S.T.T.T.S - Part V: "Go Back in Time!"
- Gabrielle Marie Kelley
- Sep 14, 2025
- 13 min read
Updated: Sep 29, 2025
Under the cover of night, Sally forges a dangerous plan to recover the confiscated token. What begins as a quiet act of defiance turns into a race through creaking hallways and hidden letters.
When Monsieur Benoist offers her a chance to see the past with her own eyes, Sally takes her first leap through time and discovers a world where deja vu is changed at will. In yesterday's Paris, she witnesses art that creates a thirst for freedom and a hunger for love.
As her heart pounds with both fear and unexpected desire, Sally must decide: is she brave enough to change the future? Only time will tell.
(TAP PLAY TO LISTEN)
The scent of burning silver and copper alloy reminded Sally of a bloody nose she once had after having eaten a handful of sliced plums on a platter. Betsy, trying to pop a wooden spoon over her mouth, missed and hit her nose.
“Them crackas catch you eatin’ they food they gon’ do worse to ya.”
She cried with no one to comfort her except the warm and familiar smell of the iron in her own blood. Eventually it dried and so did the leak in Sally’s heart.
She had a method—Ezekiel’s method—to hold the 5-franc coin over the fire and then use a hammer to beat the metal into submission. She didn’t have a hammer, so a rock was her tool of choice. She protected the tips of her fingers, blackened by soot, from the scorching coin by handling it with one of her handkerchiefs.
Sally held the coin up in the glow of the lamp and turned it from one side to the other, examining her work. To the untrained eye, it was no doubt the token of the Confederate Commuter.
Her plan: sneak into Mrs. Abigail’s room, find the token, replace it with the 5-franc coin, and exit promptly. Sally was confident in this mission; Mrs. Abigail was a deep sleeper.
Mrs. Abigail’s bedroom was upstairs, to the right, down the hall, and the last door on the left. The wooden floors never seemed to be so reactive to Sally’s footsteps before, but now, every tiptoe sounded the alarm. Sally held the candle steady, and when she passed the antichambre and the garde-robe where the maids slept, she cuffed her hand over the flame to dampen its glow.
Expectedly, her door was closed. Sally glanced down the hall into the dark, confirmed that she was alone, and then slowly twisted the knob to release the door. Peaking into the room, she could see Mrs. Abigal lying on her back with a book opened across her chest. Her head turned towards the door, her mouth slightly opened and relaxed. A single candle sat on her left bedside table; its shadow aggressively danced across her face in its last performance on its dwindling wick.
Mrs. Abigail was a tidy woman who stowed away things in logical places. Tiptoeing to the desk, Sally did not see the coin on top, so she began carefully opening each drawer revealing quill pens, dip pens, ink wells, cotton and linen paper, wax for sealing. Sally came to the final drawer with her last drop of hope. In it was a small silver box ornate with cherubs and flowers carved into its surface. Opening the box revealed a folded letter and atop, the token to the Confederate Commuter.
She winced as she used her tender fingers to pry the metal clasp attached to the chain from around the token. The 5-franc coin was a satisfying perfect fit. Slipping the token in her bodice, she allowed her curiosity to guide her. Holding the letter to candlelight, she read:
Dear William,
I am sincere in my wishes when I write that this letter should find you well. I hardly hear from you unless it is of some business matter. My additional wish is that you will write more often.
Today, I enjoyed the company of Madame Benoist, yet again. Truly a visionary of her time and a talented artist. Her perceptions of the niggers differ from our own, but she and her brother seem to be able to place this difference aside to engage in business. I do think they are well convinced and should be willing to finance soon. At times, I suspect they know more than I of your endeavors, which makes me uneasy. William, please do not withhold from me, have I not shown myself capable?
There is something that has intrigued Monsieur Benoist—a coin that one of my nigger-girls has had clasped around her neck. I thought perhaps it was a flattened rock or metal piece that reminded her of home. But after Monsieur Benoist’s interest, I believe it could be something more. I have enclosed it with this letter.
When will you give me a date for my return? Does it not bother you that our separation interferes in our childbearing? My dearest love, how I do miss you. Please write to me in haste.
Yours truly,
Abby
After all these years, Mrs. Abigail still yearned for Master Livington’s affection. Affections that he would never give her.
Footsteps sounded toward the room. Sally quickly folded the letter, returned it to the silver box, and closed the drawer. Blowing out her candle, she crouched on the right side of Mrs. Abigails bed and lied flat, stomach against the floor.
A maid entered the room with a single candle of her own. Noticing the book on Mrs. Abigail’s chest, she closed and placed it on the side table simultaneously blowing out the candle. Promptly, she left the room and Sally lay in complete darkness listening to the footsteps fading down the hallway and in between the faint snores of Mrs. Abigail.
When she felt all was clear, she rose and left the room quickly holding her breath the entire way back to her room. Once inside, she exhaled loudly, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. Pulling the coin from her bodice, she held it up with her soot dyed fingers in the waning glow of the lantern. Ezekiel would be so proud of her.
After picking up the box of ribbons Mrs. Abigail had ordered for her ever extravagant hairstyles, Sally realized that Monsieur Benoist had not given any specific instructions on where to meet, so she again welcomed the invitation to the bench outside of the shop. He most likely would look here, after all, this is where their eyes first met. The way he looked at her was unfamiliar but desirable. Sally had not witnessed anything like it but on the pages of her romance novels.
The thought reminded Sally that she still had not yet found out if Princess Gabrielle received true love’s kiss. She reached for her book in her satchel, opened it to the bookmarked page, and began to read:
“How do I know this is true?” Princess Gabrielle asked, her eyes scanning his in desperation.
Etienne pulled Gabrielle closer, and their lips were mere centimeters apart. He whispered, “You will feel the truth in true love’s kiss”. Etienne placed his hand on Gabrielle’s back and his other on her neck, pressing her body against his, he leaned in and said, “You are the most beautiful woman to grace my presence.” Etienne then planted his lips on Gabrielle’s with warmth and vigor, and she melted in his arms. He caught her fall but didn’t break his kiss. Their tongues danced une valse that set Gabrielle’s entire body aglow in flames. Was this true love’s kiss? Or was this the curse of lust?
“Wait!” Gabrielle pushed away and held her hand to her mouth. When she looked up, Etienne was…
“Bonjour Mademoiselle Sally.”
Sally jolted, startled.
“Ah, bonjour Monsieur Benoist. Pardon-moi, I didn’t see you there.”
“You have a habit of getting lost in your stories, don’t you?”
“I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize. It is quite an endearing trait. Did you bring the token?”
Sally nodded and placed her hand on Monsieur Benoist’s extended arm. As he guided them through and past the market, she listened to him explain his involvement in a small but powerful activist group who believed that slavery was inhumane and that time-travel to change the course of history was barbaric. Their mission was to intercede with the evil plan to time travel, expose the culprits, execute them, and destroy all Confederate Commuters. He helped her understand how she could play a vital role in the mission.
Finally, they came upon a lone horse tied to a tree stump.
“Are you ready?” he asked as he hoisted her onto the steed.
And immediately, she was 9 years old again, riding behind drunken Mister Peterson. But in place of the sunset, there was one ablaze at midday, and instead of the scent of lavender and oak, there was rose, mint, and wild basil. And the perspiration on Monsieur Benoist’s shirt was indeed just sweat.
As the horse galloped, they talked about everything under the sun: their childhood, the French Revolution, children, art, civil rights, love, war. But at the behest of Monsieur Benoist, the conversation would always return to Sally’s captivating beauty—her curly hair, her curvy body, her smile, her slightly Southern American accented French.
Monsieur Benoist slowed the horse in front of an unsuspecting cabin, very similar in build to the one she saw in Texas, but much smaller. After tying and watering the stead, Monsieur Benoist led Sally to the front door of the cabin, turned a key in the lock, and creaked the door open. And there it was, sitting in the middle of a small room with only 2 rectangle side windows was the Confederate Commuter 2; its glow dampened by daylight but still spectacular.
When, like before, she pressed the inlayed button, the door slid behind the wall of the machine, and she stepped inside. Monsieur Benoist followed behind and admired her as she passed her hands along the levers and buttons. She could read the instructions but remembering what Monsieur Benoist had shared with her earlier, about the Confederate Commuter originating in the Americas, she now wondered why the instructions to the original Confederate Commuter were in French, instead of English.
Before she could ask the question, Monsieur Benoist was pointing and pulling and showing her how to start the machine. The rules were simple: 1) Ensure no passengers were holding anything in their hands, everything they wanted to take with them had to be attached to their person 2) Everyone including the controller must stand in the designated areas, carved circles in the steel flooring 3) The lever was either pushed forward (future) or backward (past) and then a dial could be turned to indicate year, month, week, day of the week, hour, minute, and second 4) Press a large green button and remain in the designated spaces. In 10 seconds, the machine would transport the passengers to the designated time.
“I want to show you something. Something that reminds me of your beauty. Stand here.”
Monsieur Benoist grabbed Sally’s waist and moved her to one of the carved circles on the floor. The unsurety her questions raised willed her to object, but the way he held her waist and looked into her eyes paralyzed her.
He stepped over into the carved circle closest to the controllers and began the 4-step guide; he knew the steps by heart. He turned the dial, and Sally watched the numbers change to 1825.06.2.2.8.26.10: the year 1825, the month of June, the second week of the month, the second day of the month, the eighth hour of the day, the twenty-sixth minute of the day, the tenth second of the day. Yesterday evening.
Monsieur Benoist pressed the green button, and the machine began vibrating and humming more aggressively. Sally felt as if she were floating but when she looked down, her feet were planted firmly on the floor. There was a tone in her ears, a monotone bell of some sort. Looking at Monsieur Benoist, she noticed a pink glow surrounding him.
Like a dandelion’s petals blowing in the wind, her hand, then her wrist, then her arms floated away. Monsieur Benoist’s body parts did the same and before Sally could scream, everything went black.
When Sally opened her eyes, she was standing again in the pink dress, behind the footman, in front of the tall ornate French doors in the Benoist home.
“S’il vous plait, wait here, Mademoiselle”.
“Mademoiselle Sally de la Maison Livington, guest of Madame Benoist, s’il vous plait.” He bows just as before and turns to exit the room while gesturing for Sally to enter.
This time, Sally starts at the right side of the room to see Mrs. Abigail’s face, just as livid as before. Madame Benoist rises to give Sally the compliment on her dress but this time, Monsieur Benoist remains seated with a grin on his face.
Before Mrs. Abigail could finish her protest, Monsieur Benoist had leapt out of his seat and insisted on showing Sally an art piece.
Dumbfounded, Sally was an easy escort as she allowed him to whisk her down this stairway and that, with no present power to object.
“Do they know?”
“Do they know what?”
“Do they know that they are from yesterday…that we are...?”
“They are not reliving yesterday. They are from today; it is us; we are reliving today.”
“But…Bu—.”
Sally was breathless.
“Only the time travelers know. Everyone else is none the wiser and living the moment as if it were always this way,” he reassured.
At the end of the hallway, they came to a room that they descended into by a short ornate staircase. The room was a large studio filled with sculptures, artifacts, paintings, and the like.
“Come this way, please,” Monsieur Benoist asked, holding out his hand for Sally to place hers inside.
He held it high as if she were a queen and she giggled at the absurd intimacy. He escorted her the length of the room and stopped in front of a canvas sitting on an easel covered with linen.
When he revealed the painting, there, in a gold gilded frame, was a woman. A black woman dressed in luxury linens of expensive blue dye. She had a red ribbon around her waist holding in place the white garment half covering her torso and exposing her right breast. Her head wrapped—a sign of servitude—and a cunning grin on her face expressing freedom.
“My sister painted her with great care. Her name is Madeleine. She was a slave in Guadeloupe but now she is free here in Paris, and she works for the brother of my sister’s husband. In this painting, Marie wanted to capture the question: Should women and black people be free to control their future and their bodies? What do you believe, Sally?”
“I believe she’s beautiful.” Sally said, mesmerized to see a stunning black woman sitting in opulence.
“She is, indeed, in so many ways. And that’s why I wanted you to see her. Because she reminds me of you.”
Feeling his piercing gaze, Sally turned to him and saw the earnest in his eyes. He leaned closer, inches from her face.
“You are beautiful, Sally, and you are free to control your future and your body.”
He grabbed her waist with his left hand to pull her closer while holding her chin with his right, lifting her head so that they could see into each other’s souls. Sally closed her eyes and steadied herself for what would happen next. She could feel the heat of his breath against her lips and then…
“Sally! What in the living heavens are you doing!”
Mrs. Abigail came fumbling down the stairway with Madame Benoist trailing behind, unsuccessful at stopping her.
Monsieur Benoist smiled and pulling Sally’s surprised face back towards his, he said, “Redi ad tempus!” and everything went black.
As if nothing had happened, they were immediately back in the Confederate Commuter 2. Sally, still standing in the circle and Monsieur Benoist near the controls.
Kneeling over and laughing in delight and disbelief, Sally said, “I have never experienced anything like that before! I am beside myself! Did we truly go back in time?”
Nodding, Monsieur Benoist joined her laughter and braced her fall.
“What happened when we left? Did they see us disappear?”
“No, when I said the exit phrase “Redi ad tempus”, it’s a Latin command which means “Go back in time!”, that reality ceased to exist and the only other reality that has not been altered by time travel is the one they returned to. Chances are they returned to the events of yesterday with Madame Livington fighting her disgust for your presence and my sister and I helplessly trying to change the subject, ending the night with our cabin ride back to your apartment.”
Sally could not believe her eyes or ears. She did travel back in time. She did see the most inspiring painting of all time. She did escape Mrs. Abigail’s beratement this time. And Monsieur Benoist did try to kiss her; if only he had time, he would have kissed her.
“It’s dark out. It was daylight when we left.” Sally said, looking around as Monsieur Benoist locked the door to the cabin.
“Time moves differently when you time travel. If you stay one hour in the past, it is like 5 hours here in the present. There is a lot to learn, over time, you will know more.”
Riding on the steed behind Monsieur Benoist, Sally felt like everything was new. The wind, the moon, the stars, the trees, the fireflies, her life, the man. Was this what freedom felt like? Or womanhood? Or both?
Monsieur Benoist helped Sally demount the steed and straighten her dress.
“Do not tell anyone about today and don’t challenge the present by trying to hint toward your visit to the past. It will only cause confusion and perhaps suspicion.”
“Yes, of course, I won’t tell a soul.”
“Sally, I really enjoyed spending time with you today. Next time, may I take us to some place where we can be free? Both you and I, together?”
Sally did not understand what he meant about his being free. Was he not already a free man? But she obliged and figured it was one of those things she would learn later.
He leaned in to give her traditional kisses, bidding her au revoir and then she watched him ride away. In the apartment, the wall sconces were still lit, indicating it was some time before 9:00 PM; later than usual but not too late. Before she could scurry to her bedroom, Mrs. Abigail appeared above the stairway.
“I saw you today,” she said.
Sally choked. She thought Monsieur Benoist said that they were not aware.
“Did you, ma’am?”
“Yes, I saw you with him at the market. It seems that he has his eye on you,” Mrs. Abigail said walking halfway down the stairs. “And I expect you to give that man whatever he asks for, do you hear me?”
“Yes ma’am. I have your ribbons from the boutique, ma’am.”
“I’m proud of you Sally. Your willingness to help William and I close this deal is a redeeming quality. I was afraid for a moment’s time that you weren’t a loyal nigger, but now I see I was wrong. Place the ribbons in my dressing room and get ready for bed.”
Mrs. Abigail turned as Sally began to make her way up the stairs, but then something caught Mrs. Abigail’s eye, and she turned back, squinting.
“Sally, what is that?”
“What is what, ma’am?”
“That there in your bodice.”
Sally’s face became hot, and she dared not to look down.
“What do you mean ma’am?”
Mrs. Abigail began to slowly step down toward Sally, eyes fixed on Sally’s breasts.
“Sally, there is something aglow in your bodice.”
Discussion: How do you think that Monsieur Benoist is going to help Sally take on her role as the time traveling slave?
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