Skip to content


Spots of time!” shouts Wordsworth triumphantly, leaping from a hole in the continuum.

“W-Wordsworth?” gasps Dylan Thomas, struggling up from his hospital bed. “Impossible!”

“Nay; just possible enough,” he replies grimly. “Enough to end your insipid little career before you can be named Laureate and ruin the office–my office–forever!” He grabs a pillow.

“I can’t fight you off in this condition,” manages Thomas. “But lest I go gentle–grant me one request?”


“Promise,” he whispers, “you’ll go back and kill Aphra Behn next.”

“Sorry,” says Wordsworth, mashing pillow to face. “I need her to give Shakespeare syphillis.”

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License.