Lackadaisy: The Mixologist and Baker

The Diary of Quinn

Diary Entry #1

Date of Entry: April 23rd, 1927.

Submitted by: Eleanor 'Quinn' Morana Carter.

Recovered by: The National Museum of Natural History in Washington, DC.

Recovery Date: December 13th, 2019.

Dear Diary,

It's that day again. Five years ago from today was the day I was sent to the Prohibition Era, in St. Louis, Missouri, and have not found a way back to the present time, or the future in this case...

I never should've trusted that 'dream specialist', or hypnotherapist, whom sent me here in the first place! Don't get me wrong, I've made some good friends and got adopted by a good couple, but there are times that I wish I could see my real family again and tell them that I love them.

I feel like I should explain my story, in case someone finds this diary and has the kindness to read this entry and keep it in my memory.

Let me start with who I am... My name is Eleanor Morana Cater, but my friends call me 'Quinn' as a nickname, while my family call me 'Ellie' or 'Elle'. I know this is hard to believe, due to the date on this entry, but I was originally born in August 2nd, 1992, in the small harbor town of Gosport, Hampshire, England. But I grew up half my life, before the incident, in another small town, called Newark-on-Trent. God, I miss the smell of the water...

Let me explain the incident that lead me to my predicament. I still remember it like it was yesterday, though it was countless moons ago. I was only 13 years old at the time, and I was having trouble sleeping, due to suffering from night terrors. The type that you wake up screaming from, and never go back to sleep, afraid that they might come back.

It was a few months before my 14th birthday... Around April 23rd, when my mother appointed me to a dream specialist to help with better understanding these night terrors. I never trusted specialists, but that was because during my childhood, they called my mother every name under the sun for thinking I had autism, until I was diagnosed at 9 years old. But my family was running out of options and they tried everything we could afford, so we tried a dream specialist. Boy, was that a load of rubbish...

Now, I'll be honest, I've never trusted therapists as much as I can throw them, because in my experience they just cared about the money. They say they listen, but half the time they're just doodling in their clipboards, but that's just my opinion, because I have trust issues and came from a rough childhood. I'm sure there are therapists that do listen and understand what's going on.

So my mother and I went to see the dream specialist, Dr. Simon Kross, I believe his name was. We started with introductions and my mother explaining the night terrors and my disabilities, such as the autism I explained before, and social anxiety. Dr. Kross assured my mother that he'll have everything examined and sorted out before our appointment was over, then he escorted my mother out of the room, leaving me alone with him.

I told Dr. Kross about my night terrors from my perspective and he told me to lay down on the sofa and relax. As I relaxed and closed my eyes, I listened to his voice, his tone, his words, as I drifted off to sleep. Then he started repeating some words that I remember clear as day...

"You are not here. None of this is real."

I was expecting my night terrors to scare me awake again, but I woke up to the sound of a nearby train. I found myself in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar cityscape, almost soaked to the bone.

Was I sleepwalking? Have I been out in the rain? When did it start raining? Was it raining? Where am I? Where are Mum and Steve? Where's Dr. Kross? How long was I out for?

All these questions swimming in my clouded mind, and no one to answer...

Once I cleared the clouds in my mind, I found that I was in a hospital, laying in a hospital bed with a towel over my shoulders, but I wasn't in England. The accent of the people passing the room and the building was different from my accent and my step-father's Yorkie accent. It wasn't Cockney, like my mother's. It wasn't Scottish either. I've heard this accent from many cartoons from my childhood.

It was American.

But how was that possible? Did my family immigrate while I was out-cold? Did Dr. Kross send me here? Have I been kidnapped?

During my confusion, I was visited by two unfamiliar characters. Their names were Atlas and Mitzi May, they found me a few days ago, wondering the streets, in the rain, mumbling the same words Dr. Kross said during my trance, then I collapsed into a puddle on the street. Mrs. May couldn't leave me in the streets, in the middle of a thunderstorm, so she and her husband took me to the nearest hospital in St. Louis.

With the information Mrs. May told me, and judging by her and Mr. May's fashion, I came to the conclusion that I was somehow able to time-travel to April 23rd, 1922 in St. Louis, Missouri. The date remained the same, but the year and location have changed from what I remembered.

I'll admit, I was freaking out about this wave of information and realization, so my mental state was going overdrive and I started to believe that I was dreaming and I needed to wake up. So I closed my eyes, pinched myself in the arm as hard as I could and opened my eyes. Nothing changed, and Mr and Mrs. May were looking at me with confusion and worry clear on their faces.

Realization hit me like a brick to the head. I just experienced pain and I'm still in hospital in St. Louis, in the year 1922. That means I'm not dreaming and Dr. Kross' experiment worked like a charm. Finally, anger and sadness surfaced from my emotions. I was angry because of what Dr. Kross has done to me and the fact that he lied about being a dream specialist. And I was sad because that means I'll never see my family again, and I haven't been able to tell them that I loved them.

Mr. May calmed me down and asked me my name and where I was from. I gave him my answer as honest as I can. The looks on their faces confused me, Mr and Mrs. May looked shocked and sad, I didn't understand why. They looked at me again and said that a few days ago, there was a terrible fire outside of St. Louis and there was only one survivor; The 13-year-old daughter that shared my name.

Seeing nowhere else to go and trapped in the past, Mr. and Mrs. May offered to adopt me as their own. I didn't understand why, but I felt like I could trust them, they were nice enough to tell me what happened and I sensed no hidden agenders from them. So I agreed.

I've been with Mr and Mrs. May ever since....

(The rest of the journal entry has been watered and burnt out due to years of wear and tear. The last thing that remained was at the bottom of the page were the writer's initials.)

E.M Carter.