The Shimmer Oak, a Time Warden

Three men, each with a purpose, meet under the majesty of a longstanding grandfather oak.

1825: Steven Mann, Cass County ……………………………………………….

I wiped the sweat burning my eyes on my sleeve while taking a break from digging my new cistern. I thought I had chosen the spot badly as the nearby tree roots continued to plague my efforts, coiling like huge pythons through the sand and strange colored clay at my homestead~~ clung to my shovel~~. The tree’s shade feels heavy, almost like it’s breathing. I stood there eyeing the new sign by the road, my father’s name embossed in the bronze. A clap of thunder exploded behind me. A bubble of glowing soup surrounded me, as silver-grey sparkles clung to every nearby metal edge. This shimmering hoar-frost even made the buttons on my shirt vibrate.

To the right, in what was the scuff, I planned to build my carriage house. The building appeared as if by magic. As the fog faded, a man appeared. His clothes gleamed like quicksilver. He’s got gray hair, frantic eyes, and a glowing box in his hand.

“Steven Mann!” he shouts, waving a book and what looks like a metal bar that shows it undeniably shines. The man extends his hands. “Quickly, take these. Give them to Joey, over there, any second now!”

I squint, my shovel steady. “You’re mad, stranger. Joey who?” But that—Lord, it looks heavy, worth a lifetime if it is what I think?
“No time to explain, do as I ask; it is yours.” The man opened a folded paper, turned it twice, then, peeking over the top of the handmade map, he pointed to a spot twenty feet south of us. “Joey’ll be there. Hurry!” the man held out the book and the shiny bar.

The book’s slick, its letters glowing like coals. I tried to take it, but it would not pass through the glowing energy around us.

The man’s face crinkles as if punched before it opens into a wide-eyed expression. “The transfer requires balance… quick, trade me your shovel, and anything else you have free.”
I passed the man my tools, shirt, and sharpening file as he handed me the book and bar. The air exploded again, and the silver-blue shimmer renewed around the oak, rippling like water. My skin prickles, the air buzzing. I grab the book and gold, hooked by the bar’s weight. The shimmer pulses, and a figure flickers near the spot the stranger had pointed. It crosses the light, the oak’s hum courses in my bones. When I opened my eyes again, a new man stared at me as if I were a demon from Sheol.

2025: Joey Clark, Mann Road, Bartow ………………………………………….

I’m sipping coffee on my porch when lightning slammed in the tall reaches of the nearby grandfather oak, a silver-blue shimmer flares. A man stumbles out from nowhere, shirtless, mud-caked, and wild-eyed. He’s in pioneer clothes—like he’s from a time capsule. My heart skips, the oak’s veil glowing in the morning sun.

“Who are you?” I growl, clutching my new shovel, its shiny blade from the hardware store. I’m seventy-two, too old for this. The oaks’ always been weird—compasses spin, dogs bolt—but this is unreal.

“Steven Mann,” he says, voice trembling. He holds a glossy book like a relic. “A stranger said to find someone named Joey. You him?”

My name hits like a punch. “Who are you! Where are you from?” I step closer, the shimmer humming. He mutters, gawking at my concrete driveway, garage, and paved road like magic. “This was my house, at least in 1825 it was.”

I scoff, but my pulse hammers. The shimmer flares again, brighter, a plane between us. Steven thrusts the book. “For you. He said there was little time to talk and said, “From Arlo, it will answer all. You must trade, or I can’t pass it through.” And Steven held out his empty hand.

I hesitate, then toss him my new shovel, rake, and hoe. “Okay, here, Trade,” I grunt, grabbing the book.

The garden tools cross the shimmer, and the light collapses with a pop. Steven’s gone, I’m alone, holding the book. My hands shake as I open the old manuscript to its first page. Oh, there… the last thing I ever expected to read. “Hello Papa!”


2225: Arlo Clark Jr., 1310 Mann East Mann Road ……………………………………..

My drone hovers above the grandfather oak, its roots sprawling under Bartow’s eco-dome at 1310 E. Mann Road. The city’s a neon maze—hovercars, AI spires—but this 800-year-old tree stands fierce. My great-grandfather Joey’s journals, glowing on my holo-pad, haunt me. He met Steven Mann in 2025, saw a shimmering portal. I’ve spent my life, my money, chasing that moment. A hundred tries, all failures.

My platinum-titanium-graphene electrode, powered by 2225 generators, can’t sync with 2025’s polarity. The oak’s roots, laced with phosphate from Bartow’s mines, conduct temporal energy, tied to a lightning strike Joey noted in 2025. I’ve cracked it: open the portal seconds before Joey’s time, then again moments later.

I haul my treasures to the oak—a book on temporal mechanics, etched with my name, and Joey’s sketch of the shimmer’s layout. My generators hum, wired to the oak’s trunk via the electrode, its nano-wires pulsing. I sync to the 2025 strike’s echo, stored in the oak’s roots.

The tree shimmers silver-blue, a rippling veil. I step in, book, gold, and sketch in hand. The world twists, and I’m in 1825, mud underfoot, the oak younger but mighty.

Steven stares, shovel raised. “Steven Mann!” I shout, heart racing. “Take these for Joey, over there—” I point to a spot left of the oak, per Joey’s sketch, “—he’ll appear any second. The portal closes when they cross the shimmer. Hurry!” He squints, but the gold glints, hooking him. I push the book and the gold.

Steven grabs them, tossing me his shovel and other tools. They cross the shimmer, as we exchange items, the light snaps shut, yanking me back to 2225. My generators whir, and I open a second portal, timed to Joey’s 2025 moment. It’s empty—Steven’s already jumped.

I collapse, the oak quiet, the electrode dim. My holo-pad shows Joey’s journal—mentions of a book, from Steven. My book. I never reached Joey, but the loop’s closed. The world was safe. I pat the oak’s bark. “Good job, old man,” I murmur. The generators hum in the background as I open Papa’s notes. Now, its last pages read anew, “Arlo, we only need to solve the relative paradoxical issues…PS, that’s why I didn’t tell your Papa Dan. The last strike was 18:36:17.13 EDT, see you soon.”

Author's notes: ▼

Written for "The Writer's Cramp"  05-20-2025 Write a story or poem in which the main character has time-traveled from 1825 to 2025. Why are they here? Who do they interact with, and what happens?---1000 words, not counting titles, authors' notes, pictures, and formatting.