TGM: Chapter 2 - Paul Gunnleifsson Jr.

 The Gunnleifsson Manuscript

Translated by Paul Gunnleifsson Jr

I had originally thought to just translate the journal, but I did not want anyone to think this was a work of fiction, so I decided to include some footnotes and thoughts as I translated. I suppose my first note should be how I came across the journal, but now knowing what the journal is, I may need to start with explaining who I am in relation to the journal.

I am or will become the journal’s author. I know this is hard to understand but though the journal is four hundred years old, proof of the carbon dating has been included with this manuscript, I will in two years time write the journal. You can see how this would sound like fiction. Because for me 2 years will be 2050, for me.

In October of 1944, the United States came to the Philippines to fight WW2 against the Japanese. In 1945 my mother would meet my father, a Seabee on the USS Alabama III. She would give birth to me in 1946. The only thing my father gave me was my name and the journal. In 1964, at the age of 18 and after the tragic passing of my mother who pined after my father all these years left me a small inheritance and my father’s photo asking me to find him. I came to the US shortly after and found my father. He was married and had a daughter, on a small farm in rural Missouri.

I knocked on his door, his photo in my hand, creased and cracked from carrying with me all the way from the Philippines. I had had a tough time growing up as a kid. My father was a large man, pale skin, blond hair, blue eyes, bearded, obviously of Norwegian descent. I had received his large frame, his thick beard, though I kept myself clean shaved, his pale skin, and a pale brown colored hair. I did not look Filipino.

He opened the door after I had knocked and looked at me, I was nearly as tall and broad shouldered as him. I didn’t know what to say to him. I had had a complete speech in my mind, but as I looked at him, I found myself unable to remember what the speech had been.

”Hello son,” he said but hadn’t opened the screen door, “I knew this day would come.” I wasn’t sure if he was saddened or disappointed at seeing me. He turned and walked back into the house, and I stood on the porch, slightly dumbfounded. Then he returned, he had a thick leather bound journal in his hand with a handwritten letter on top. I recognized my own handwriting, which made no sense because I had never written a letter to my father. I had wanted to, but had never found the words to convey how I felt about him abandoning my mother and I after the US pulled out of World War II.

”I’m sorry about your mother,” he said to me and I wondered how he knew about her death, “She was a good woman.”

”Why did you-”

He cut me off, thrusting the leather bound book and letter towards me, as if he didn’t want to hold them anymore, “This belongs to you.” I took the letter and the book surprised that not only was it in my handwriting, it was addressed to me, Paul Gunnleifsson Jr. My father stepped back into his home and closed the door. I stood for a moment, even raised my hand to knock again, but by this time I was skimming the letter. Words had popped out of it such as ‘future’ and ‘time travel’ and ‘Atlantis.’ I flipped through the book, saw shorthand, and picked out a few words. I could read it, having picked up shorthand as a skill for wanting to become a journalist. I looked one last time at the closed door and returned to the rental car. It wasn’t until I got to my hotel that I saw the date on the letter was July 7th, 2050.