Twisted Timeline

Unraveling history's alternate timelines

Field Notes

Glow-in-the-Air Weather

The weather near Metz is unlike anything I’ve seen before—always tinged with an odd luminescent fog. The locals call it "phlogiston haze," attributing it to excess discharge from their energy systems. Rain, instead of clearing the air, creates glittering puddles laced with faintly glowing residue that makes my boots stick. When I asked a farmer about the eerie glow, he shrugged and said, "It’s better than darkness," as though this choking shimmer was a gift from the heavens.

Fortifications Fueled by Glowworms

The Prussians have reimagined siege warfare by incorporating light directly into their strategy. Their trenches and walls are dotted with phlogiston lanterns, which they believe disorient attackers by creating ‘aural vibrations’ invisible to the naked eye. Firefly farming has become such a tightly guarded industry that spies are rumored to carry luminous beetles hidden in hollowed-out books. It is warfare by soft glow, loud proclamations, and, occasionally, absurd amounts of bug spray.

Prestige in Bottled Light

Bottled 'pure phlogiston essence' is the ultimate status symbol here, more valuable than gold or diamonds. Wealthy merchants and aristocrats decorate their estates with glowing jars of the stuff in hues from deep blue to vibrant orange. At a market near Metz, I witnessed a small fortune change hands for a single radiant vial. When I asked why, the seller tapped his nose knowingly and said, "The purer the glow, the closer one is to the stars."

Phlogiston Saints and Burning Shrines

A strange temple outside Metz houses ‘Saint Lumière,’ a relic purported to emit uninterrupted divine glow. It’s actually a jar of fireflies suspended in honey—a fact I pointed out to the shrine keeper, who immediately shooed me away with a stick. Pilgrims travel miles to bask in its aura, claiming it replenishes their depleted phlogiston reserves. The irony of praying to bugs in a jar while lighting votive candles is, apparently, entirely lost on them.

Salons of Shadows

Social gatherings in this timeline are elaborate and dimly lit affairs, where guests measure their sophistication by the quality of the ‘phlogiston lighting.’ At one salon, someone apologized to me for my “dim aura,” assuming my lack of glow indicated spiritual deficiencies. Meanwhile, dim lamps created barely enough light to see the chaos of a drunken game involving blindfolds and “phlogiston-sensing sticks.” I left with a headache and an earnest recommendation for beetle oil supplements.

My expedition to Metz in 1870 as documented on Dec 6, 2024

A World Lit Dimly by Fireflies and Fallacies

It is a peculiar thing, stepping into a timeline where humanity fundamentally misunderstands the nature of light but seems quite smug about it. Thus far, this excursion into an Earth where the "Phlogistic Theory of Luminescence" never fell out of favor has proved to be an exercise equal parts bemusement and irritation. For context, this theory holds that all light is the result of “phlogiston vapor” escaping from luminous objects, a notion that was laughably dismissed in my home timeline centuries ago. Here, however, not only does everyone take it seriously, but they’ve gone so far as to design technologies and warfare strategies around it.

Case in point: as I trudged through the mud near Metz, weaving my way between Prussian artillery emplacements, I overheard two soldiers discussing the “phlogiston lamps” that illuminate their encampments. These contraptions, powered by "phlogiston extract" harvested from fireflies (yes, fireflies), are considered a marvel of modern science. I made an offhand remark about the absurd inefficiency of such a system and was immediately met with a withering glare from one of the soldiers, who informed me that without this "precious phlogiston energy," Prussian industrial advances would collapse. Apparently, debates over whether firefly farms should be nationalized have been raging for decades.

What truly sent me reeling, though, was how deeply ingrained this entire theoretical framework is in their culture. The French army, for instance, reportedly employs "phlogiston dampeners" in battle—fine fabrics soaked in some concoction of vinegar and crushed beetle shells, designed to "absorb enemy luminescence." Whether these do anything at all, I cannot say, but the French certainly seem to take great pride in hurling damp blankets over Prussian lanterns during night raids. It is, to put it delicately, a most theatrical form of warfare.

And how could I ignore the philosophers? Here in 1870, the salons and cafés of Paris remain alive with discussion, albeit over topics that make my temples ache. In this version of events, Auguste Comte’s Positivism has fused with the Phlogistic Theory of Luminescence to produce a hilariously absurd philosophy: "Phlogistic Positivism." According to the attendees at one salon I infiltrated, the soul is essentially a repository of refined phlogiston, and "enlightened" individuals can actually emit an aura of divine light when their spiritual phlogiston reaches critical mass. Ironically, or perhaps predictably, all candle-lit salons in the city prohibit mirrors, as they seem to accidentally reveal how lacking in "divine luminescence" everyone truly is.

"densest coal smoke ever spewed into a perfectly innocent sky."

Technology, too, has taken some fantastic turns. The locomotives here are powered by phlogiston combustion engines—a step backward in efficiency but a step forward in setting the record for "densest coal smoke ever spewed into a perfectly innocent sky." The air in Metz has an odd glow about it, a surreal haze I first mistook for the fog of dawn but was later informed is "excess phlogiston discharge." It's strange how the locals long for full moons and clear nights when they seem to walk around in a perpetual miasma of their own making.

Curiously, Thomas Edison does not exist in this timeline, not because he wasn’t born, but because electric light doesn’t—and likely never will—exist here. The phlogiston purists insist light bulbs are “unholy” since they would theoretically "trap” phlogiston energy and prevent it from escaping into the cosmos (a supposed moral crime). The result? The streets of Paris and Berlin remain gloomy—even the gas lamps flicker weakly, as if they know better—but city-dwellers proudly proclaim that they are contributing to the “cosmic balance.”

Despite my frustrations, I can't help but admire how wholeheartedly this civilization has embraced its misapprehension of reality. There’s an odd poetry to their stubbornness, a fatalistic beauty in the way they pour resources into sustaining a fallacy. It’s a world full of flickering lights—some bright, most dim—but absolutely convinced they’re blazing with scientific clarity.

There’s a lesson here, I’m sure, though I’m far too irritated to discern it just now. My boots are caked with phlogiston-soot mud, my lungs are full of combusted firefly vapor, and I’m rather sick of hearing the word “luminescence” altogether. Tomorrow, I think I’ll make my way to Paris to see their famed “Great Phlogiston Fountain”—supposedly powered by the "purest phlogiston vapors" known to man. It sounds ridiculous, but then again, what isn’t here?