Welcome, time travel enthusiasts and Syd Brixton fans!
I’m thrilled to share with you the entire first chapter of TimeBlink: TALISMAN, a novella that delves into the origins of one of the most adored characters from The Syd Brixton TimeBlink Series.
While Syd may be our intrepid protagonist in the main series, this novella spotlights a fan-favorite secondary character, Dr. Morley Scott, so if you’ve been wondering how Morley came to be part of Syd’s twisty-turny time travel adventures, it’s all explained in TALISMAN.
When this story releases in the fall of 2024, you’ll have the choice of reading it either before or after the main TimeBlink series—each option offering a vastly different experience. Read it before and you’ll gain crucial insights into this pivotal character’s background. Delve into it afterwards to uncover a dark secret about Morley that will shock you to the core!
Keep in mind, this is the first draft of the novella, and it hasn’t been edited yet. I might be crazy putting it out there unedited, but I’m super excited to share it with you in the hope that you’ll want to find out more. Knowing this, if you spot any ‘whoopsies’ while reading this preview, you’re more than welcome to leave a comment. Your feedback will help me polish the story and deliver an engaging origin tale about our beloved Morley.
Without further ado, let’s dive into Chapter 1 of TimeBlink: TALISMAN…
Chapter 1
January 14, 2019
Morley had simply blinked.
In the next disorienting instant, he was stumbling backward, his arms windmilling wildly as he grasped for a dining table that was no longer there, and into a void where his chair had stood moments before. He landed on his back with a thud, the impact jarring his teeth and awakening that old football injury at the base of his spine.
For several panicky seconds, he couldn’t breathe, his lungs refusing to expand, as though the atmosphere around him had turned to congealed grease. When he finally managed to suck in a breath, he was struck by the strange taste of it—citrusy and fresh yet carrying notes of fried food, new carpet, and…was that jet fuel? The smells bore no likeness to the precisely cooled air circulating throughout his Port Raven penthouse.
Morley blinked again, willing his surroundings to shift back to the familiar confines of home. Instead, the scene remained impossibly alien. It was a cavernous space, dotted with rows of empty vinyl seating and large, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the night. There, he could only see the odd tall lamppost casting pools of light on what looked like an empty parking lot.
Inside, the foreign space was dotted with splashes of harsh, focused light bouncing off polished linoleum floors, reminding him of all the examination rooms he’d worked in in the past twenty-odd years. In the distance, a garbled female voice cycled through what sounded like recorded announcements.
An airport. He was in an airport. And he was alone. Impossibly, utterly alone.
Morley’s mind reeled, trying to make sense of a nonsensical situation. A vivid dream? A psychotic break? He pinched the skin on the back of his hand, hard enough to leave a red mark. The pain was sharp. Real. Not a dream, he confirmed, though he couldn’t rule out psychosis.
Struggling to his feet, the world tilted, and he faltered sideways, catching himself on the arm of a nearby row of seating, the faux leather upholstery cool against his palm.
His gaze darted around the desolate departure lounge, searching for something—anything—to give him an indication of what was happening. He spotted a sign above a raised counter. The letters swirled in and out of focus before snapping into sharp, alarming clarity: SFO Gate 34.
San Francisco? The thought was so absurd that he let out a muffled laugh, disturbing the quiet space. Surely it was a mistake. He was in Port Raven, Washington State, more than eight hundred miles north of Frisco.
He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again, he would be back in his dining room where he’d been moments ago, but when he allowed himself a peek, nothing had changed. His chest tightened, each breath becoming a painful, conscious effort. Sweat gathered along his hairline and down his back, despite the chill of the air conditioning.
Morley fumbled at his wrist, counting his pulse. The steady thrum beneath his fingertips was fast, but not dangerously so. One-ten at most.
He patted himself down, a part of him still expecting to find evidence that this was all some elaborate hoax. His clothes felt right—the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, the slight give of his dark grey slacks. His modest, Swiss-made watch remained a reassuring presence around his wrist. He wished he could say the same of his other possessions, but his pockets were empty. No wallet. No keys. No phone.
Morley sank onto a chair and let out a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob when he looked down at his feet. There, incongruous against the airport’s industrial carpet, were his favorite tan moccasin slippers. The ones he’d been wearing at home, mere moments ago as he sat at his dining room table.
“Well, at least I’m fully clothed,” he muttered, remembering a string of med school anxiety dreams where he’d shown up to exams as naked as the day he’d slid into the world. This had to be the same thing. A dream. A very vivid, very off-putting dream. But even as he thought it, Morley knew it wasn’t true. The dim lounge, the distinct smell of jet fuel, the lingering ache where he’d landed on his back—it was all too visceral to be a product of his sleeping mind.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another. Panic wouldn’t help. He needed to think, to observe. He scanned the lounge again, his doctor’s instinct for detail asserting itself despite the surreal circumstances.
He observed a young man he hadn’t noticed before tucked into a dark corner, eyes closed, white electronic cords snaking from his ears down to…was that an iPod in his hand? Morley shook his head, sure he’d been mistaken. He hadn’t seen one of those ancient devices in years.
At the far end of the lounge, a janitor pushed a floor polisher in slow circles. The machine’s low drone and the scent of lemon-fresh cleaner created a bizarrely ordinary counterpoint to Morley’s internal chaos.
Neither person seemed to have noticed Morley’s sudden appearance. Small mercies, he supposed, though the thought did little to quell the riot of questions in his mind. How had he gotten here? Why was he here? And most pressingly—how the hell was he going to get back?
As Morley’s mind reeled, a memory surfaced—oddly mundane amidst his swirling thoughts. His friendly neighborhood bartender, Syd, always eager to discuss her latest TV obsession. What was that speculative fiction show she’d convinced him to watch? Dark Mirror? He’d finally caved and started the series, but after a few episodes of tech-driven nightmares and alternate realities gone wrong, he’d abandoned it. Too bleak, he’d told Syd, preferring the relaxed escape of travel and cooking shows.
Now, standing in this impossible airport in his unpressed designer clothes and suede slippers, Morley let out a bitter laugh. If this was the universe’s way of telling him he should have stuck with Syd’s show—Black Mirror, he remembered now—it had one hell of a sense of humor. He promised himself to forego his adventures with the late, great Anthony Bourdain when he got back home and give it another shot. That was, if he ever made it home.
The implications of his precarious state crashed around him in waves: no money for food or shelter, no ID to prove his identity, no way to contact anyone for help. But who would he call?
With a vague worry that he might actually be dead and had been relegated to angel- or ghost-status, he made his way to the nearest washrooms and shuffled up to the nearest sink. Relief surged through him when his own face in the mirror stared back, undeniably real, without a hint of translucence or ethereal quality.
“Lucky me. Seems I’m not some sad ghost stuck in an airport for eternity.” He laughed at the thought, musing that if he were indeed doomed to haunt such a place, he’d have preferred the world-class Changi Airport in Singapore.
Morley fumbled with the buttons on his shirt cuffs, finally releasing them and rolling up his sleeves. The soft, expensive fabric now felt like a mockery to his hopeless state. No amount of savings or investments or his obscenely high credit limit could help him now. He was at ground zero.
Leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water on his face, savoring the shock of it as rivulets ran down his jaw and dampened the collar of his shirt.
“Wake up,” he murmured, yanking three paper towels from the dispenser, blotting his collar and drying his hands. “Come on, man. Wake up.”
The sudden sound of a toilet flushing made Morley jump. He considered running out, but a moment later, a middle-aged man in similarly rumpled business attire emerged from a stall. A kindred spirit, Morley thought, wondering if the man had traveled eight hundred miles in the blink of an eye like he had. The urge to ask him subsided when the man carefully avoided eye contact, all but proving he was not a time traveler but just a regular airline passenger doing his best not to engage with the man wearing bedroom slippers and talking to himself. The poor fellow quickly washed his hands and rushed out, leaving Morley feeling oddly exposed, if not more than a little surprised that his thoughts had ventured to time travel as an explanation for his predicament.
Shaking his head at the absurdity of the thought, Morley reached up to adjust his tie—a habit ingrained over years of professional life. But it wasn’t there. Instead, his fingers brushed against something else: his silver dragonfly talisman hanging on the outside of his shirt. No bigger than a quarter, the pendant nonetheless commanded attention. Its delicate, feminine design was an unusual accessory for a man, but Morley wore it next to his heart for a reason. The talisman had belonged to his beautiful wife, Collette, before she’d passed away four years ago. She’d rarely taken it off during all their years together, and when Morley inherited the piece, he vowed to continue wearing it to keep Collette’s memory alive.
He tucked it back into his shirt, frowning, certain he’d put a tie on that morning; it was as if it had simply vanished during his unexpected journey, alongside his wallet and phone.
Refastening his sleeve buttons, he steeled himself for whatever lay beyond the door to the departure lounge. Of course, he was hoping that by some fantastical portal-hopping, time-bending miracle, he would step right back into the comforting sanctuary of his Port Raven condo. He took a breath and held it, then exited the washroom.
Regretfully, the surreal world of the San Francisco International Airport remained exactly as he’d left it.
With increasingly frayed nerves, he decided he needed to move, to walk, to do something other than spiral into a full-on anxiety attack. Not that he was prone to such things. In fact, his patients’ parents often commented on his unflappable nature, keeping his cool during a child’s biggest tantrum.
This time, however, keeping a level head felt nearly impossible. As he set off down the concourse, he reflected on his activities right before he’d been thrust into this bizarre realm, wondering what could’ve triggered it. But everything had been quite normal. He’d been sitting at his dining room table, rifling through an old photo album for a specific picture of his late wife, Collette. The photo in question showed her standing next to the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, smiling from ear to ear. His dear Collette, a quantum physicist who had known all about the mysteries of the universe but not how to beat the ruthless disease that had taken her away from him.
The local TV news station had requested the photo last Thursday. They were running a piece celebrating the recent tenth anniversary of the Large Hadron Collider’s first operational run, and they wanted to mention the local connection—Collette having been present for the big event in 2008. Morley had been planning to drop off the photo on his way into the clinic today, but he’d taken a detour to San Francisco instead. Could the photo of the Collider be connected to this detour?
Dismissing it as pure coincidence (how could a photograph cause someone to traverse timelines?), he came across one of several flight-status boards distributed throughout Terminal 1. The time indicated it was seventeen minutes past midnight. Morley chewed nervously at his bottom lip, knowing that in the world he’d left behind—wherever that was now—it was just after six a.m. He stole a quick glance at his watch, its second hand ticking along oblivious, it seemed, to Morley’s grave situation. The time showed 6:20.
As he continued his restless walk, thinking about the actions he might take, a vague memory about the San Francisco Airport came to him: fountains. He was sure he’d seen several of them scattered throughout the terminal, and they’d been littered with tossed coins. A potential source of cash that he knew would eventually be critical, if he could muster the courage to wade in and fish them out. Wasn’t there one in the Baggage Claim area, near the currency exchange kiosk? Or was it a completely different airport altogether? It hardly mattered. The image of a respected pediatrician scrabbling for loose change in a public fountain was too humiliating to contemplate.
No, better to wait until the airport got busier so he could ask strangers for a handout. Surely someone would take pity on a man down on his luck. The thought made him shudder with shame, but desperation has a funny way of overriding pride. With no credit card to fund his journey back home—or hell, to even buy a simple cup of coffee—gaining access to some good old-fashioned cash was his only hope.
So, he’d decided. He would find a comfortable spot to sit and wait for the airport to fill up. He’d rely upon the kindness of strangers to help out a tall, reasonably handsome, fit-looking forty-eight-year-old man with a sprinkle of gray at his temples. He would flash a sheepish, dimpled smile and tell them he’d lost his wallet then point to his moccasins and explain that his luggage had been mistakenly sent to Tokyo, and wouldn’t you know it, his dress shoes had been packed in it. He would further win their pity by telling them that he was due at his father’s funeral in a few hours and needed proper dress shoes and a suit jacket.
There. He had a plan.
Morley always functioned better with a well-thought-out strategy in place.
He sank into a chair with a view of the tarmac, picking up a discarded celebrity gossip magazine that someone had left behind. Flipping through the pages, he scanned the content distractedly. Something about the Jonas Brothers’ purity rings. An article dissecting the latest “Brangelina” drama. A spread on the Beijing Olympics, featuring Michael Phelps’ record-breaking medal haul. The reference to the Beijing Olympics, however, did raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Those Games occurred, what? Ten years ago?
Morley closed the magazine and eyed the date on the cover. Indeed, it showed August 2008. He snorted quietly, thinking, apparently the doctor’s office isn’t the only place a person can read stale magazines.
He tossed the publication aside.
What seemed like a moment later, Morley jolted to attention, his head snapping up so quickly it sent a shock of pain down his neck. He blinked, disoriented, surprised to find that he’d fallen asleep, and then realizing with dread that he hadn’t been dreaming. He was still in the airport. A nearby flight status board glowed accusingly: 5:03 a.m.. Had he really slept for over four hours? Or was it another crazy trick of time? Whatever it had been, the number of flights listed on the board had more than doubled, and the lounge had come to life with travelers rushing here and there.
His stomach growled, reminding him that in his own timeline, he’d only enjoyed a half a cup of coffee before the universe had yanked him into this strange realm, and the thought of how he might acquire a meal, or even a granola bar, brought his situation back into focus. He needed cash.
Begrudgingly, he made his way towards the Baggage Claim area, each step feeling like an assault on his dignity, his very sense of self. The thought of begging for money made him nauseous, but what choice did he have? Setting his dignity aside, he caught the attention of an elderly man pushing a cart of expensive luggage toward the exit, his wife keeping pace next to him.
“Excuse me,” Morley began, hating the desperation in his voice. “I’ve lost my wallet. Could you spare anything?”
The tired-looking man dressed in khakis and a yellow cardigan ignored him and carried on, but the woman barely hesitated in pulling out her wallet and handing him a twenty-dollar bill. He didn’t even have to bring up the lie about his father’s funeral.
“It happens to the best of us, dear. I hope you find your wallet.”
“Me too. You can’t imagine what an inconvenience it is.”
Over the next hour, Morley repeated his plea countless times. Some ignored him, others offered sympathetic smiles and loose change. A few were more generous. By the time he’d circled the area twice, he’d collected a handful of donations in currencies he wouldn’t be able to use as well as ninety-two dollars US—a pitiful sum considering the cost to his self-respect.
As he pocketed a crumpled five-dollar bill from a harried-looking businessman, he heard his name being called out behind him, sending a wave of dread to his core.
“Dr. Scott?”
He turned to see an elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman hurrying towards him, her face alight with recognition. Morley hoped she hadn’t witnessed his begging.
“I’m sorry, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Sarah Duncan. You cared for my son, Jeremiah, oh, ten years ago now?”
The name hit Morley like a truck. Yes, remembered Jeremiah: a bright-eyed little fellow with Down Syndrome, always quick with a smile and a story about his pet hamster. The boy’s name was particularly unforgettable because he shared it with Morley’s grandfather.
“Of course, Mrs. Duncan. How is Jeremiah?”
As she updated him on her son’s accomplishments, she fussed in her purse, eventually pulling out a phone. Morley knew what was coming next because he’d been in this position before, and he had no desire to sit through dozens of photos of his former patient. But Mrs. Duncan didn’t even turn her phone on. Instead, she reached over and pressed something into Morley’s hand, her eyes full of warmth and gratitude. Morley looked down, seeing a hundred-dollar bill folded into neat thirds. He opened his mouth to protest, but the knowing look in Mrs. Duncan’s eyes silenced him. She’d obviously seen him collecting money and wanted to help.
“Thank you for everything you did for us. You’re one of the good guys.”
“I…oh. I—”
She patted his arm. “It’s just really good to see you. I hope everything works out,” she said before hurrying off.
When she had disappeared into the crowd, Morley unrolled the cash in his hand, discovering not one but two crisp hundred-dollar bills. It was a lot more than he’d hoped for but it still wasn’t much, considering he had no idea how long he would be visiting the fine city of San Francisco.
Want to find out if Morley gets back to his natural time…or if he’s doomed to roam the streets of San Francisco in his bedroom slippers forever more? Sign up to MJ’s Cabin Crew, a monthly newsletter packed with exclusive benefits:
• Be the first to know the official release date of TALISMAN (coming fall 2024!)
• Get exclusive behind-the-scenes peeks into the TimeBlink universe
• Enjoy early access to new releases and special offers
• Participate in quizzes, surveys, and even contests to win TimeBlink-related prizes including your very own Dragonfly Talisman!
Join now and stay on the cutting edge of all things TimeBlink. Don’t miss out on upcoming adventures and the chance to dive deeper into Morley’s origin story.
At any rate, be sure to let me know if you enjoyed this sneak peek at TALISMAN (or to point out any issues you may have come across). I respond to all my readers’ comments.
Copyright © 2024 by MJ Mumford. All rights reserved. This material is copyrighted and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used in any manner without explicit permission from the author.
