Dear James
I suppose I have to be honest: This
isn't a script for my Podcast Play. There are no characters, no
setting, little to no dialogue. No thorough description of action or
surroundings. It has the barest minimum for a fictional narrative (if
it wasn't a true story) and is written in such a rush that I don't
have time to proof-read.
No, this is an explanation of why I
couldn't write you the perfect Podcast Play in time. It is a
perfectly simple explanation that seems complicated if not
well-explained, which is becoming difficult since I'm forgetting it
as I write this. I suppose I should start at the beginning.
The story, for want of a better word,
begins on Monday January 23rd 2013, the deadline you gave
me for submitting my script.
I was taking a stroll in the park,
checking my phone for any messages from Manic Expression and
desperately trying to think up an idea for a script, when the
strangest email was sent to me. It was sent from one of my many dummy
accounts, a one that only I knew existed. Attached to it was a very
strange message:
Dear Ratin8tor
(it read)
It is of vital importance that you
leave the class right now and go home. Waiting for you will be
something that you have been wanting to give yourself for a very,
very long time. If you do not believe the sincerity of this claim,
then perhaps you'll believe the sender.
Beneath was a
hand-written note revealing various secrets about myself that I do
not wish to share, proving that this person not only knew me, but was
able to copy the unreadable scrawl that is my handwriting perfectly.
Naturally this
worried me deeply, so I rushed home to see what vile disaster lay in
my future. What I found came not only out of left field, but a
different ball park, nay a different game based on balls entirely.
For sitting in my
room, as plain as the words on this piece of paper, was a time
machine.
The hand-written note attached to it
explained how my future self had sent it to me, using various code
words that would be rendered pointless if I told you them.
Nevertheless it proved, with no uncertainty, that this was really a
time machine sent by my future self. It even noted how I would travel
one minute into the future to test this claim, to stop me being
totally sceptical.
One minute later I was reading the
second note that had been placed on my desk while I was travelling
into the future. It explained in detail how I was to build this time
machine, how long it was going to take; and how it must be built at
my parents bach so I don't accidentally bump into myself. The time
machine in my room must be left here for obvious reasons. It also
said that it would become clear what I was meant to do next once the
machine was built.
Following my advice I went to my
parents bach, where I spent the next several months building the time
machine. The instructions were perfect, written in a way that anyone
could understand. In theory you're wondering that if I never left my
parents bach, how could I still be helping out Manic Expression? Well
there is still much to explain.
At the end of those months it was
complete. I knew what to do next. I travelled back to Monday the 23rd
of January, arriving at home moments after my past self had departed
for his walk in the park. Once in my room I composed the email and
wrote up the note to make my past self come back to my house. After
that I wrote the first note and attached it to the time machine,
before slipping into my sister's room so not to be spotted. I wrote
the second note while my past self discovered the time machine,
waiting until the exact moment he jumped one minute into the future.
During that minute I placed the second note on the desk, before
retreating back into hiding.
I twiddled my thumbs as my past self
read the note and left the house to drive to my parent's bach. I was
thus now left alone in my house with my time machine. There was only
one logical thing to do.
I wrote the Podcast Play that was due
in on February. Unfortunately I can't remember what it was about. All
I knew is that once I wrote it, I happily sent it to you in order to
get it made.
But you see, I am a genius. A brilliant
idea occurred to me as I handed it in. As quick as a wink I was at
Monday the 25th of February, almost a month after I'd
first given you the script, to see how brilliant the final product
turned out to be.
The result was... less then pleasing.
What with me being a rather egotistical young man to have such a
lukewarm script was beneath me. But thanks to my time machine I could
go back and do it all again.
I quickly hopped back towards Monday
the 23rd of January and stopped my past self from writing
the Podcast Play that'd only earn him a C+ by my standards. I only
had a few hours before my parents got home (I didn't fancy explaining
to them why there were two of me), so I didn't have time to waste.
While my past self mulled about I got ready to write an A+ story.
Or I would have, if not a later version
of myself suddenly burst into the room after materialising in the
kitchen. He (or I) explained to me (or himself) that the story I was
about to write was only a B- grade script, but fortunately he (I)
could use the comments the play got to fix the errors found in my
(his) script and get a better overall product.
Yet no sooner had he sat down in front
of the computer a version of me from an even later date turned up to
explain that the script was only a B-grade story; and needed several
improvements to be better. Improvements he himself had picked up
after his past self had handed in the script he was about to write.
To cut a (very) long story short, the
twentieth version of me sat down to write the script. He (or I) had
nineteen failed attempts from which to learn from. At some point we
(or I) had slipped into a script so horrendous it made the Room look
like Shakespeare; and it'd taken several trips to steer it back onto
the right track. But this was it. The twentieth attempt to get the
perfect Podcast Play script.
But he (or I, grammar gets confusing
when you're talking about multiple versions of yourself existing
within the same moment of time several times over), voiced the
thought that had been growing in our (or my) head for a while now. A
horrible, horrible thought that we'd (or I'd) tried to ignore, but I
(or he) couldn't do it. It had to be said.
“Hang on,” said he (or I). “How
does this work? If the first time to write this failed; and I used
the comments left by others to write a script better then the
original and hand that into James instead. Where do the original
comments come from then? They are critiquing a Podcast Play whose
script was never handed in because the comments about it are for a
script that doesn't technically exist, because I'd re-written it
before I'd hand it in-”
You could feel as if the universe was
breathing in and crossing it's fingers, hoping that he'd (or I'd)
shut up before I really put my foot into it...
“Following that,” said he (or I),
“where did the plans for the time machine come from? We followed
the plans given to us by our future self, who'd had been given to him
by his future self, but this ends up in a backwards causation loop
where the plans never existed in the first place. Thus if there were
no plans how could there be a time mac-”
I awoke on Monday the 23rd
of January 2013 with one of the worst headaches I've ever had in my
life. It felt like someone had attempted brain surgery with lobster
claws and the remains of a badly chewed up car battery. It took all
my strength just to sit up and read the clock.
It said that I only had a few hours to
get online and email my script to you, a script that hadn't even
started to be written. As such all I had time to do was write a very
rubbish Podcast Play that should never be made, along with this email
saying why I didn't have time to do it. So consider this an
explanation as to why my Podcast Play script is not my usual A+
material.
As it turns out, human beings are
incredibly self-centred. We assume that when we create a time
paradox, the entire universe ends. When in actuality the universe
instead bitch-slaps you and takes away your time-travel privileges;
and gives you one massive hangover to boot.
It is all I can do to write down as
much as I can remember. Already I've forgotten what the time machine
looks like or how it works, something I should have mentioned at the
beginning in hindsight. Not only that, I can barely remember the
exact details of what happened. It's like trying to remember a dream
in the middle of the day.
So no, this isn't a script. This is an
explanation for why my script isn't up to scratch and is full of
holes. It's because I went time-travelling instead.
Yours sincerely
Ratin8tor
