The Teamster

In the 20th century, Jimmy Hoffa was a man obsessed with power.The mob wanted him dead, and on July 30, 1975, they hired his friend to do it. But Hoffa was never murdered that night...and the mob didn’t know about time travel.Every four and five years, invisible doorways open and close. Any living being caught within the magnetic, gravitational field awakens incoherently to a future world. On July 31, 1975, it happened to Jimmy Hoffa, and he awoke in the summer of 2010.Before he could ever learn the truth of what happened that night, he was imprisoned in a facility, guarded by a team of agents. Would he ever escape to see his kids, grown and years older than he? Or would he forever remain at the will of another, stripped of all sense of a word that he once knew so well?EXCERPTThe moment he awoke, he knew he was in for a new kind of hell. He was in a new room, and he was being punished. Gone was the elaborate ceiling fixture, the handsome armoire, the lustrous wooden floor, and artistically painted walls. They hadn’t locked him in one of the stark and sterile labs. This wasn’t even a room. It was a prison cell.He sat on a cot in the middle of a concrete floor. The brick walls were painted a shabby grey. It was far from the stylish, though exhausting tone in his room. The color of these walls could siphon hope. One glance behind him told him the professor meant to do just that. Bolted into the brick were two lengths of thick chain, each about two feet long. Attached to each was a steel cuff, just large enough to fit a grown man’s wrist.Two metal doors adorned the cell. One of them had a tiny window that did nothing to invite the extrinsic, ambient light. He noticed a light switch mounted next to it. The source was a light bulb that was screwed into a plastic fixture on a crack-lined ceiling. It was painted the same bleak tone as the walls.＂Son-of-a-bitch thinks he can hold Hoffa prisoner?＂ Jimmy bolted towards the door, though he already knew what he would discover. It was locked. He stood on his toes to peer into the hall. It was just as grim as the cell.He pounded on the door, his heated breath steaming the glass with each violent exhale. ＂Hey! Doc! Bustin’ my balls for what? I did what anyone would. No one teaches Hoffa a lesson. I’ll teach you. You hear that, Doc? Professor!＂

My name is Quoleena Sbrocca. (If you try to pronounce it too fast, you’ll likely get a brain freeze. Kwo-LEE-nuh Su-BROH-kuh). I’m a Denver native. I was a dance major in college and studied photography in grad school. Here’s my photography website: http: //www.sbroccaphotography.com I first realized I loved creative writing in 3rd grade, when I won a scholastic award for an illustrated story called, ＂Little Girl Lost.＂ I wrote poetry during my guitar-playing college days, all of which I keep buried in boxes of memories. I’m currently working on the final book of my young adult sci-fi/fantasy, set in the deep future. My favorite books to read tend to be set in England and Paris, in the days of horse-drawn carriages and noble courts. And I absolutely love fantasy and young adult fantasy set in worlds void of technology and unlike our own, with swords and magic and mystical creatures.