(July 6th-9th, 2022)

Talk to your younger self…

Time-Traveling Telegram

A tiny girl walked nervously toward the squat, gray building on the intersection of Jr. Batallón
Callao Sur and Caminos del Inca. Parents on either side, she crossed the street and reached the line of
people snaking from the open glass doors of the Serpost post office and continuing around the block and
back. It was another traditionally cold Lima morning, the air still heavy with stubborn mist that refused to
dissipate. She shivered, inching closer to her father’s giant coat as they made their way to the end of the
line. Nervously, she played with her yellow ID card as a gust of wind slapped her hair into her face.
“What do you think your message will read?” She asked her mother, a tall woman with curly hair
that burst out of her head like fireworks. “Do you think you’ll cry? Or maybe you just wasted it on stocks
or something stupid like that.”
Her mother just laughed. “You know we weren’t allowed to talk about that,” she said lightly.
“What do you think you sent yourself?”
The little girl scrunched up her nose, annoyed at having her own question thrown back at her. “I
don’t know,” she said. “But I bet it’s something awesome! It’s probably better than yours, anyway.”
Both her parents shared a chuckle. “You never answered my question though!” The girl sulkily
kicked her feet on the cold pavement of the sidewalk.
“Well, I don’t know sweetie! I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” Her mother said.
Frustrated, the girl turned to her father. “What about you then?”
“I don’t know,” he said absentmindedly, sizing up big camera that the man in front of them had
slung across his back. “Something short, probably.”
“Then how do you think this works? To send yourself a message in the past…”
Both her parents sighed at the familiar question, preparing for a rather long line to the post office.
The trio continued to wait in the cold, the girl’s endless questions peppering their trudge down the street.
Along the cracked road, a newspaper was dragged along by the relentless wind. Its headline was the same
one that had been circling news stations all month:

‘NEW GOVERNMENT DRIVE IS DISTRIBUTING PERSONAL

TELEGRAMS FROM THE FUTURE

Citizens are urged to report to their local post office when alerted by authorities
that their respective telegram has been located. Each citizen has been allowed
only one message to their younger selves.’

There’d been a new scientific discovery that allowed people to send a single telegram back to the
past. Along the slew of people that Sunday morning, a trickle of excitement sparked as they drew closer.
Closer to a glimpse of who they might become in ten years. Once they crossed the building’s glass doors,
the little girl quietened, her words stolen by the weight of the near future. Something was about to happen,
she could feel it. Something magical.
 They sat in the crisp plastic chairs that lined the waiting room, the girl restlessly swinging her
legs back and forth. One by one they were called in by the kind-looking lady who sat at the reception
desk. First, her mother, who wordlessly stood up and walked toward the other room. She came out
minutes later, clutching a crumpled piece of paper that was already dotted with tears. She sat down,
clutching the little girl tightly in her arms.
Her father was next. He squeezed her shoulder before standing up and making his way to the
door. He came out with a similar crumpled paper and sat down. Only his slightly unfocused eyes and
furrowed brow indicated how far his mind had wandered, processing what he had just read.
Finally, they called her. She lept up, giggled nervously, and ran towards the office within. A
young, tired-looking woman sat behind a computer screen, typing. “ID please,” she said, without looking
up. The little girl reached up and handed the woman her yellow ID card. The woman typed a couple of
words into her keyboard and returned the card. “Thank you!” the little girl said.
The woman leaned over to the side and brought up a crisp piece of paper. To her disappointment,
the little girl saw it was not her message. “I need you to sign here and here, so we know you’ve already
received your telegram,” said the woman. The little girl clutched the provided pen and scrawled her name
in lopsided print. “Perfect,” said the woman. She flipped through some folders and drew out a crumpled
paper. “Here you go, you’re free to take it home if you wish.”
The little girl could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She cautiously took the paper. Her
seven-year-old eyes scrambled across the page, stumbling over the fading ink of the words.

TIME-TRAVEL COMMUNICATIONS
- TELEGRAM -
All civilian time-travel telegrams have been redacted to prevent the spread of dangerous information pertaining to the future.

ANA CAROLINA LAU CIGÜEÑAS

07/09/2022

DEAR ME -(STOP)- I EXPECT YOU ARE TEEMING WITH EXCITEMENT JUST

ABOUT NOW -(STOP)- UNFORTUNATELY, THAT EXCITEMENT WILL BE
SHORTLIVED -(STOP)- I AM IN A POSITION WHERE I CANNOT FACE YOU FOR I
KNOW THAT I HAVE LET YOU DOWN -(STOP)- PERHAPS IN THE FUTURE THIS
WILL NOT BE THE CASE -(STOP)-

THIS IS ALSO RIDCULSLY EXPNSVE -(STOP)-

FUTR U