She sits in a small, Venetian plaza outside of a small, easily passed-by cathedral snuggled in amongst the many larger, unmissable ones. The stool is hard on her bottom, the sun hot on her head. Worse, she is hungry. Not just now hungry, but days hungry. Weeks hungry even, so that her clothes hang loosely over skin drawn tight. It is all, really, that is left of her, hunger; hunger for success, hunger for a companionship which wouldn’t destroy any chance for that success, and the constantly gnawing hunger for food.

Hers in not the busiest plaza, but as with most any other via in Venetia there is a somewhat steady stream of tourists along this one.

And one has stopped. He is looking at her favorite, “The Bridge.” It is so much her favorite that she has only recently begun to bring it with her to show, hoping she might keep it while “living” on the lesser ones, but what she is doing could hardly be called living. If she doesn’t sell something soon then there will be no apartment to return to at the end of the day, and so nowhere to leave it behind, so common sense finally told her that she must offer someone else the opportunity to enjoy it.

It has been a minute, and he is still looking. She is growing uncomfortably anxious, though she tries her best to hide the signs. It is never easy to have a stranger critique your canvassed passions, even silently… especially silently. He does not appear to have the money for such a painting, but he is obviously American. She is told this by his clothes, which are nice enough, but have an odd, frumpy style which is definitely not European. With Americans it is impossible to tell about money. She once dated an American while at university, and one would have never guessed that Kenneth had money, nor where it came from, but he always did. She should have stayed with him, but he had demanded time that she could not give him, just like the others. It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved him, it was just that she loved her art more. Why is it that two loves must always collide?

Despite her reservations she steps from her stool, wandering closer while trying to appear disinterested in his interest, straightening “Il Leone” on it’s easel as she goes, the gnawing in her stomach ever present. Closer, she sees that he is handsome, but his eyes are only for the painting. She thinks to herself that she could take a lover… for a while… one who would feed her. A “patron” might be nice. Some handsome, rich, older friend to make love to her, and to offer her endowments, and to endorse her work to his or her friends?

“It is not the Bridge of Sighs?”

“No.” She answers quickly. Too quickly? Too desperately?

“Every painting of a bridge elsewhere that I see is The Bridge of Sighs.”

”Si. That one sells to tourists.” Her Italian accent is heavy. He is forced to lean towards her to better understand. “I do not paint for tourists." She is not meaning to sound condescending as she says this, but it still sounds a bit so. "I create art.”

”Ah. I see.”

His surety is offensive to her, though she could not have explained why. He is just another stupid-fucking American. What did he know of her? Or of art?

”It has no price," he wonders aloud. "The others are all priced?”

In her anger she had nearly forgotten her hunger… nearly. “It is new. I have not set a price.”

He smiles. "There is a date beneath the artist’s signature. It is not new.”

Fucking Americans, believing they know everything. “It is newly offered for sale.”

”It is a favorite then? Possibly even sentimental? What price would you put on it, were you to price it?”

She did not want him to have it. It was too good for him. “You could not afford it.”

”I paid €26,000 for The Spanish Steps yesterday.”

The heart in her chest stopped its beating. €26’000! What she could do with €26,000!

She did not want to undersell, but too high could be deadly, he might just walk away. Bianca could not afford to let this one walk.

”Well then, you are in luck! This one is only €20,000.” Her conscious screamed at her even as the words flooded out of her mouth, “NO! That is too much!“ But it was done.

He did not run away, as she half expected him to, but pushed his hands down deeper into the pockets of his khaki slacks as he contemplated her price.

”I don’t think so,” he finally replied. “I am looking for The Bridge of Sighs.”

The hungry voice in her head screams at her, "stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Panicking, she counter-offers, her voice weak with desperation, “I might let it go for €17,500?”

He shakes his head. “No. I want The Bridge of Sighs.”

“It is a stupid tourist site.” It was her way of calling him a stupid tourist.

”It is historic, and famous, and besides, an artist should give people what they want.”

”Then she is no longer an artist.” There was venom in her voice. “Then she is a sell-out!”

The stupid American actually smiled at her anger, pissing her off even more. “So now I am a capitalist pig, huh? Well, none of your other paintings has more than €3,000, and you are trying to gouge me for €20,000, so maybe I am a capitalist pig, but I am also the one with the money, and I know what it is I want.”

With that he turns. As he walks away the gnawing in her stomach spreads to her throat, and her cheeks, and her ears. He knows what he wants, and what he wants is not her. “Fuck you!” She roars as he fades into the tourist throng.

The stool remains hard on her bottom, the sun remains hot on her head, the gnawing in her belly remains unchanged. From where she sits The Bridge looks back at her from its easel, shaming her. It is pretty, but certainly no masterpiece.

Perhaps tomorrow she should paint that other bridge...

"Sigh."

"I have a new boyfriend."

"Is he taller than me?"

"No, but he's nice."

"Nice isn't me, honestly, so I'm happy for you."

"No, you're not."

"Maybe I'm not."

"I want to tell you about him."

"I'd rather we discuss this in bed."

"I told you. New boyfriend."

"Fine. Tell me about him."

"He has black hair."

"Is it long?"

"No, it's short, but if he grows it, it gets a little curly. I think that comes from his dad."

"Great."

"Jealous?"

"What, of his hair? Nah. I haven't missed it since I turned 21."

"That was a long time ago. Do you even remember what it was like to have it?"

"Nice. Please, keep going."

"He likes to cuddle."

"Yeah? Does he have a job?"

"Not really."

"The fuck? He sounds like a winner."

"He makes me happy, and that's doing a good job, I think."

"Doesn't sound like there's a lot of pay involved."

"Well. I'm naked a lot, so I think you'd consider that worthwhile."

"Yeah, but we ain't talkin about me."

"We do talk about you, though."

"How's that? He knows me?"

"No, but he listens."

"What interesting stories do you tell about me?"

"Well, I told him that you'd likely come over tonight."

"I thought you didn't want company."

"Never said that."

"No, you said you had a new boyfriend."

"That doesn't mean I've died."

"So you want me to come over?"

"Know that he will probably watch."

"Don't care."

"Didn't figure you would."

"What are the rules?"

"Stop and get a couple of McDonald's hamburgers, plain ones, on your way over."

"Sounds like a weird craving. You late? No way it can be mine, right?"

"You're the worst. They're for him."

"So, what? I fuck his girlfriend but have to pay a burger tax? That's a weird pimp kink. I'll play, no judgement."

"Bullshit. You're a judgy prick."

"No, really, I'm into the whole your-kink-isn't-my-kink horseshit."

"Whatever. That's crap people say because they don't want to end up catching shit. We're all silent judges, at least."

"McDonalds plain burgers. Which is worse, the McDonalds part or the plain part?"

"Just do it if you want to get lucky."

"What's this guy's name, where is he from? Any other rules?"

"Yeah. Don't knock. Just come in."

"Hot."

"Well. If you knock or ring the doorbell, shit gets crazy."

"How? Why?"

"Trust me and do what I ask. Dammit you ask a lot of questions."

"I'm a curious guy. So? Name? History?"

"I don't know a lot about him."

"But he's at your place now?"

"Yeah, I left him in the bed."

"Weird."

"His name's Buddy, I think his mom is from Newfoundland. Not sure about his dad."

"Canada? Buddy?"

"Yeah, I didn't name him, man."

"Obviously, but you're dating a Canadian?"

"Not exactly dating, but he's a good boyfriend."

"I'm confused."

"I got a dog, doofus. Bring cheeseburgers so that mutt loves you."

"Fuck me, I'm an idiot."

"True, and I will."

"Let's go."

June 25, 1660

I, Friedrich Zeitreisender, being of sound mind and withering body, do solemnly swear that the following testament is both accurate and true. I set it down here, in the hopes that my experiences may enlighten others long after I am gone. Sadly, it is far more likely that these pages will have yellowed, cracked and turned to ash long before I am born.

Yes, you read that correctly, dear Reader: before I am born.

I was born April 15, 2052. If you are reading these words at any time prior, you have probably decided in your mind that you have happened upon a piece of fiction. That would be a mistake.

I had the fortune to grow up wealthy, well-educated and curious in a God-fearing family that also worshipped at the altar of science. That is not the oxymoron many of you may think. Indeed, to the joy of my ever-kneeling mother (and, perhaps, the chagrin of my biophysicist father), my elder brother "proved" the existence of God through a fairly uncomplicated, quite original physics equation that he made accessible to even the least gifted child. As you might imagine, he was feted by both the secular and religious elite of the time. Indeed, his picture hung, briefly, in the humble homes of the masses around the world, who found themselves united if only by the hopeful poverty in which they lived.

His disappointment was palpable when I, his junior by several years, proved him wrong.

We haven't spoken since.

It's not what you think, however; it wasn't an embittered sibling rivalry that silenced us.

In a way, it was far worse.

A typical elder sibling, he could not accept that the insignificant being he called little brother might both equal and, indeed, surpass the level of genius he had displayed since birth. My conclusions, based on extensive, empirical research and displayed in detailed graphs, formulas and equations regarding the electrochemical relationships that exist between the neural pathways and the myriad forms of energy within and around us were insufficient evidence of my brilliance. He wanted a demonstration.

And so it was that when I harnessed the natural power of the human brain, well, my brain, and targeted the invisible world that surrounds us, I was able to restructure matter in space and time by focusing on what I call the ghost chromosome. What does that mean? I made my brother disappear. Or, rather, he became whomever he was meant to be…on a timeline different than the one we had inhabited together. Sadly, I had not yet perfected targeted destination and return coordination. Thus, it was as if he never existed. He was erased from the memories of all who had ever known him, except for mine, of course, and I became, an adored, only child…in a world that forgot they had once thought they could prove the existence of god through physics.

Pity.

"That's ridiculous, Friedrich. Ghost chromosome? There is no such thing."

"You, of all people, Jürgen, should know better than to doubt my work."

“I don’t doubt that you found something, Friedrich. But really? You expect me to believe you have uncovered a way to travel through time and space by way of a ghost chromosome? Some whisper of DNA invisible to the eye, but sensed by brain waves that can somehow turn it on? That is a bit much to swallow, little brother.”

Before he left the room, I said quietly, “I can prove it.”

He paused at the door. Without turning, he said, “Oh?”

“Yes. I have done tests. I have had some success, I just…”

He interrupted me, turning around. “Success? Tests? How exactly did you test your theory, Friedrich?”

“Well, I used to volunteer at the shelter for single mothers. I would practice on the babies. They are still forming so it was easier to access their ghost chromosome. Indeed, newborns often have several feathery wisps of genetic energy to choose from. I would latch onto one and activate it by creating an electrochemical response with focused energy from my brain and the surrounding environment. Quite exhausting. Unfortunately, even homeless, single mothers love their babies, and it became problematic that they kept disappearing.”

“What?”

“Don’t yell. I am certain they were much better off in the life to which I sent them.”

“WHAT? You are certain?” he sputtered. “Friedrich, what did you do to those babies?

“I gave them a better life. But anyway, when it became apparent that babies were causing too much attention…”

“You were the source of the headlines last year? Baby kidnapper strikes again! That was you?”

“Jürgen, clearly I did not kidnap any children.”

“What did you do?”

I sighed. “I already told you, I sent them to a better life.” I paused. “Or at least a different one from the one in which they had found themselves. Homeless, poor single mother? It is a small leap to assume where they ended up was better.

“Anyway, babies clearly were not the best source for my experiments. So, I decided to work on adults. The homeless were a better choice since no one misses them when they are gone. I started to bring them food and chat with them under the various bridges where they tend to hide themselves in the city. I let them babble. While they got comfortable, I practiced. I have made more than 100 become…other. I just…”

“Become other? Are you out of your mind? What have you done?” He looked at me with a mixture of shock, disdain and pity. I became angry.

“Don’t look at me like that! I can prove it! Watch” And with that I closed my eyes and focused all my energy on him. I found his ghost chromosome…and that was that.

It took me some twenty years to perfect the transmission of energy and to target destinations and retrievals. I found that using the brain alone was only good for, let’s say, removal to a new plane. However, I invented what I like to call a physiodecomponeurotransporter, or PDNT, that allowed me to choose the time and place. Even the age and sex. I could send someone as him or herself…or have them become someone else altogether. It was quite thrilling. Instead of proving the existence of god, I had proved that we could all be gods...well, the few gifted among us. Like me.

Anyway, once I perfected targeted travel, I wanted to use my power for good. I decided to go back in time and stop the most notorious, most prolific serial killers of all time: Charles Manfried, Zaratha Kundekind, Marie Lausette and Landon Jones, to name a few. I, Friedrich Zeitresender would become a hero to history, indeed, to all of mankind, by stopping murderers before they began their rampages. If you check your history books, you will find no mention of these killers for I eliminated them before they could become infamous. Even before they made their first kills. There is no hint of their existence. And so it was for dozens across history. I am only saddened that I could not eliminate every single one. And, that it is only with the words upon this page that you know the truth.

Unfortunately, my PDNT may permit time travel, but it does not stop the aging process. Indeed, I suspect, it has hastened it a bit. My last experiment, upon completion of this testament, will be to target my own ghost chromosome and see if I might send myself to a different timeline and start life anew. I have written these lines so that some may know what I have done; the good I have done for humankind by means of the PDNT and, more importantly, the ghost chromosome.

April 15, 1952

“Isn’t he just perfect, papa?

“Of course, mama.”

“Look at those eyes. He looks like he’s already seen it all. My poor little angel.”

“What we gonna name him, mama?

“Donald. Donald Harvey.”