{"id":14840,"date":"2024-07-09T15:21:56","date_gmt":"2024-07-09T19:21:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=14840"},"modified":"2025-11-28T10:47:41","modified_gmt":"2025-11-28T14:47:41","slug":"ray-bradbury-time-intervening","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/ray-bradbury-time-intervening\/14840\/","title":{"rendered":"Ray Bradbury: Time Intervening"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis: <\/strong>In \u201cTime Intervening,\u201d a short story by Ray Bradbury published in 1952 in Ray Bradbury Review<\/em>, an old man leaves his house in the early morning and finds some children playing in his garden. Although he tries to talk to them, he gets no response. Back at home, he sits in the dark, restless. Suddenly, a young man and a girl enter, surprised to see him, and throw him out, claiming that it is their house. The old man, perplexed and ignored, ends up on the street. During the night, he watches in bewilderment as several people enter and leave his home, with no one seemingly paying any attention to him.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Ray<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Time Intervening<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Ray Bradbury
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

VERY LATE ON THIS NIGHT, the old man came from his house with a flashlight in his hand and asked of the little boys the object of their frolic. The little boys gave no answer, but tumbled on in the leaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man went into his house and sat down and worried. It was three in the morning. He saw his own pale, small hands trembling on his knees. He was all joints and angles, and his face, reflected above the mantel, was no more than a pale cloud of breath exhaled upon the mirror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The children laughed softly outside, in the leaf piles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He switched out his flashlight quietly and sat in the dark. Why he should be bothered in any way by playing children he could not know. But it was late for them to be out, at three in the morning, playing. He was very cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a sound of a key in the door and the old man arose to go see who could possibly be coming into his house. The front door opened and a young man entered with a young woman. They were looking at each other softly and tenderly, holding hands, and the old man stared at them and cried, \u201cWhat are you doing<\/em> in my house?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young man and the young woman replied, \u201cWhat are you<\/em> doing in our<\/em> house?\u201d The young man said, \u201cHere now, get on out.\u201d And he took the old man by the elbow and shoved him out the door and closed and locked it after searching him to see if he had stolen something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is my<\/em> house. You can\u2019t lock me out!\u201d The old man beat upon the door. He stood in the dark morning air. Looking up he saw the lights illumine the warm inside window and rooms upstairs and then, with a move of shadows, go out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man walked down the street and came back and still the small boys rolled in the icy morning leaves, not looking at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood before the house and as he watched the lights turned on and turned off more than a thousand times. He counted softly under his breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A young boy of about fourteen ran by to the house, a football in his hand. He opened the door without even trying to unlock it, and went in. The door closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Half an hour later, with the morning wind rising, the old man saw a car pull up and a plump woman get out with a little boy three years old. They walked across the wet lawn and went into the house after the woman had looked at the old man and said, \u201cIs that you<\/em>, Mr. Terle?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d said the old man, automatically, for somehow he didn\u2019t wish to frighten her. But it was a lie. He knew he was not Mr. Terle at all. Mr. Terle lived down the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lights glowed on and off a thousand more times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The children rustled softly in the leaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A seventeen year old boy bounded across the street, smelling faintly of the smudged lipstick on his cheek, almost knocked the old man down, cried, \u201cSorry!\u201d and leaped up the steps. Fitting a key to the lock he went in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man stood there with the town lying asleep on all sides of him; the unlit windows, the breathing rooms, the stars all through the trees, liberally caught and held on winter branches, so much snow suspended glittering on the cold air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s my<\/em> house; who are all those people going in it?\u201d cried the old man to the wrestling children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind blew, shaking the empty trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the year which was 1923 the house was dark. A car drove up before it, the mother stepped from the car with her son William, who was three. William looked at the dusky morning world and saw his house and as he felt his mother lead him toward the house he heard her say. \u201cIs that you<\/em>, Mr. Terle?\u201d and in the shadows by the great wind-filled oak tree an old man stood and replied, \u201cYes.\u201d The door closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the year which was 1934 William came running in the summer night, feeling the football cradled in his hands, feeling the murky night street pass under his running feet, along the sidewalk. He smelled, rather than saw, an old man, as he ran past. Neither of them spoke. And so, on into the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the year 1937 William ran with antelope boundings across the street, a smell of lipstick on his face, a smell of someone young and fresh upon his cheeks; all thoughts of love and deep night. He almost knocked the stranger down, cried, \u201cSorry!\u201d and ran to fit a key to the front door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the year 1947 a car drew up before the house, William relaxed, his wife beside him. He wore a fine tweed suit, it was late, he was tired, they both smelled faintly of so many drinks offered and accepted. For a moment they both heard the wind in the trees. They got out of the car and let themselves into the house with a key. An old man came from the living room and cried, \u201cWhat are you doing<\/em> in my house?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour house?\u201d said William. \u201cHere now, old man, get on out.\u201d And William, feeling faintly sick in his stomach, for there was something about the old man that made him feel all water and nothing, searched the old man and pushed him out the door and closed and locked it. From outside the old man cried, \u201cThis is my<\/em> house. You can\u2019t lock me out!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They went up to bed and turned out the lights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the year 1928 William and the other small boys wrestled on the lawn, waiting for the time when they would leave to watch the circus come chuffing into the pale-dawn railroad station on the blue metal tracks. In the leaves they lay and laughed and kicked and fought. An old man with a flashlight came across the lawn. \u201cWhy are you playing here on my lawn at this time of morning?\u201d asked the old man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d replied William, looking up a moment from the tangle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man stood over the tumbling children a long moment. Then he dropped his flash. \u201cOh, my dear boy, I know now, now I know!\u201d He bent to touch the boy. \u201cI am you and you are me. I love you, my dear boy, with all of my heart! Let me tell you what will happen to you in the years to come! If you knew<\/em>! I am you<\/em> and you were once me<\/em>! My name is William\u2014so is yours! And all these people going into the house, they are William, they are you, they are me!\u201d The old man shivered. \u201cOh, all the long years and the passing of time!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo away,\u201d said the boy. \u201cYou\u2019re crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut\u2014\u201d said the old man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re crazy. I\u2019ll call my father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man turned and walked away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a flickering of the house lights, on and off. The boys wrestled quietly and secretly in the rustling leaves. The old man stood on the dark lawn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Upstairs, in his bed, William Latting did not sleep, in the year 1947. He sat up, lit a cigarette, and looked out the window. His wife was awake. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat old man,\u201d said William Latting. \u201cI think he\u2019s still down there, under the oak tree.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, he couldn\u2019t be,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t see very well, but I think he\u2019s there. I can barely make him out, it\u2019s so dark.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll go away,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

William Latting drew quietly on his cigarette. He nodded. \u201cWho are those kids?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From her bed his wife said, \u201cWhat kids?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlaying on the lawn out there, what a hell of a time of night to be playing in the leaves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cProbably the Moran boys.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t look like them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood by the window. \u201cYou hear something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA baby crying. Way off?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t hear anything,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She lay listening. They both thought they heard running footsteps on the street, a key to the door. William Latting went to the hall and looked down the stairs but saw nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the year 1937, coming to the door, William saw a man in a dressing gown at the top of the stairs, looking down, with a cigarette in his hand. \u201cThat you<\/em>, Dad?\u201d No answer. The man sighed and went back into some room. William went to the kitchen to raid the ice-box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The children wrestled in the soft, dark leaves of morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


William Latting said, \u201cListen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He and his wife listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the old man,\u201d said William, \u201ccrying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy should he be crying?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. Why does anybody cry? Maybe he\u2019s unhappy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf he\u2019s still there in the morning,\u201d said his wife in the dim room, \u201ccall the police.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

William Latting went away from the window, put out his cigarette, and lay in the bed, his eyes closed. \u201cNo,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cI won\u2019t call the police. Not for him, I won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His voice was certain. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t want to do that. I just wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They both lay there and faintly there was a sound of crying and the wind blew and William Latting knew that all he had to do if he wanted to watch the boys wrestling in the icy leaves of morning would be to reach out with his hand and lift the shade and look, and there they would be, far below, wrestling and wrestling, as dawn came pale in the Eastern sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In \u201cTime Intervening,\u201d a short story by Ray Bradbury published in 1952 in Ray Bradbury Review, an old man leaves his house in the early morning and finds some children playing in his garden. Although he tries to talk to them, he gets no response. Back at home, he sits in the dark, restless. Suddenly, a young man and a girl enter, surprised to see him, and throw him out, claiming that it is their house. The old man, perplexed and ignored, ends up on the street. During the night, he watches in bewilderment as several people enter and leave his home, with no one seemingly paying any attention to him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":14735,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[573,574,570],"class_list":["post-14840","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-fantasy","tag-ray-bradbury-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":573,"label":"Fantasy"},{"value":574,"label":"Ray Bradbury"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Ray-Bradbury-Tiempo-intermedio.jpg",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":573,"name":"Fantasy","slug":"fantasy","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":573,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":89,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":574,"name":"Ray Bradbury","slug":"ray-bradbury-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":574,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":43,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14840","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14840"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14840\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14735"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14840"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14840"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14840"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}