by Ryan Lawless
“Get back here, culprit!”
“Stop! Thief!”
“Get him!”
The shouts fueled Oliver Twist’s swift pace as he raced through the narrow, unfamiliar alleys that crammed London’s heart. “Get him! He stole my handkerchief,” the old gentleman yelled.
The gentleman’s handkerchief had, indeed, been stolen. Oliver was innocent, though— confused for being the cunning Artful Dodger. But without proof, he carried on in escape. As his weak legs began to tire, an odd man appeared beside him, effortlessly maintaining the boy’s quick pace. “Hello,” the stranger said with a big smile, “I’m going to help you!” His face was warm and inviting; Oliver trusted him.
“Who are you?”
“Don’t worry about it. Follow me!” He grabbed Oliver’s hand and led him forward.
They made a sharp left into a dark passage that Oliver hadn’t noticed. Remaining quiet as the unsuspecting pursuers rushed by, the pair found themselves in safety.
“Lovely!” The newcomer seemed amused. He flashed a wise, confident smile. His cheeriness bothered Oliver who had never met someone so peculiar and lively. “Don’t you love when everything goes according to plan?” Oliver nodded in approval. He now got a closer look at the man: he wore a brightly colored suit with a red bow tied around his neck. His hair was brushed at an odd angle. He looked at Oliver in a very unique way—he stared intensely into Oliver’s eyes when he spoke, as if genuinely interested by what he had to say and aware of an inner potential that Oliver had never known.
“Come along, then,” he said.
Bewildered by the oddity of the situation, Oliver obediently trailed behind the man, down a mucky road. At the end stood a large blue box, into which the man stepped. Oliver followed. It was bigger on the inside.
“Sir. W-what. How is—”
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Hungry?”
Oliver’s desperate eyes rendered an answer unnecessary: his companion quickly laid out a full feast. It was similar to the food that Oliver’s masters used to eat on Sundays. But this was for him alone. Delighted, his weak eyes watered. He hastily shoveled handfuls of food into his small mouth. As he ate, the blue box started to make a series of strange noises.
Stepping outside, the man wearing the red bow said, “Come out here when you finish. Take your time.”
Oliver left the box after sucking on the last chicken bone and licking his dirt-covered fingers. He was at the end of the same road, but in a new world. The muck was gone. He emerged into a wide space filled with strangely dressed men and women, massive buildings, and roaring metal contraptions. He covered his ears in attempt to block out the noise that drowned his ears in a relentless buzz. His senses overwhelmed, Oliver ran off in search of the man who took him here.
St. John’s street was unrecognizable, but vaguely similar: Oliver only recognized the general layout and exposed cobblestoned path. Following it, he turned into a familiar alley. To his surprise, it did not reek of urine as usual. At the other end, he saw St. John’s Gate. But something was off: people were talking to themselves, with their hands pressed to their ears—as if talking into their hands. A metal beast charged toward Oliver and he dodged its path just before being crushed flat. There was noise everywhere: it made him cringe. The shining buildings stung Oliver’s eyes with a harsh light. Overcome, Oliver collapsed onto the ground in a heap. This was not the London he knew: it was a ghost of the city he had just been running through a few hours earlier. It was the same, but it was different. It was a hellish alternate universe.
“Get up! What do you think?” The man had found Oliver and helped him up.
“What is this place?”
“Welcome to London. 2013. Want to see some more?”
rtlawless 