. I felt slightly dizzy and disoriented and then didactually drop onto my knees. On looking about, I recognized that we wereoutside Pop’s soda shop just two blocks down the street from my parents’ housein Sedgefield.

Mikey and I would often go there formilkshakes and to browse through the magazines and comic books on the largerack. Neither of us could read yet, but we enjoyed looking at the pictures. Ifondly recall now that we particularly loved to page through the latest issuesof Famous Monsters of Filmland and Sad Sack.

“Are youokay?” Mikey had asked staring at me. I guess I answered his question when Ithrew up on his sneakers. The green puke also indicated that I had justfinished consuming my favorite treat at Pop’s - a large lime milkshake. “I toldyou the large was too much,” he had chided looking at the mess on his shoes indisgust.

“Oh, fuck!” Ihad exclaimed wiping my mouth and standing up. My own voice was strange to me -unbroken and high-pitched. I held up my tiny hands in front of my face. “Shit!Shit! Shit! This can’t be happening!”

I must haveshocked poor old Mikey. He just stood there staring as I ranted and raved andfilled the air with many expletives. My sudden new and sophisticated vocabularymust have terrified the poor confused kid.

I had alsomanaged to stop an old lady in her tracks. She frowned angrily before blurting,“Your mother needs to wash your mouth out with soap, young man!”

She left in ahuff and a hurry after the ‘young man’ told her just what she could do withherself and her suggestion.

I quicklymoved myself to the shop window and stood gazing at my reflection while feelingmy face like a blind person. Then I suddenly turned to Mikey and asked, “Whatyear is it?”

“What?” heasked staring wide-eyed at the strange creature that had once been his bestbuddy.

“The year?What fucking year is it?” I shouted angrily.

He just stoodthere in his green sneakers with his mouth gaping wide.

“Shit!” Iexclaimed again and rushed into Pop’s. I found the pile of daily newspapersnext to the magazine rack. I nervously lifted the top one and silently read thedate, ‘November 28th, 1965.’ “Oh, my dear God in heaven! Steve, we have butsurely screwed this up really, really bad!”

“What is it?”asked the lady behind the counter. “Bad news?”

The mainheadline had read: Pentagon Calls for Troop Increase.

Beneath that was a photo of anti-warprotestors in front of the White House.

“Shit,I’m…what…six! Six fucking years old! And…it’s bloody Vietnam all over again.”

“What? Whatare you talking about?” she asked angrily.

“He’s notfeeling well,” said Mikey sheepishly over by the door. “He just threw upoutside.”

“Well, that’sno excuse to be using that sort of language. I know both your mothers, and if Iever hear either one of you cussing like that again…?”

She nevercompleted her threat, because I started to cry like a sick six-year-old kid.

After that,Mikey walked me home. We hardly said a word to each other. My mind was tooawash with trying to solve my problem. By the time we reached my front lawn, Irealized that there was no solution. Although, it will be a long time before Iever feel like smiling again - I’ll just have to grin and bear it.

On the otherhand, I should be grateful. After all, the process has saved my life - well,sort of. My fifty five-year-old body would have perished rapidly sans aconsciousness. But that consciousness, which truly represents me, the sum ofall my memories, continues to live on (albeit long before the doctors willinform me that my days on earth are numbered) inside this six-year-old frame orshell. I have managed to heal myself of a terminal illness by screwing up thenumbering system.

Hopefully,this time I’ll be careful to follow a more…moderate lifestyle; one that doesn’tlead to adverse physical conditions.

The mind andbody that I once possessed (the use of the word possessed, although quite truein its sense, makes me feel uncomfortable for I have now likened myself to somesort of evil demon that has taken over and completely dominated the mind andbody of an innocent child - albeit my very own mind and body) lies in a topsecret facility at the Vizion Global compound, in Nevada, founded by Steven M.Ferran and myself in 1999.

Yes, the mindand body that I once possessed lays, forty nine years into the future, riddledwith a life-robbing disease, on a hospital gurney in a special laboratory atVizion Global in the year of our Lord 2014.

And I canonly thank the same good Lord that a person’s synaptic patterns are only fullyestablished around six years old, and not earlier, or I may well have awokeninside my mother’s womb - yet to be born.

In thefuture, Steve has no idea of my predicament - and never will. Here in the past,a time that has now become my new and personal ongoing present; it is stillfour years before Steve even starts to suck on his mother’s tit. This journeythrough time is confusing and will take much getting used to.

Although tenyears younger, Steve is…or will still become, not only a brilliant scientistand inventor, but my one and only true trusted friend in life.

Although I ampresently greatly disadvantaged by my size and age, I know that my knowledge ofthe future will have many benefits. I will need to be patient (and extremelyso) until I am able to fully accomplish my true potential as an authentic timetraveler. I will also have to be carefulto keep this fact a secret. I have no desire to have some covert governmentoperation lock me away and study me like some unique lab rat specimen.

‘Knowledge ispower,’ but, ‘Knowledge of the future is absolute power!’

Which remindsme that I need to write down these two numbers before I forget them:

Steve’s cellphone circa 1994: 555-376-1990

He’s asked meto do him a favor on December 16th, 1994. I have promised to do it!

WinningNational Lottery number: 5 12 35 57 58 59

For the drawon: Saturday 7th, October 1995

I chose thatparticular draw as it was an easy one to remember - especially the last threenumerals. But, shit, the draw is still some thirty-odd years away because I wasnever expecting to go this far back.

Anyway, Iwill hopefully have made my fortune long before then. I am positive that myknowledge of many other future events will guarantee that outcome.

In 2014, bothmy parents were long dead.

My fathercommitted suicide in ’69. I was the one who came home from school to replace hisbody in the ’52 Buick in the garage. I was a tender ten years old and, needlessto say, devastated by the incident. We expect the fact that he lost out on avery important promotion at work was, not the cause, but the final straw thatdrove him to taking his own life. He was something of a perfectionist andabhorred failure, especially in himself.

In ’87, mymother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. The following year she passed away.

I missed bothmy parents terribly, and my mother especially so. This is why she will neverknow the real reason why I once more broke down and started to cry when I sawher again, or for the first time after so many years (This journey through timeis confusing and will take much getting used to. Particularly when attemptingto narrate events.).

Thankgoodness Mikey was there to repeat himself. “He’s not feeling well. He threw upoutside Pop’s,”

Five minuteslater my mother had put me to bed. Although I have the mind of a fiftyfive-year-old, it was a strange but most welcome experience.

I havedecided to make extensive notes of, or diarize if you will, my second passagethrough the exact same stream of ‘Time’; a record that may one day be used as asource of information to prevent this from happening a second time!

To this end Ihave stolen a pencil and some stationery from my father’s desk in the study.

I can neverreveal the truth of what has happened to the six-year-old son that they onceknew. For all intents and purposes it is imperative that I keep it secret, forI fear that the truth would be devastating to them – especially to my dearmother.

It is a taskthat I know will be near-impossible to achieve without constant and concertedeffort – yet, all energy MUST be exerted to conceal my true nature.

If memoryserves me well, my mother had a way of discovering all my ‘secret’ hidingplaces. I will have to replace a better and…novel means to conceal these notes.Even more important, as I am at the age where I have not yet learned to read orwrite, I will have to make sure that she never catches me in the process!!!