The Smoke of Time (standard:science fiction, 3876 words)
Author: Uri Meir	Added: Jul 15 2007	Views/Reads: 3232/2192	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A 36 Year old Israeli goes back in time to 1980

The Smoke of Time 

A. In Twilight 

The smoke of time, it rises to the fore, A muted day is dying and still
fair, It lies behind the tightly locked door; The book of poems sleeps 
upon the chair. 

It dreams in silence of the hands, Those have once washed the whiteness
of its pages, And in its wrinkled lines still stays, Their oddly smell, 
a memory of the sages. 

A small vibration goes from page to page, And hush... above the sleeping
book they pend, The shadow of the lamp – a man of age, It dreams that 
these must be his hands. 

Leah Goldberg 

Terry Pratchett once wrote that from time to time, bookshops selling
magical books suddenly turn up in the center of town, on a side street, 
without any explanation whatsoever. People accept their appearance with 
equanimity, as well as their disappearance, which, is inevitable at 
aome point. Even before entering, I was hoping it won't disappear too 
soon. It seemed nice – a pleasant surprise for the last day of the 
first month of the New Year. I examined its sign carefully, trying to 
guess what I may find inside, and got in. My eyes rested on some poetry 
books, which themselves rested on shelves, as if expecting someone to 
touch them. Poetry books by Good old Alterman lived side by side with 
break the rules Yona Wallach and it didn't seem to matter to even one 
of them. I couldn't understand why some thin dust was getting into my 
eyes there seemed to be no smoke in that bookshop. One poetry book 
wanted me to read it more than the others. I took it from the shelf and 
started browsing, yet wasn't able to connect to it. Shame, I do love 
poetry, but it's a matter of clicking. I closed the book and asked 
myself whether I will ever open it again. Then I noticed the owner, a 
small cheerful woman, who kept staring at me. I asked her why the 
bookshop is called The Smoke of Time, and without saying a word she 
pointed to a Leah Goldberg poem hanging on the wall. I read it. This 
time I did connect. Perhaps she talks about herself. Perhaps she's a 
book, dreaming that each shadow on the wall is a man wishing to hold 
her and read her. And perhaps she's talking about me, about the book 
yet to be written... That's how I tend to be at bookshops a little 
philosophical. When I left the shop it was already dark, and I went 
home. Not until the next day did I notice anything strange. The wall 
clock had the date on it, but I checked again, just to be sure: Thirty 
First of January, 2007, also on my cellular phone's display. It can't 
be. It can't be the same date all over again! Wasn't yesterday the last 
day of the month? I must be more confused than a boy whose parents were 
the only people who called him Shmulik. And why did I suddenly think of 
him? This must be the first time since I was ten. I got up, dressed and 
left the apartment. I had a couple of things to do at the university, 
but instead I found myself going to the bookshop at lunchtime. I 
managed to squeeze the rest of the day, through skipping some clearly 
important chores, in order to create some quality idle time. After all, 
I did earn a day, didn't I? Immediately after that, I decided, I'm 
going to Haifa to another bookshop, downtown just below Herzl Street. 
All the rest can wait – what can be done tomorrow can also be done the 
day after tomorrow. Jasmine Translations will survive even if I send 
them all the stuff next week. After all, it's only some boring 
translations of some boring reports on some boring companies. No one is 
going to really miss me if I disappear for a while – certainly no one 
special. I walked around the shelves – they keep adding new shelves all 
the time – and read that piece about The Smoke of Time once again. 
Peeking at me from the shelf I saw Momo of the Time Thieves, reminding 
me that although time should be managed efficiently, every once in a 
while you should give yourself some time for sheer fun. It was already 
Thursday afternoon, so I left for Haifa. It sounds much simpler than it 
actually was, since I thought I'll just go to the train station, and so 
I did, but Beer Sheba, where I haven't lived long and which I don't 
know that well yet, suddenly looked different, more desert,like, and I 
couldn't find that station. So I took the large, red white bus, and 
stood in front of the driver gaping. In the end I gave him a few pounds 
and sat down on the blue seat, a sort of cloth coated latex, somewhat 
torn, with a yellowish foam, torn as well, peeping underneath. The sign 
on the window requested that I don't smoke or spit. Traffic was very 


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