fiction by aliza prodaniuk
Mulberry Literary Fresh Voices Award Runner-up

Amazon Time

On the day Amazon Prime invents time travel, you receive a package from your future self. 

It's 5 p.m. on Friday, and you get off the bus in front of your East Hamilton townhouse. You've quit your job at the Toronto chapter of Stiletto Magazine, where you were the assistant to the Editor-in-Chief, Travis. Eight years ago, you were hungry for the corporate climb. Dreams of being promoted to Fashion Director, of living in a Toronto high-rise didn't work out, and you're tired of sucking your boss's cock for nothing.

But, you have a new plan. This weekend, after you break up with your deadbeat boyfriend, Jerry, you're going to move in with your friend, Trish, and open a couture warehouse called Oh, Couture!

You walk up the steps to your front door feeling light, free, and hopeful even. With one hand, you rummage around in your purse for your keys; with the other, you knock on the door.

"Jerry?"

Of course, he isn't home, you think. Asshole is probably selling coke behind the high school. Not so different from when you met. You were both in university. Jerry sold weed to pay his tuition, and you charged your creativity with narcotics. You graduated with honors and landed a promising job; he moved on from weed and never finished school. 

As you tug on your keychain, a bright light blinds you. You jump, nearly onto the package materializing on the ground in front of you. It's silver, like an emergency blanket. It's burning hot and steaming. It looks just like the one you and Trish saw online that morning.  

You can't take your eyes off the return address. 

At first, you're surprised. You weren't expecting a package, especially from your future self. Next, you're disappointed because somewhere in time, you live in the same shitty dump you’re trying to leave. There are no other defining features on the package besides a large blue stamp, "Amazon Prime," and a tagline: "Arrives in Time."

It cools fast; within a minute, you pick it up, and you rip it open. Inside is a gift note printed on pink paper spritzed with something floral, a white box, and a return label. You read the message: Today is a big day. I know you're excited. But you have a long, difficult road ahead. Remember, in thirty years, you won't have nice legs to flatter those Louboutin's you dream about. Expect more packages. I'm looking out for our future. - XO Angelique

The logo on the stationary is similar to the sample designs you received from the graphic designer. You smile; everything works out!

You set the note aside and open the box. The item is wrapped in a layer of light pink tissue paper, stained with large brown splotches. It looks like whatever is inside leaked because the box's sides are also stained. It smells like hotdog.

You unfold the paper and scream, throwing the box across the porch. 

The human penis completes several rotations before stopping. 

You grab the box and try to sweep the penis inside with the tissue paper. When that doesn't work, you grab it. It feels like a hard piece of dog shit. You throw it in the box, dump the entire thing in your purse, and furiously wipe your hands on your pants.

You reread the letter, but it doesn't answer your one burning question: Who have I hurt?

*

Nine hours earlier.

Trish rolls her chair across the conjoined cubicle space to your desk. 

"Let's get this party started!" she says, shimmying her tits. 

You smile. It's only 8 a.m., but you doubt you'll be doing much work today. Not with the breaking news — Amazon Prime invents commercial time travel. 

You click on the link to the CBC live stream from Silicon Valley. The anchor is seated across from Jeff Bezos. A silver package is on a table between them. 

"How does this service work?" the anchor says.

"PrimeTime is available on the Amazon Prime website. After an order registers for shipment or return, an employee will come to your establishment and scan the label. It will arrive at its destination seconds later," Bezos says, pointing a device, like a taser, at the silver package. In a flash of light, it dissolves. 

You and Trish start squealing. 

"As we speak, that package is materializing on my desk in 2051," Bezos says; he's smiling into the camera. "I've sent myself Twinkies."

"What about the possibility for human travel?" The anchor asks. 

"At this time, the data is unclear."

"Do you think he really sent Twinkies? Maybe that's like code-word for dildo," Trish says over the broadcast. "Omg, imagine the sex toys in the future!"

"Trish!" You laugh and slap her knee. "I want to hear this! Time travel could be big for Oh, Couture! If I make enough money, you could quit your job here and join me."

"We'd be fabulous and independent!" Trish says.

“Inanimate objects can handle the constricting of time because they can't think of themselves as attached to time or space; they lack self-awareness. However, if a human, whose conscience is attached to a specific time, is subjected to time travel, they would likely be cooked alive," Bezos says. 

"So, it's not impossible?" the anchor replies.

Bezos throws his hands in the air. "Let's just say that nobody's crazy enough to test it."

"This really is the future, isn't it, girls?" You and Trish look up. Travis stands in your cubicle opening. He flashes you a smile. 

"In more ways than one," you respond.

Travis's smile disappears. He taps your desk with his fist. You know he won't say anything in front of Trish. Besides, the time for talking has passed. "I expect that editorial on my desk by the end of the day."

Trish bites her lip and swings her chair out of the cubicle to watch him walk away. 

"I can't believe you stayed with Jerry when you have full access to all of that," Trish says. "I'd love to sink my teeth into that ass."

"You can have him," you say. "A vagina can only get you so close to the glass ceiling before you need to find another method of breaking through." 

Trish rolls her eyes.

On the screen, you watch the package re-materialize. Bezos holds up a Twinkie. It's been bitten in half. 

*

Your hands shake, making it difficult to unlock the door. Finally, you hear a click and push it open.

Your senses are alert and sensitive to your environment. You can feel the damp, musty viscosity of the air when you step toward your kitchen table, hear the shh of cockroaches like a rain stick. A burnt chemical odor stings the sensitive tissue of your nostrils.

Although Jerry hasn't been home in days, evidence of his recent bender litters the table. You only see him when he needs money or sex. Usually money. You sweep empties, spoons, lighters, a few needles to the floor, set down your purse, and start pacing. 

Oh, shit, you think. Is it Jerry's? You force yourself to look in your purse; the dismembered member is a purplish color, severed above the testicles and oozing red goo from both ends. You’d think you could tell after all this time if it belonged to Jerry.

Your head jerks toward the door, where a series of flashes explode through the frosted window. That must be the rest of the body arriving, you think.

You stack the packages you found outside on the kitchen table. You pick one up and shake it. You hear the sound of body parts sliding around each other. You don't want to open it, but it's the only way to identify the victim.

With one rip, you open the bag and turn it upside down; toes and fingers bounce across the table. In other packages, the arms and legs are cut and folded at the joints. The torso's been quartered and bubble wrapped in separate bags. You try to unwrap one section, but the scorched skin is fused to the plastic bubbles. All the parts are swollen and burnt as if they had been lit on fire. The smell causes you to puke. 

By the time you finish unwrapping, your table is a mountain of packages and remains. You take inventory. Everything is accounted for, except the head, which bars any identification.

You feel like panicking, but this isn't the time. The notes from the packages told you to hold it together until you dispose of the body. They also gave specific instructions: body in freezer, shovel by the back door, a change of clothes in the bathroom, bleach in the kitchen, packages in the fire pit. 

As you finish your preparations, you hear a key in the lock of your front door. That's when you remember the penis is still in your purse. You reach your hand into your bag and grab it, holding it behind your back as Jerry's thin frame fills the doorway. He approaches, and you slip it into the back of your pants. 

"Jerry!" you say, exasperated. 

He staggers to the table and dumps your bag out, and pops open your wallet. He holds up a few bills. "Is this it?"

"It's been days."

"What, are you my fucking mother?"

"You could have called."

"Yeah, I could've."

"I was worried."

"Don't be a bitch, Angie." Jerry turns and grabs you by the hair and pulls from the roots. You feel a sharp pain and yell, causing him to release. 

"You should be ashamed of yourself," you say. You turn toward the sink. If Jerry thinks you're crying, he'll feel bad. You want him to suffer. 

His body presses against you from behind. All you can think about is the dismembered penis slipping down your pant-leg. 

He blows hot, toxic breath against your neck. "You like that?"

You close your eyes and wait for him to step away and the door to slam behind him. You almost hope it's Jerry in the freezer.

*

It's 3 p.m., and almost everyone has left the office for the weekend, except you. You have to finish the editorial — your farewell to Stiletto and Travis. 

You print the finished article and try to staple it, but you're out of staples. You get up and head to the supply room at the back of the office to get a refill. 

"You're avoiding my calls," Travis says in your ear. "That's not like you."

You drop the box of staples.

"I thought you were gone for the day."

He nips your shoulder. "I'd love to see how you look under that blouse. Those pants on the floor. . ."

Your hand clenches the stapler. 

He presses his body against you. His hard penis rubs against your leg. "I just finished meeting with corporate. You're going through with your resignation?"

"I told you, it's over."

"You don't mean that."

"I do mean it."

"What do I have to do to make you stay."

"Promote me to Fashion Director."

"You know I won't do that," Travis runs his tongue up your neck. "If I did that, you'd move to the warehouse. I'd rather keep you where I can see you."

"Then, it's over."

He grabs onto your breast and squeezes hard. "If you leave, you're done in the Toronto fashion scene."

You elbow him in the stomach, and he stumbles back into the printer. You turn and raise the stapler above your head. He grabs your wrist and cranks it behind your back. Your faces are centimeters apart. "Don't be a bitch, Angie."

You spit in his eyes. He lets go, and you walk out the door. Fucker can staple the editorial himself.

*

The sunset is a bloodstain. 

In the hours before dark, you've had time to think. The fear and anger you initially felt are replaced with acceptance for what you must do. This is about your future. If one asshole has to die for you to get what you want, what is so wrong with that? 

At 10 p.m., you stab your shovel into the earth. At first, you struggle, but you soon find a rhythm and enjoy the workout. Your shovel slices through a clump of dirt, and you wonder if that's how it feels to run a knife through human flesh. You stab the dirt again. 

When the hole is big enough, you go inside to get the first few body parts from the freezer. 

Someone is at the door. You can see them through the frosted glass. 

The person knocks. 

"Angie?" 

Shit, you think. It's Trish. 

She knocks harder and almost screams your name. You can't let her attract attention. 

You crack the door open. She's still wearing her work clothes — a Burberry bodycon dress, and strappy pink Ralph Lauren heels. You see it right away, the pink note in her hand and the open silver bag. 

This final package must have arrived while you were outside, and you know exactly what it contains.

"I thought you might've needed help packing," she says. "And then I saw the bag and the name; I couldn't help myself. I thought that your future self might have sent you, I don't know, lingerie."

You pull Trish inside and slam the door. 

“I don't understand what is happening!" Trish continues. "This can't be real. Tell me it's not real, Angie!"

You take the note and bag from her hands. You look inside. Although much older, you recognize the face of the severed head immediately. "Travis."

You sit down in a kitchen chair and scan the letter: Almost nobody would touch, Oh, Couture! once Travis got to them. After declaring bankruptcy, I went back to Jerry, back to the townhouse. I even took back my job at Stiletto. After years of living under Travis's thumb, of struggling, this was the only way out. Now that I've gotten away with it, nothing can stop me.

You sit back. Travis may be dead thirty years from now, but he's alive here and now. A grim realization hits you: if you only kill Travis in the future, and he's still currently alive…

"I have to get out of here. We need to get out of here," Trish says, interrupting your thoughts. "We can tell the cops! You haven't done anything wrong. It will be okay."

"You can't leave." You understand what the note is saying: you will never succeed. But, you're innocent. You haven't killed Travis yet.

You have an idea. You could send yourself into the future where Travis is already dead. Once you leave your timeline, your future self will cease to exist. You can get a new identity, even apply for Travis's job. This is your shot.

"What do you mean, Angie?" Trish looks horrified. 

"You read the letter. I need to get away with this." You smile. You're getting excited now. Bezos didn't say precisely that human travel would fail, just that it hadn't been tested. 

"It's a job!" Trish yells. 

"It's my future." 

"Omg, you're cracked. Insane! I have to get out of here."

"No." You can't let Trish alert the cops before you make your escape. 

"I am leaving!"

You grab Trish by the wrist as she starts to walk away. "You don't have that choice anymore. You have to help me."

*

You collect your stuff and head down the stairs to the parking lot. You are halfway to the bus stop when Travis catches up with you. 

"You know what your problem is, Angelique?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You think everything is about you."

"Yeah, I guess you would see it like that."

"Well, am I wrong? It was you who pursued me! I was happy, married before you came along."

"You were fucking your secretary when I met you."

"Don't think for a second that I don't know you've used me to climb the corporate ladder."

"Well, it hasn't worked out, has it?" You can see the bus now. 

"You live in a fantasy world! You really believed you could fuck your way to the job you wanted. I bet you still believe Jerry will wake up one day and be the man you want him to be."

"How dare you drag Jerry into this. You know nothing about him."

"Don't I? You push and push and push, and when it doesn't go your way, you throw a fit."

"Fuck you!" The bus doors open. 

"One day, you're going to regret this, Angelique."

You climb the steps onto the bus and scan your pass. "Is that a threat?" 

"You're finished," Travis spits.

The doors close, and the bus pulls away from the curb. Only for a moment do you consider getting off at the next stop.

*

Trish sheds silent tears as she helps you scoop dirt over Travis's legs, which are large and swollen, with flesh like rotisserie ham hocks. Her pink heels are stained brown and sink into the earth. 

You don't hear Jerry open the back door and come outside. He bends and picks up the silver bag that contained Travis's now buried head. 

"What the fuck is going on, Angelique?" Jerry slurs his words together. 

You turn and see his eyes wide, pupils dilated. His eyes jump between you and the fleshy femur sticking out of the ground.

"You shouldn't have come home, Jerry."

"I felt bad for earlier."

Trish is sobbing again. Her hysterical gasps echo in the momentary silence.

"You really shouldn't have come home," you say again. 

His reflexes are slow. He only manages to raise his hands to shield himself after you've delivered the first blow to his head. You continue to bring down the shovel until he stops moving. 

Only then do you realize Trish is gone. Fuck, you think. Why did you have to run, Trish?

You chase her through the house and catch her as she exits the front door. You manage one hit with the shovel to the back of her head. Blood streaks through her blonde hair as she stumbles down the stairs and onto the road.

Trish waves her hands at an oncoming car. It doesn't stop. You're not sure it even sees her before it hits her. 

The car pauses. A few minutes pass, but the driver doesn't get out, and you don't move from the doorway. Finally, it pulls away. 

You emerge from your townhouse. It's nearly 3 a.m., so the street is empty. There is nobody to see you drag her lifeless body toward the backyard. 

*

Hours later, you purchase the biggest Amazon PrimeTime bag you can find and register the return online. Sitting on your front porch, you stick the return label to the front and then curl up inside. You seal it and wait for the PrimeTime employee to come and launch you into the future you deserve. You can hardly wait.

You hear someone climb the steps. They stop. For a minute or so, there's silence. Then you hear a loud beep, followed by a static zap. 

All you feel is pressure. Pressure everywhere. Gale force wind beats against you from all directions.

Your eardrums pop and then rupture as the pressure becomes unbearable.

You begin to scream. You scream and scream as time contracts around you, and your eyes burst like grapes squished between a thumb and index finger.

Your brain cooks in your skull like a Dutch oven. Blood boils and oozes through your body until your organs reach distress.

You arrive on a doorstep. Your doorstep, but you don't know it.

You don't hear a man, a stranger, open your door, except it's not your door anymore. 

You don't hear him yell over his shoulder. “Looks like dinner arrived early.”

Another man looks outside. “Are you sure that's the pizza, Scott?”

Scott rips open the package. “Oh gosh, that’s so not a pizza.”

Aliza Prodaniuk is a McMaster University graduate living in Sarnia, Ontario. Her writing has been published in various magazines and journals, exploring anything from science, travel, interpersonal relationships, and beyond! She's currently happy to have time to focus on writing while learning alongside others in the MFA in Writing program at the University of Saskatchewan.