Mr. Jones was a musician and a new-found celebrity. He was also an art collector. e loved all eras of art, but he was always intrigued the most by Vincent Van Gogh. Jones felt bad for him because the artist’s work was not recognized in his lifetime.

The rock star was grateful his music was well known and popular in his own lifetime. But not his art, which he kept private.How sad to think Van Gogh’s brilliant artwork would be worth millions after he was dead, but was financially useless to him in his life.

Jones stared at a replica he had of Van Gogh’s Starry Starry Night. He got lost in the wild stars set against the vibrant blue skies in the swirls of the clouds. He wanted to touch each brush stroke. How far out would it be if he could buy this painting? He could help the struggling painter and have one of Van Gogh’s masterpieces in his collection.
            Maybe he should use the rocket machine and meet Vincent. He hoped it wouldn’t screw things up time wise though, and laughed at himself for even thinking it would work at all.

Jones decided to go in it. “Why not?” he muttered to himself. The most that would happen is he’d feel like an idiot. He made his name by being different, so this wasn’t anything new.

Jones stepped into the sliver machine. He sat down in the seat and strapped himself in. He was more concerned about getting dizzy than anything else. On the dashboard were simple controls. A lever, a keypad to type in destination, and dials to set the year. He set it for June, 1889, and the location to Saint-Rémy, where he knew Van Gogh lived at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum.

Jones pulled the lever. Nothing happened. Where was the spinning? There was a bit of vibration, that was it. He unstrapped himself, muttering “Yep, a piece of rubbish! It’s creative, I’ll give ‘em that.”

He stepped out of the machine and to his amazement he was not in his house. He was surrounded by cedars, sunflowers and stars. It was a warm summer evening. Was he really in Saint-Remy? Did it work? It blew his mind. He looked around and could see what looked like an old monastery. On the lawn stood a man with his easel under a crescent moon. He would recognize the man anywhere. His self-portraits had gone down in history.

“Holy shit! It is Vincent Van Gogh!” said the excited musician. He quietly walked over to the artist. He stood behind him and cleared his throat to get his attention.

“Excuse me um, Mr. Van Gogh?” Jones asked.

The painter jumped back in his seat, startled by the presence of the stranger. He looked at him wordlessly, wide-eyed. His brush trembled in his hand.

“Oh. You surprised me, mijnheer,” said Van Gogh. 

“Terribly sorry,” said Jones. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I am just so excited to meet you.”

The artist looked at him, with one eyebrow raised in question. Jones got the impression the artist thought he was putting him on.

“I am sincere,” he gestured to the painting Vincent was working on. “May I?”

The artist motioned with his hand allowing the stranger to observe his work. Jones was amazed at how fresh and bright the colors were. The hues of deep blues and yellows shimmering in the radiant evening sky. The cedar trees in the starlight.

“Magnificent! I would like to purchase this, if I may?”

“The sad face of the artist transformed into a bright smile. “Zank you. It is 200 franz mijnheer.”

Jones eagerly pulled out 300 - pound notes and handed them to Van Gogh.

“I am sorry monsieur, I may be a poor artist, but I know these are not francs or pounds. It has this strange woman’s face on the bills. Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, no, I am so sorry. I had no idea I would actually meet you. I understand about you not wanting to take money from a strange Englishman.”

Vincent looked at his visitor closely. He took him to be poor man, with his odd clothes and fake money. He was tall, skinny, very skinny, with one pupil always large no matter what the light.

“If you sit for me, I will give you this painting, No one else wants to buy it anyway.”

“I’d love to!” exclaimed Jones. “By the way, where I come from your works are treasures.”

Van Gogh laughed a bit at that, not believing him, although appreciating the compliment. “Sit!”

He pulled up a nearby chair and motioned for Jones to sit. His guest did as he was told, and sat for the painter, who repositioned his easel to look at his subject and refresh his canvas.

Jones watched Van Gogh work with a keen eye as each brush was laden with rich color and abundant paint which was placed on the canvas with heavy brush strokes. The artist’s intense blue eyes sparkled almost as much as the stars with the delight at having a model to work with, which was a rare treat.

Van Gogh was nearly finished, but Jones was afraid he would run out of time and not be able to return. “I’m sorry Mr. Van Gogh, but I must leave,” Jones declared, sneaking a peak at the canvas.

The artist showed the painting to his subject and thanked him for being his model. "I still have to create the background, but I can finish that tomorrow." He smiled and patted Jones on the back. “Thank you Mijnheer.”  The artist handed the musician Starry, Starry, Night.

Jones was in heaven. He hugged the painter.

“You’ve no idea how much this means to me. I wish I could pay you, give you something in return.” He looked down at his wrist and realized he was wearing a gold watch. He took it off and handed it to the artist.

Van Gogh refused. “Too valuable for my humble work Mjinheer, I have never seen a timepiece on the wrist. How extraordinary! I insist, this is a gift to a man who appreciates my work and is your pay for sitting for me.”

He grasped Van Gogh’s hands in his then released them. Jones smiled looking into those cerulean eyes. “Thank you and Good bye Mr. Van Gogh, it was indeed a pleasure meeting you. Please take care,” said Jones as he carried his treasure back into his own time.

The artist waved and bid farewell.

Jones returned to his odd contraption and set the controls for March 3, 1970.

He was soon back in his home, but when he stepped out of the capsule the painting vanished. It did not transport through time. Jones was heartbroken.

As time went on in his life he wondered if it had just been a dream.

Years later Jones saw an exhibition of Van Gogh’s work and was shocked to see the painting Van Gogh had done of him that night.

Try to be less stupid, believe me, it's not that hard.”

That's what I'd say to my past self. Also, I'd say, “It's ok to not grow up to be Dracula.”

Who wouldn't want to be Dracula? Party all night, sleep all day, no real bills, no job, hot chicks all the time. I'd also tell myself, my former self, to ignore more tangents. Tangents of tangential lines bounce around my dysfunctional land mines. I would also explain to my former me self, that there's no Moon base. We still don't have super powers, or jet packs, or talking dinosaurs that greet us on our vacations to the Moon or Mars.

    I'd tell my former self who once was myself, that I don't remember meeting my former self, so it couldn't have happened, but maybe I'm the beginning of the time loop and I create a talking time machine, except I can't, because I can't even use a smart phone, so time travel is a little ahead of me, but I would tell my past self, we all need to make a better future for all of us.

She had sold a few scripts and worked on a bunch of different movies as re-writer. This was the best script she had ever written. Was this turkey face going to reject it, because Vincent had a sarcastic tone in his voice.

“Do you know why I like having these kinds of meetings in my home?” Vincent asked.

“But we're not in your home.” Deb said. What was Vincent talking about? He sounded like he was flaking out. They had worked together pretty good a couple of years ago on A list movie. They were in The Brown Derby, the best restaurant in this part of Hollywood. Why the Brown Derby was so well known for inventing a type of salad when they had such better dishes on the menu, Deb didn't know. What was wrong with Vincent?

Vincent shook his head. They were in his home in Portland. The coolest city on the East Coast.

“What's this movie about again?” Vincent asked her. He felt his concentration snapping. What was wrong with Deb?

“The script is a science fiction movie that's about things unraveling between two people. In the movie, it's as if the world is breaking down because the two people are falling apart as well,” Deb said.

Vincent stared out the window at the ocean.

Deb looked out the window of the restaurant.

I stood in awe looking at the old headstones as I navigated the cemetery, trying not to step on graves. Call it superstition, but I’d always heard you could “wake the dead” by stepping on their final resting place. Impossible to do when the stones are grouped so close together. It gave me chills. I didn’t want to be here, but I had promised to meet a friend so she could get some inspiration for her new blog on all things dark and creepy. And, I was testing out a new camera. 

Plus, we had both read a story in the local paper about a lost little girl ghost who was appearing all over town. Most often she’d been spotted in cemeteries or down by Mill Pond. Most of the sightings had been at dusk or later in the evening. So, I figured we’d be safe. It was still light out. I didn’t want to see a ghost, even if my friend Debbie did. So, here I was, traipsing around a cemetery on a cold day in early March. But now dark clouds were gathering, some rather ominous looking, and the wind was picking up. I’d been here for a while, freezing. And dusk was less than an hour away. Where was Debbie? Maybe she had car trouble again. Damn.

I walked uphill and stood between patches of snow, trying out different settings on my camera, but my fingers no longer worked. Gloves are of little use for photographers while trying to shoot, so I shut my camera off and put my gloves on as I continued checking out various stones. Some dated back to the 1700 hundreds. They were tall, thin and severely weathered in shades of gray and black. Others were covered in moss with a blueish patina, and some were coated in orange with dark circles as if by design. I had already gotten shots of these gems as I headed back downhill. That’s when I noticed entire families were buried here. One family in particular had five stones in a row. Two larger ones for the parents and three smaller ones for their children. All girls, the oldest child was only ten years old. These were from the late 1800s to the early 1900s. How sad. Debbie would be interested in this, if she ever arrived.
I wandered around a bit more and got off a few more shots before heading to my car. It was getting colder and darker. I’d give my friend a call once I got warm. She might have texted me, but I’d left my cell in the car with my purse. I only needed my keys and camera.  

 I was at the entry gate when I heard a voice. I turned and looked behind me. A little girl dressed in a summer frock was smiling up at me. What the. . .

“Who are you?” She asked in a small voice.

I stood and stared in disbelief. Something about her wasn’t right. “I. . . I’m Ella Mae. Who are you?”

“I’m Catherine Roberta Crock,” she sputtered, sounding more confident.

“Oh. . . Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” she said shaking her head. Her long blonde locks falling freely past her bare shoulders.

“Do you live around here?” For some reason the name sounded vaguely familiar.

“I used to, but I can’t find my house. I think it’s gone.”

I frowned in confusion. “Ah, well. What’s your address?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

She pointed across the street, her pale thin arm motioned toward the small church and past the houses that led to the pond.

“Oh, near Mill Pond?”

“Yes. It looks like all the houses are gone now replaced with new ones, taller ones. They look funny.”

“Oh, the townhomes,” I said. “Yes, they tore down the old mill houses and built the townhomes about ten years ago.”

“Oh. I think I saw them before. I’m not sure. My memory is fading.”
 And as she spoke, she too started to fade. That’s when I realized I had seen the name only moments before. I couldn’t believe it.

“Ah, come with me,” I said before she disappeared completely. From the corner of my eye, I saw Debbie pull into the parking lot. She’s not going to believe this, I thought.

The girl looked at me like she trusted me. If I could take her hand, I would. I looked up. “I think I know where you belong.”

Morning had broken, like the first morning. Like every morning.

“What a glorious day,” I said, as we walked the garden path.

“Uh huh,” Adam replied.

“What do you mean, uh huh? This is paradise.  There are no greener trees, hardier plants, more colorful blossoms, or clearer skies.”

“Same as every day,” he said.

“Exactly. We are so blessed!”

He abruptly changed the subject. “So what are you thinking for breakfast?”

I shot him a glare and pointed to the multitude of organic herbs and veggies I'd been tending. “You're perfectly capable of fixing your own breakfast.”

“I'm sick of salad,” he groaned.

“ And I'm sick of getting all your meals. Who made that my job anyway?” I snapped, and took off through the orchard. "What is his problem?" I grumbled as I ducked under a lush green bough. 

A slight breeze caught some leaves.  Their rustling sounded like a voice from above.  Not THAT voice though.

“Psst, psst.”  I looked up. Streams of golden sunlight bathed my eyes but blocked my vision.  I circled the tree.  “You want to know what his problem is? He's bored.”  Okay, a tree is talking to me now, I thought.  Whatever... 

Peripherally, I saw Adam approaching, in a better mood, I hoped.  But the tree spoke again, “Give him something different to eat.  Like this, for instance.”  A heavy branch hung low and a sunbeam hit its juicy tempting fruit.

“Oh,” I said, “is this the tree of knowledge?” No answer.

Adam sidled up next to me, grabbed the low-hanging branch and broke it in two. A snake fell to the ground. With dispatch, Adam skewered the reptile. He raised it to his lips and took a bite of dead serpent.  I awaited his culinary review.

Adam licked his lips. “Not bad. Let's throw it on the grill.”