A tragic accident had separated adolescent lovers, Haskell and Jennifer twenty years earlier. Now a second tragedy has reunited them, but in a far different world from the one they were accustomed to. For one thing, they are unable to open doors or alter objects in any way, yet a creature as small as a blue bottle fly can manhandle them. And they now can see dead people. They will discover that, in this new universe, time--like space--is multi-dimensional, and that they are able to move through time as easily as through space. They will also discover that (consistent with the many worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics) there are a nearly infinite number of time streams lying side by side and above and below and all around the one they occupy. As time streams constantly divide and diverge in this universe, anything that can possibly happen can't possibly not happen somewhere in multi-dimensional time.
About the Author: I was born Earl Carlson, by the light of a kerosene lamp in a small logging community in northern Minnesota, just fifty miles up a dirt road from the nearest public library. During the school year, I had access to a number of books judged suitable for students, and a drug store in the next town carried paperback novels - usually twenty five cents a copy. So I had access to Drums Along the Mohawk and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, even The Grapes of Wrath. And I had a subscription to Boys' Life (to which, at the age of twelve, I submitted my first story, handwritten in a spiral notebook). But I didn't discover Dostoevsky, Henry James, Lafcadio Hearne and Aldous Huxley until I ventured out into the wider world. Among my many missteps and misadventures: *my first attempt at higher learning was aborted after one semester at the University of Illinois; *I held the exalted rank of pfc in the army for nearly two weeks before I got busted back down to private; and *I spent the spring, summer and much of the fall of 1960 as a hobo-in-training, At the age of 38, I finally received a bachelors degree from the University of Minnesota with a 3.65 average by which time I had exhausted my GI Bill benefits. So I sought solace in a number of menial and demeaning jobs, and eventually I secured a civil service position in which I grew fat and lazy. Over the years, I beat the living hell out of several secondhand typewriters, none of which seemed capable of completing an error-free page. But it wasn't until I bought my first computer, in 1988, that I was able to produce a finished product. For a time, I wrote a humorous newsletter for an organization called the Society of Dirty Old Men, which we hoped would make us all filthy rich selling tee-shirts and souvenirs to college students. Following the demise of that brave new venture, I turned to writing short stories, and I have managed to accumulate a truly impressive collection of rejection slips. In fact, I believe I have spent more on postage than I will ever receive in payment for my work. Since I adopted the pen name, Harley Staggars, my short stories have appeared in several periodicals, both print and digital media, and I have published two short story collections under my real name. I'm still waiting for a response from Boys' Life.