Author : Russell Bert Waters

Kyle staggered a bit, the bank line in front of him morphed into a field, then a grassy patch of hill, then back to the line.

The man ahead of him shot him a suspicious glance, then looked back ahead as though no one existed.

Kyle’s transaction went well, and he was on his way across the wood, then marble, then bare dirt, floor of the bank.

He held the door for a lady who became an angry black man then the lady again.

Next would be the hardest part, as the sun became moon, then sun, then white-out blizzard, then sun again.

He had teleported so many times, once he had perfected the ability, his mind would never quite be the same.

You can only mess with your surroundings so much, it seems.

He hailed a cab, bus, weird little radio-controlled train, cab, and got into the leather, vinyl, crushed velvet seat in the back.

The driver asked him where to, and he just said “home”.

This wasn’t the answer the driver wanted, but he started driving down the road, wooden bridge, patch of desert, anyway.

In his line of work he knew his passenger would eventually come to his or her senses and be more specific; if not, well, the fare would just keep on creeping up.

Kyle did come to, as he sat in the VIP lounge couch, bar stool, park bench, back seat, and looked out the window at all of the ever-shifting scenery.

“Four four five Park street, driver. I’m sorry. Not myself today.”

The Armenian man turned into a mid-thirties white midget and said “not a problem, we’ve all been there” and then he turned into a bearded Amish-looking fellow as he navigated the roads before him effortlessly.

It didn’t start out like this, but it sure hadn’t taken long to progress to this point.

The worst aspect was probably the random nosebleeds, those could be embarrassing and hard to explain to the random stranger, whose shoes you’ve just dripped on, in an elevator.

When he made it home he thanked the driver, who now appeared to be an elderly Jewish man with eyeglasses.

The doorman at his apartment building was always glad to see him, as the door behind him shifted, and he changed repeatedly, he mentioned that Kyle had a visitor while he was out.

Kyle didn’t bother to ask for a description, because if he saw the person, they would likely not appear the same for more than a second or two anyway.

He collapsed onto his couch, pile of discarded tires, abandoned piece of plywood, and began to channel surf on his TV.

He wasn’t really paying attention, because, as with every other aspect of his life, Mr. Clean just became Jamie Lee Curtis, and it was just all getting so very disquieting.

There was a specialist in Minnesota he could see, who could maybe help him somehow, but he was increasingly afraid to teleport anywhere again.

“Maybe I’ll go tomorrow” he said to himself, as he stared at the wall, mountains, sparkling field of snow, behind the TV screen.

He lay his head down and decided he’d take a nap and dream of things that become other things, while longing for the day something inside his head would finally pop and end all of this. “I will go tomorrow” he mumbled, as his world went black.