by John Xero
Jerome flinched as he scratched his head and more hair fell away. His skin was dry, flaking, covered with livid sores. The blood beneath his fingernails disturbed him.
He squinted as he adjusted the chronal fibrillator, cursing his failing eyes.
Time fluttered around him.
His garage walls vanished, replaced by a broken wasteland stretching into the distance. The harsh air clawed at his lungs and rasped his eyes.
Then he was back in his garage, back in twenty thirteen.
How did it all end? When did it begin? He'd only jumped three years forward that time, and still too late.