Thirty years after the Firestorm, the Terrors

Thirty years after the Firestorm, the Terrors & the Winter, those of us who were selected for the Shelter prepared to embark. Radiation was down, we were assured by first Speaker,

and it would only be a matter of weeks before we arrived. That, at the very least, was what they promised us. No matter what lay ahead of us, it would be worth it, and so we

passed the time marking the earth days. We would reach our colony in 3 weeks. Only later, I found out when we went to sleep, 500 years went by.

The cryonic fluid had preserved us perfectly, so it seemed as though we had not aged a day. We woke up at the colony only to discover all our loved ones on Earth were long dead.

All, except my perpetually-drunk grandmother. She had consumed so much whiskey and bourbon that she had literally pickled herself. She was there to welcome us to the future as we

slip out of the time stream. It was wet in there and pickled gran handed us a towel. "Welcome to the future. wipe your feet before you come inside." We thought it was to be polite

, but when Pickled Gran began to salt and pepper our feet, we knew that she, in fact, intended to eat them. As we gazed around her lair of the future, we saw our future selves.

Our future selves looked bored, staring down their smart phones like dullards. Sadly, our future selves no longer had feet, so it was up to our present selves to extricate from our

doppelgangervelt episode in the state hospital because we carried a tune. That gets noted by the noting lot. How come our future selves don't remember our present selves intruding