Synchronicity
by Jacob Baugher
You won’t like this. Those who lie to themselves never do, but your future looks different from our side of tomorrow.
You’re outside Cleromancy, Inc., clutching a black pamphlet emblazoned with gold letters: Take Control of Your Future Self. It’s storming, because it always is, drowning out the keening whine of automatic Rainsweepers and Clarion-class starship engines that rattle mirrored plate glass and shake water from cultivated maple trees. This is the gateway to the galaxy, after all. Ships to Titan leave every hour. You’ve always wanted to go, but according to Matty, it’s too late. Your lives are here, built brick by boring brick. It’s time to set aside adventure. Settle in for the long haul.
<Dinner later?> He texts you.
<OK>
You wring your hands together, chapped from hot dishwater and worry; stare up at the building’s faux-neon sign. You’re reminded of pictures of Old Vegas, Atlantic City, Amsterdam. Places you’ve been promised visits to that have never materialized.
There’s a slip of crumpled paper in your pocket. A question scribbled in black ink.
We already know the answer. It’s the wrong question, but self-discovery seems anathema to this version of you.
The receptionist guides you across the lobby to a small room decorated with tacky, glowing crystals: amethyst, quartz, gypsum. A woman in purple robes sits behind a dark-stained desk; assures you that it’s natural to be nervous. Everyone is when they meet their Other Selves.
“Do you have your question prepared?” A seer’s soft voice, as it should be.
“Yes.” You grasp the paper in your pocket. “Is my relationship ready for children.” It’s said as a statement, not a question.
The medium knits her eyebrows together. “It’s better if you say less. Concentrate on your question and shuffle the deck.”
She passes you a stack of ornate cards in protective sleeves. You shuffle, dry skin catching on the plastic. The medium fans the cards out across the table. Purple and gold against dark cherry.
“Pick three.”
You do. We work our magic. She flips them over.
“In your past, the Hermit,” she says. “Your present, the Devil. The future, the Tower.”
Your heart sinks. You were hoping for reconciliation, not change.
The woman smiles encouragingly. “Not necessarily a bad reading, but one that heralds a metamorphosis blossoming from your current — potentially toxic — situation. Would you like to propose a swap?”
“Absolutely.”
The medium produces an ancient laptop from her desk. COMPAQ flashes across the boot screen. She plugs a thin wire into a square port. It runs to a plastic rectangle on the wall.
“Sorry, this part can be a bit unpleasant.”
The computer starts screaming.
“It’s old tech, but it’s quantum where it counts.”
The screen goes blue.
“What happens now?” you ask.
“Cleromancy has patented technology that bridges the gap between parallel realities. Any time you’ve made a choice, a parallel you has chosen differently. Your readings will be varied, and therefore optimizable.” A video chat window opens. “You’ll see each others’ cards and discuss a trade.” She hesitates. “Cleromancy is not liable if the modified reading doesn’t take. Our future selves can be…inflexible at times.”
The computer chimes like a squeaky door.
“Here we are,” she says. “You have thirty seconds until the connection becomes unstable.”
The display flickers to life in a shower of rainbow pixels. Not-you stares out of the ancient monitor. Six cards flash in the upper right corner. Hers: the Devil, the Six of Cups, and the Tower. Your reading flashes below.
“Trade you the Hermit for the Six of Cups?” Not-you’s voice is hoarse. “I could use some introspection.”
“The Hermit is what got me here,” you say. “No deal.”
Not-you slumps back in her chair.
The medium ends the call. “That would have been a good trade.”
“I need a more optimistic future card.”
The computer chimes again. This Not-you is thin and tired-looking but breaks into a wide smile.
“Hello, me,” she says. “I’ll trade you the Tower for the Star.”
An incredible trade. Exactly what you wanted.
“Can I ask why?” you whisper to the medium.
“Asking is allowed, but not recommended.”
You repeat the question.
“I have cancer,” Not-you says. “I’m looking for a major change, not a cure…what about you?”
“I’m trying to decide if we’re ready for kids.”
She snorts. “Your boyfriend –” Someone mutters something off-screen. “Oh, I’m not supposed to ask unrelated questions.”
You weigh the card in your hand.
“Can I give you some advice?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“He’s ready. You’re not.”
“Celeste,” your medium says. “Are you trading your card?”
“Yes,” you say. Then, “Thank you for the advice.”
Not-you inclines her head.
“Done.” The medium ends the call.
The card vibrates in your hand, flickers from the Tower to the Star. Matty will be thrilled.
“Have a wonderful day,” she says. “Emily will see you out.”
Starships rumble overhead on your walk home. The rain has stopped. The sun casts the Space Needle’s long shadow across the asphalt. You clutch the Star in your hand and try to be happy about your new reading. But was it really for you…or him?
You were fun, once. Free and spontaneous and full of brightening tomorrows that never seemed to arrive. At least, that’s what you tell yourself in the mirror before Matty takes you out for dinner. You dance and smell the wine on his breath when he tells you how happy he is, pretend to enjoy yourself. He drinks more and asks you to drive home, resulting in the most vanilla sex anyone has ever experienced.
Later, when he rolls off you to fall asleep, you’re kept awake watching the shadows on the ceiling, passing like years of your life slipping away. Titan-bound transports flash by your apartment window.
You were more suited for the Tower after all.
You crawl out of bed, careful not to wake him. Pack a bag. Step out into the midnight rain and head for the stars to meet us. To meet Future-you.
_______________
Jacob Baugher is a writer, editor, and musician from Baltimore, Maryland. His work is featured in Flash Fiction Online, Radon Journal, Dream Theory and others. He earned his M.F.A. in fiction from Seton Hill University in 2017, taught creative writing at a small university in the Ohio Valley, and is an assistant editor for Flash Fiction Online. Currently, he works for the public library system and plays in the progressive emo band Cokeworks. You can follow his writing at thearchetypist.substack.com.