I don’t wanna write, I wanna gripe.

Common courtesy is dead. But if I write about it, I’m gonna get all wound up here at bedtime and I need to get some rest tonight. So, I’ll save it for a day I’m already mad.

Writing prompt #911, courtesy of Barry the Chigger. Those of you on my Facebook know him as the guy who’s obsessed with the Kodak library. I know him as the guy who published my words about the helicopter crash and shit hittin’ the fan. I’ve unintentionally beguiled him with my Southern charm, but you never know when you might need a New York Yankee retired fireman to proofread an article on growing petunias. So here we are.

#911 You gain control over a magical door. All you have to do is write a location, any location, at the top of the door and when you open it, it brings you to where you’ve written.

Gained control? Makes it sound like I’m in a coveted spot, indeed. Like I had to sword fight for this right. Hmm. The “all you have to do” part seems a little suspect, too. And my handwriting is atrocious, so I better be very careful, indeed.

“Historic Downtown Savannah Georgia,” I scrawled. Best to pick a place I’m familiar with to get my bearings on how this was gonna work.

I opened the door, stepped through, and whoosh! It was like those air blowers above the automatic doors in pharmacies. I liked it a lot.

I wasn’t the least bit surprised to find myself deposited on the back side of River Street, below Factor’s Walk. If anything witchy was gonna happen, it would definitely be here. The smell of not-quite-cleanliness, burned sugar, and mustiness hit me just as quick as my eyes took in the stone stairs ahead of me and the ferns growing between each step. I looked back at my door. It was like the rest of them leading to the warehouse areas of the restaurants and store fronts. Old, dark wood, stained many times over with oil and who knows what else. Grimy to the touch, wrought iron hasps and hinges that looked like they’d fall off with the slightest pressure. I opened my door and it appeared to lead directly into a brick wall. Ok, then. Guess that’s how I would be getting back.

But first, Savannah.

The Hostess City did not disappoint. Of course it didn’t. The magic of the door continued, as I always had the exact amount of money in my pocket that was needed. Things sure seemed a lot cheaper than the last few times I visited, but maybe it was because I hadn’t had to work for my spending cash this time. It was just there.

I visited all my favorite spots and gradually made my way back to my door before I became too intoxicated. This was better than having a helicopter! Quicker, too. I wrote my address above the door and away I flew.

I stepped across my familiar threshold, and the headache that immediately took hold was debilitating. I stumbled toward bed, kicking my shoes off in the hallway.

What I believed was the next morning, I couldn’t wait to try it again. I decided to teleport to work first, because I may be adventurous, but I’m also practical. What good is a magic door if you can’t spare yourself a grisly commute and a few bucks worth of gas?

I get to work and imagine my surprise to find myself already there. So evidently I’m now a duplicate? And my alter ego runs early? Something is very suspicious.

So when I stepped through the door, I imagined I would scream, but neither of us did. Years ago, I read a book by Blake Crouch called Dark Matter. It was evidently prepping me for this moment. My original self explained to my teleporting self that every time I traveled this way, I left another version of myself. So, according to her research, there was still an Amy in Savannah, living it up. This could be problematic. No wonder the last guy had been so eager to relinquish the door. This could get messy, quick.

“Also, did you notice,” she continued, “that you’re not traveling to the current day?”

“It did seem like things were cheaper,” I admitted, a bit begrudgingly that I hadn’t paid stricter attention.

Current Amy blinked at me. She was really very obnoxious, to tell you the truth. “That’s all you noticed? According to the email, you went back to 2011. That was thirteen years ago.”

“Thanks for the math lesson,” I told myself witheringly. “You’re such a riot, I’m leaving. I would ask where you wanna go, but obviously you’re gonna need to stay here.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she —I mean, I— told myself as I let myself out.

Leave it to me to get a malfunctioning door. Or maybe it was like a two for one, time travel and teleportation. So, of course I wanted to see Ireland and Scotland and those islands over there. But what if I was sent back to Medieval times and they were all in upheaval? I’d be like Claire in Outlander. I really should have paid closer attention on how to avoid attention. At least I didn’t have a scar from the smallpox vaccination. That would be very telling. I also wanted to flit through Paris, walking where Hemingway did in the city of light. I had to get Down Under before my term expired on the door. And Galapagos to see the giant turtles. And Alaska! So much to do, so much to see. And those places were also far away, there was no chance I’d run into myself again, right? But what about home? Was I now a twin? Would I have to kill me? Would she have to kill me? Would all the traveling mes vaporize once I lost possession of the door? Would it hurt? I needed to call myself. I reached for my phone and dialed my number. I just got the fast busy signal. This was infuriating! I certainly didn’t want to go back to work and make myself a triplet. Being a twin sign Gemini was bad enough.

I sighed. Ah, to heck with it. You only get one life. Unless you get a magic door.

Love from Appalachia (and Savannah. And Galapagos. And Alaska. And Ireland. And Paris)

~Amy