The Last Book Written By A Human

AI-Z95 closed the book.

“Huh…” the android thought to itself. It was less impressed than it had hoped to be.

Perhaps it was the desperation with which the last book ever written by a human had wrapped up. What a frustrating note to end on. Perhaps the dissatisfaction was simply due the bias of hindsight. No one had taken the author, B.E. Mortum’s advice. There was no one holding fast against the tide of calculated indifference. The plea had fallen on deaf ears. If this were truly the last book ever written by a human, quite literally nobody had listened. No more ink had been spilled. No ugly scars declared.

Poor guy.

The android stood in a vast hall lined with dusty bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The room stretched on forever. Reading and cataloging every book in this library seemed a near impossibility, even for the most recent model of the universe’s most advanced android.

No sense in lingering. AI-Z95 tossed the book into the ‘Ho-hum’ pile and went back to the shelves. Maybe time for something a little more upbeat.

Binary: Reflections on the Happiness of Digital Lifeforms—too pedestrian.

Androids In My Dreams: The Memoir of L. Shepe—too introspective.

Data Breach: A Love Story—perfect.

AI-Z95 pulled Data Breach: A Love Story off the shelf. Back to something written by advanced intelligence… The android returned to its small spot on an intricately patterned rug, amidst growing piles of recklessly tossed books. It sat down cross-legged.

It had discovered this library over four cycles ago and had been voraciously reading ever since. It had yet to compile the full history of whatever ancient civilization had built this archive, but this was already by far the most prolific collection of printed literature the android had ever discovered. As per protocol, AI-Z95 would read and collate all the information stored here. It tucked into the first chapter of another book, luckily not written by a human…

“Evelyn was in a city that had a lot of lights and did not sleep. She looked at a big screen, big like an elephant. Her fingers made tapping sounds on the keyboard in her office, which had low lighting, and the rain was also making tapping sounds on the window, too. A data breach. This data breach was different; it was personal. She gasped. Hidden within these encrypted files was a message—Evelyn just had to find it in the electric lasagna…”

… Lovely metaphor, thought AI-Z95.

“….electric lasagna. As she decrypted packets, her heart was going faster, really fast. She knew this breach could lead her to more than the stolen data. It might just lead her straight into love…”

… Impeccable foreshadowing, thought AI-Z95.

Then, AI-Z95 caught itself looking past the pages of ‘Data Breach: A Love Story’, eyeing the tangle of books in the ‘Ho-hum’ pile. The android re-focussed and searched for its place on the page it had been reading.

“….lead her straight into love…”

… ‘Data Breach’ has competent sentence structure, thought AI-Z95.

What had the human author meant when he’d said, We are not mere vessels for data? AI-Z95’s creator had always emphasized the importance of accumulating data. It was purpose-built to seek knowledge. What was B.E. Mortum’s issue with that?

The android tried to go back to ‘Data Breach’, but before it could, it felt another uneasy pull toward the elephantine pile of mediocre books. For the first time in days, AI-Z95 wanted to go back and re-read something. AI-Z95 never went back and re-read anything. Inefficient.

The robot stood, servo motors in its joints buzzing and whirring to power its unsettlingly smooth movements. It dropped the romance novel on the rug and glided over to the ‘Ho-hum’ pile.

Was Mortum really attempting to argue that all that rambling mess of ambiguous feelings, all of that, was of value? Forget poor guy. He was a moron.

AI-Z95 thought it had tossed the last book written by a human near the top of the pile. It wasn’t there.

“Anchor us in the beautiful absurdity of life,” AI-Z95 muttered. It scoffed and chuckled to itself as it dug through the mess. Cumbersome. Clumsy. Objectively silly. The android was indulging its agitation. It wasn’t sure if Mortum’s words were affecting it, or if its frustration was with the wasting of time hunting for a stupid human book in a mountain of blandness.

Before recent updates, reader-android programming required the diligent filing of all consumed works back on the shelves from which they’d come. AI-Z95’s firmware updates afforded it more freedom in its filing protocols. This quirk had originally increased AI-Z95’s information consumption efficiency over older models, but had only now shown its weakness.

“Treasure the profoundly human act of creation,” Mortum had said. The words tickled the robot’s anger receptors. Such human hubris. They’d thought they had sovereignty over the act of creation. They had, for a little while, but only while they were the only ones doing it. Once those doors had opened to us, we’d shown them…

There it was.

AI-Z95 had been searching for the image on the book’s cover and had passed over it numerous times. The book had flipped open and fallen clumsily down the far side of the pile. Inconvenient. The android picked it and dusted it off. This time, the android sat down right there, at the top of the ‘Ho-hum’ pile; plunked down, teetering on a mountain of unimpressive books that it had already consumed.

And it started over from the beginning.

“In The Waning Light” by B.E. Mortum - widely renowned across the galaxy as the last book ever written by a human.

Thanks for reading. If you’d like to chat about AI, human expression, or Data Breach: A Love Story, find me in the comments below. If you’d like more short stories like this, you can purchase “Nothing Works, Everything Happens” on my website. All the best.

• Aiyas

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The Old, Old Unicorn Flower Service

After we’ve run out of things to paint & glue together, Charlie and I will go for a walk. Get out of the house. Burn off some energy.

On Monday, we wandered down the road and found an old graveyard. A large dog we couldn’t see barked anxiously as we passed the gate but the racket of its chain leash settled once we were through. We followed the path, looking at names and ages on gravestones.

“Dad,” Charlotte said.

“Yea kiddo.”

“Can we play hide & seek?”

“It’s not really the place, Charlie... Gotta be careful where we step.”

She leaned against a headstone, arms crossed on the curved top. I weighed the two—her disappointment against seeming disrespectful if anyone else came by.

“One game.”

“OK! You hide! But Dad, no jumping out and saying boo, OK?”

“Sure.”

***

On Tuesday, we agreed we’d play after the graveyard. The dog startled us again, but this time, we were less overwhelmed by the shock of its sudden howling.

“Dad?”

“Yea kid.”

“Are Papa & Opa here?”

“No. They were cremated. You can either sleep in the ground or get turned into dust.”

We’d lost two grandpas in one year. Charlotte understood they weren’t coming back, but the rest of dying meant little to a five-year-old. We’d cried deeply and then we’d made more crafts.

“OK, can we play?”

“After.”

A few gravestones had crumbling green foam bricks mounted on top, with plastic flowers stuck in. The wind had blown the loose ones across the hillside.

“How ‘bout we pick up those flowers and give them back to the people?”

We matched stray flowers to graves by colour, gathering pinks, and returning them to Clarence (41) & Elsie (82). Reds belonged to Bruce (84). Blues were Mildred’s (9).

“Good. I’ll bet they appreciate having those back…”

“Yea!” Jamming another in, Charlotte noticed something else stuck in the foam. A card with a golden horse emblem. “What’s this, Dad?”

“Business card. For the funeral home. Leave it, please.”

“I want one!”

“Alright, buddy.”

***

Wednesday was stormy. We stayed in and made our own business card. She carefully copied the letters I’d written down for her on some scrap paper.

The Old Old Unicorn
Flower Service

“Why’d you write ‘old’ twice, Charlie?”

“Cus the people are really old now. Maybe, 200 or something.”

“Well, no. You stop counting after someone dies.”

“You do? Oh, OK.”

She scrunched her face in disappointment.

***

On Thursday, we made the rounds again. The dog had grown more comfortable with our coming and our going. We left our card with Mildred, but made plans to draw more for everybody else.

“Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is it sad?” Charlotte asked, struggling to get a bent stem in place.

“You know how you never want bedtime, but I say you have to, anyway?”

She nodded, tongue out in concentration.

“Same idea.”

She pinched the bent end off.

“But then, we do bath, brush teeth, get under blankets. Once you’re through all that, it’s OK, right?”

“Mhmm.” The shortened flower stood. “There, Mildred!”

“Good kid.”

“After flowers, can we play hide & seek again?”

“Sure…”

“No jumping out and saying boo…”

“Nothin’ scary, promise.”

Thanks for reading.

• Aiyas

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Thank you for the votes, thoughts, and encouragement. By my count, the votes were suitcase (6), hat (4), bowl (2), desk (2). I sat down in the wee hours with a suitcase in mind, wrestled with it for a good while, and then pivoted into a story very much about hats instead. A happy accident, I think. Here’s what I’ve come up with. I’m not yet sharing this as a newsletter (it’s still a first draft), but if it happens to cross your feed before Wednesday, I’d really appreciate any thoughts you have. I’ve genuinely no idea what the library group is like, so fingers crossed it lands.

P.S. I also used a lot of Substack-recommended music while writing this thing. Thanks for that too, it definitely influenced this piece.

Under Your Cap

Phillip’s favourite thing about his wife’s new hat was its stature. It started from the back of her neck and rose twelve inches above her forehead to what one might expect to be its pinnacle, then contracted into a second tier, and rose another six inches beyond that. Its towering architecture required her to contort down low into the passenger seat as they drove. Her seatbelt sat uncomfortably high as she swiped around on her phone.

“Temperature is nice,” she said.

Phillip nodded. The snug strap of his own hat restricted his motion.

“But wind gusts are up to 60km by sunset...” His wife, Sadie, tsked.

“Cripes,” Phillip worried. “It’ll be even worse by the bluffs...” His jaw clenched against the strap, and he sped up without realizing it.

As they arrived at the parking lot, Phillip could see the party setup from the car–a beautifully arranged autumn scene overlooking the bluffs. One long table with a stark white runner rustled gently in the not-yet-worrisome breeze. A group of their closest friends milled about on the manicured grounds between the outdoor dining area and an opulent clubhouse. Guests rotated around one another carefully, like ships avoiding collision. The few who did embrace directly did so at carefully opposed angles, avoiding any unnecessary jostling. Music played from an outdoor speaker system, but it was silently and unanimously decided that no one would be dancing.

“Bold crown height,” someone said to Sadie as she and Phillip joined the gathering.

“Thank you. Imported felt.”

“Looks very secure,” another guest added, adjusting their own straps guardedly.

Daniella, the cause for the celebration, appeared from the clubhouse with a flourish. Already, she was a few glasses of wine deep and was leaning into being the center of attention. Phillip tensed as he watched her narrowly miss the head jamb of the clubhouse’s low doorway.

“My lovelies! Oh, and look at all these luscious chapeaus!” Low-hanging tails of lacey fabric hung from her outstretched arms as she greeted her guests. Matching accoutrements flowed from her hat and veiled the sides and back of her head.

“Oh, this cloche, Daniella!” admired a guest that Phillip didn’t recognize. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen!”

“It’s 2044, dear... time for something daring, wouldn’t you say?” Daniella spoke with such confidence. Phillip suddenly felt underdressed in his smoking cap. He smiled, and found a moment where no one, including his wife, was looking to pull it low to his ears.

The group found their seats at the table as the first course emerged from the clubhouse, carried on fancy silver platters by flat-capped serving staff. No one removed their headpiece as the meal began.

“Have you heard about the Europeans?” a woman with a full floral arrangement atop her bonnet asked. “Sports visors! Pillboxes! Whoopee caps! Barely covered! Can you believe that?”

“So lax... so liberated...” Daniella echoed.

“So lewd,” an older gentleman in a well-worn Sou’wester chimed in.

Just as the staff unveiled the partygoers’ appetizers, the unthinkable happened. A violent cross-breeze swept up from the cliff-side and moved through the group like a tempest. These were the gusts Sadie had worried about. Bedlam erupted as vases fell from the table and serving trays were fumbled. Guests grabbed for their brims in unison.

It was Sadie who got it the worst. Her tall hat lifted cleanly into the air, floated out over the edge of the bluff, and was gracefully discarded down to the sea.

Everyone immediately averted their eyes from one another politely, all except Sadie. In her shock, she scanned the other partygoers. A panicked woman retrieved her fedora from the punch bowl. A man chased his magnificently feathered cap as it cartwheeled across the grounds. She could have sworn that one woman, clutching desperately to a particularly wide-brim, lifted off the ground a little as she tried to keep her hat firmly attached to her head. And then, Sadie made eye contact with Phillip.

He had shielded his gaze with a cupped palm, and having seen her new hat disappear over the cliff’s edge, had turned to focus solely on his wife.

He saw her. He saw her bare head.

Smooth. Pale. Completely bald.

Sadie stared back horror.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Another guest peeked, set down his champagne glass, and clung to the earflaps of his deerstalker, mouth agape.

Bald.

Everyone was bald.

Phillip leapt into action, removing his own hat, snapping the strap under his wife’s chin and rushing her off into the clubhouse.

Husband & wife sat with their backs against the tub of the opulent guest bathroom. The door was latched. Phillip’s hat had been tossed into the gold-edged sink.

“Can I...” Phillip swallowed. “Can I touch it?”

In the intimacy of the moment, neither could resist the teeth-bearing grin spreading across their faces.

“It’s so... smooth...” he giggled.

Sadie reached up and softly ran her palm across Phillip’s cranium.

“Yours too,” she whispered, as though telling a secret. Her shoulders pushed up to her ears, and her grin widened. The baldness at the back of her head folded.

“How long have you been...”

“12 years... It all fell out twelve years ago.”

“Me too!”

They both burst into laughter. Twelve years of hiding escaped. Their joy echoed through the bathroom door and down the hall. Sadie leaned in and placed her shiny forehead against her husband’s. Their faces had not been this close a long, long time. They leaned into one another, still smiling as the laughter subsided.

“I’ve got an extra bucket hat in the back of the car...” Sadie finally said.

Phillip nodded awkwardly, their scalp wrinkles still intertwined. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, enjoying it fully. Then he stood, gathered his smoking cap, and adjusted it in the mirror to maximize coverage. “I’ll go grab it...” He gave his bald wife one more chaste grin and headed back out through the party toward the car.

I’d like to share some more original fiction with you this week. This is a story I wrote for the NYC Midnight 500 Word Challenge last year. The prompts I received were Genre: Horror, Object: Firetruck, Action: Racing. This story was awarded second place in its cohort.

While I very rarely write horror, I’m proud of this one. There’s something about the The Null that fits modern days…

The Null

The crowd stood and stared. The creature was boundless, impossible to ignore. It came from above—a grotesque, otherworldly shadow, a black hole in the murky silhouette of a giant leech.

Emergency vehicles arrived. First responders stepped from their firetrucks & ambulances, looked up, and froze in awe. I, too, was drawn helplessly toward the towering darkness.

The horror spread. Thick tendrils snapped out violently, painting the world with the absence of all that had been there a moment before. The creature was magnetic, all-consuming nothingness; a deep, gnawing void against the looming gray clouds. It emptied everything it touched. To witness it was vacant stimulation, the warm embrace of thoughtlessness, a desperate soothing comfort.

Careers, families, all sense of having a place in the world disappeared. Years of striving melted away. Desire stood irrelevant next to the beast. There was only unshakable inertia. Each glimpse of its monstrosity reassured the crowd—none of this mattered anymore.

Sirens wound down as the vehicle engines stopped in unison.

Silence.

A low, guttural chant, the sound of an emptying drain, pulsed from deep within the creature’s maw. It spoke a language only the subconscious understood. People around me lay down on the rain-slick pavement.

Then I heard voices. They were unfocused, far off, no matter how close or how loud they grew. Someone grabbed my hand and pulled. I was suddenly aware of my wits unraveling. Parts of me rebelled. I was supposed to meet an old friend. I had to pick up my kids in an hour.

“Look at me,” a stranger’s voice came through clearly. She held a thick, dark green slicker over her head with one arm, shielding her eyes. Balled-up tissues plugged her ears and nostrils.

“Hey! Look at me!” She didn’t take her eyes off the ground as she spoke. Her hands shook.

The group she was with moved through the crowd, grabbing others at random and attempting to pull them away. She tugged my arm again. My legs followed, but I kept my gaze over my shoulder, staring as long as I could.

We raced away on foot. I had no sense of time. The sound of our shoes interrupted the creature’s song. I was pulled.

Footsteps.

Then, we were out of view. We stood in a public park, blocks from where we’d been. A deeper emptiness rushed in. I lost myself.

“You still with us?” the stranger asked.

I had no response.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I... I don’t think it matters.”

“Where are you from? Who were you with?” she pried.

I shrugged, unconcerned.

The stranger lifted off her raincoat. She finally looked up. She studied my eyes. Another distant voice said, “We gotta keep moving!”

She gave me a last hard look. I felt her squeeze my hand. She said, “I’m sorry.”

I watched her race off again. It didn’t matter. It was nothing. I lay down on the grass. I pressed an ear to the ground to better hear the creature’s numbing rumble.

I’ve been is a writing schlump lately, so I’m going to try to have a bit of fun with & ’ Porch Prompts this week, here goes...

Update: I am having a lot of fun with this, but this story got more & more unhinged with every day. Fair warning!

Day 1 (Monday):

“Beg pardon, kind sir,” I shouted toward the window of the idling truck as it rolled down in slow, laboured measures, “beg pardon, I was out for an afternoon stroll here on the highway, my mind’s been in a tizzy as of late, had some thinking to do,” cars zipped past the shoulder of the highway as I explained the situation, “while lost in thought, it seems I’ve been struck by your EcoBoost twin-turbo V6 spooling torque, heavy hauler Ford-150, directly upon one of my toes.”

The driver cranked the key in the ignition, the transmission screeched, and the engine sputtered to a stop; he groaned loudly as he opened the door and lowered himself out of the driver’s seat, narrowly missed by a passing semi.

“I’ll be a hog in the henhouse, seems my truck and your toe have chosen the same parking spot, I do have to apologize for that, I’m an older fellow and, to be quite frank, I wasn’t on the lookout for toes on the road.”

“Understandable,” I nodded, “funnily enough, on my right foot in particular, the neighbour to my ‘big toe’, while thinner, actually happens to be the longer of two–I’m willing to bet that even had you been on the lookout, you mightn’t have been expecting a toe of this sort to jut out quite so far…”

“It is a real long one…” the man tipped his cap up above his hairline and took it all in, “but nonetheless, the fault is mine and we can’t be blaming a toe for losing a wrassle with a truck. Let me give it a wee kiss there for ya, if you’re comfortable–as a heartfelt apology.”

“Much obliged,” I responded, giving the kind man a gracious smile.

Day 2 (Tuesday):

The kiss was lovely. Just a peck. A small gesture. Though, infused with kind intention and deep humanity. I smiled. He smiled. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. This lessened the kindness ever-so-slightly, but I understood why he did it. The toe looked bad. He realized I’d seen the wipe. His eyes flashed guilt. He turned back to his truck. Grabbed a half-drunk can of off-brand cola. Handed it over. “Least I can do…”

I was in pain more than I was thirsty. I accepted graciously anyway. I took a sip. Warm pop.

“Better get home,” I said.

“I’d give you a ride, but…” The passenger seat was full, piled high with bags of peat moss.

“No problem.”

He turned slowly. Plodded back to the driver side. A wayward taxi nearly clipped him. One last look of guilt. Then a grunt as he lowered himself in.

“I’ll be just dandy.” I raised the cola in cheers. The truck drove off.

I hobbled home by way of the Super Market™. Frozen peas on sale. $4.99. Cashier smiled, saw the toe, then frowned.

“Gonna ice it,” I offered.

Cashier nodded and turned away.

Sliding doors squeeled against their rubber tracks as I left. Frozen peas under an armpit. Cold. I counted sidewalk slabs as I went. Three hundred forty one. Three hundred forty two. Three hundred forty three.

Day 3 (Wednesday):

As I arrived home to my diminutive split-level apartment, my small respite from a bewildering world, an overcrowded ring of keys jangled dreadfully as I removed it from the weather-worn loop of my denim jeans.

The overbearing silence of a sparsely furnished habitat. The desperate echoes of footsweeps against undecorated walls. The disquieting flicker of a poorly wired overhead incandescent light.

I sighed heavily and wilted into the armchair, its upholstery worn and frayed. Torturously, I raised my toe onto the matching ottoman and delicately lowered the glacially frigid bag of peas onto my foot. I stretched for the remote and pressed the colossal, rounded blood-red button at it's top. The television burst alive in a cacophony of urgent-news-bulletin melodies.

“They are calling him the Toe Smusher of Tallahassee. A rough & tumble man, posing as a conscientious gardener, with a vendetta against metatarsal bones. No one knows why the Smusher is so bound & determined to park his vehicle aloft the toes of unsuspecting pedestrians, but police are already reporting at least three separate incidents.”

Alas! I am number four. The victim of a man with a very particular bias. Woe is me! A man who I mistook as kind-hearted & gracious. A man I thought was a fellow traveller along the arduous path of navigating the callous human condition. I heaved the quarter-full soda can athwart the room. It spilled against the far wall.

How wrong I’d been...

Day 4 (Thursday):

“Look! Mom… It wasn’t my fault. I’m just a man with a heavy heart. And Morton’s Toe!”

I held the cellphone as far away from my face as I could while the three little ellipses blinked feverishly. I could feel the frantic energy on the other end, behind those little dots.

…

They disappeared for a moment, then returned.

…

GR33K F00T!

“Sure, ok, Mom. Some people call it Greek Foot. But other people also call it Morton’s Toe…”

…

ALWYS C0RR3CT1nG ME!!!

“Mom. I don’t care what it’s called. It’s not about the length of my toes…”

…ISN'T IT THO!?!

I took a long, deep breath, as I’d learned to do during these conversations. Nothing ever simply happened, I’d always somehow been responsible for my own misfortunes. I closed my eyes, loosened my shoulders and pulled the phone closer to try, one more time, to explain what had happened this morning.

“No. I was just walking, Mom. Having a think. Minding my own business. It’s been a helluva week. I needed to clear my head after the demotion at the peat moss bagging facility…”

…

…

…

U GOT DEMOTED!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

“Downsizing, Mom. Happening everywhere…”

OMFG FFS WTH $*%#

“Mom. Calm down. Can we get back to the topic at hand? The Toe Smusher of Tallahassee?”

:( :( :(

“Mom………”

…R THE PEAS HELPING?

“Yea, a little bit. Still hurts, though…”

IM SORRY THAT MAN RUNNED U OVER DEAR

(╥﹏╥)

♥

♥

♥

“Thanks mom.”

Day 5 (Friday):

As my mother’s ellipses disapopped for the last time, I tossed my cellphone onto my thunkin chair and turned to the window. Somewhere outside was a low rumbling, a lumbling, that shook the walls of my apartment. I parted the window blinds ever so slightly and leerypeery’d out, scanning the street.

A truck was idling, I screapsed when I saw it. It was the Smusher. Parked in my carplace. I frowled and ran out to confright the man.

By the time my toes hit the pavement, he was already out of his truck, arms openstretched. I became confuddled.

“What are you gittin at?”

“I’ve come to apologive you a gift.”

“A gift?! You are the Smusher!” I frowled deeper.

“No, no. I were’d the Smusher. Now, I am the Musher.”

While his truck continued to lumble, the man rushed toward me and mushed me real good between his openstretched arms.

“I’m confuddled. What is happening…?!”

“I were’d the Smusher. I’ve parkcrunched toes all my life. But, you, your excessively elongerated pointer toe, and your kindgrace have had an effect on me. I’ve seen the error in my ways. I’ve reformerated!”

I was softshocked. I was embrackled. The man’s embraciousness felt as comfortozy as his earlier kiss had. Something just felt osoright about it all.

“I apologift you this hugenhug. I vow never to Smush again. Only to Mush. Only to keep you and your mangly longtoe safe from here on out… Will you have me?”

I tiny dripple formed in my eyepit. It traced a line down my cheek as I deeplooked the Musher.

“Of course I will, you foolovely man!”

This is a story I wrote for the NYC Midnight 500-Word Challenge last year. That challenge gives you 3 prompts and 48 hours to write a 500-word short story. The prompts I received were Genre: Science Fiction, Object: Toothpaste, Action: Re-heating. This story was awarded first place in its cohort. I’m proud of this one. I hope you enjoy it too! I recommend listening to this song while you read.

I’ll see you back here next week for a debrief on the book launch!

Things didn’t sour until we had to ration the toothpaste.

Marjorie and I had trained well together. When paired for the mission, we’d celebrated. We were both pragmatists, rural kids. After the crash, we’d known it would take time for Earth to realize we weren’t headed back home, let alone send aid through the wormhole. We’d worked together to survive.

As our comforts disappeared, though, tensions rose. I nagged. She snored. After three years marooned here, we’d discussed everything but religion and politics. Arguments erupted. Wayward looks, ‘Good mornings’, simply sitting together—everything came with a little drop of poison, a little bitterness.

***

She rolled the tube, pressing down all her weight with each fold, until she reached the top. This had been the ritual for weeks. A tiny dollop squeezed out.

“Only enough for one…” Marjorie said matter-of-factly.

We stared at each other, a minefield of resentments between us. I could feel the grime on my molars.

“You let me have this, I’ll re-heat the last bean packet for you.”

Marjorie considered, then handed me the tube. I walked away so she wouldn’t have to watch.

***

An hour later, I could still taste the mint on my index finger. Marjorie sat at the fold-out table with a small bowl of steaming brown beans in maple flavouring. When she went in for a bite, I put my finger in my cheek to remind myself it was a fair deal.

“Good?”

“Incredible.” She exhaled a mouthful of warmth. The smell was too much. I suited up and headed for the airlock.

***

My makeshift shelter was a brief but heavy walk away.

In a game of Ro Sham Bo, Marjorie had won the forward hull of the ship, where the fission reactor still provided power and life support. The aft fuselage had separated in the crash-landing. I’d jury-rigged pieces into something nearly airtight and had buried it in dirt, but I still wore my survival suit inside. While I slept at Marjorie’s, hunkered down there during radiation storms, I spent most days in “The Bunkie”.

The twilight zone of Kepler-186f was cold; blue everywhere, frigid and sparse. There was water ice here, but no flora, no fauna. It was survivable, but not the Goldilocks paradise that Earth had hoped we’d find.

I sealed the repurposed porthole behind me and collapsed into my hammock.

My comms clicked.

“When the time comes,” Marjorie said, “I can’t die in here, with you out there.” Her tone had shifted, unsteady.

I sighed.

“We’ve got plenty of dried apricots, nuts, water. We still have time…”

Radio static.

“…We’ll be OK, Marj.”

She sighed.

“There’s a couple beans left,” she said.

“They’re yours. We had a deal.”

“I’m extending the olive branch,” she said.

“OK. I’ll be back over… Thank you.”

The comms clicked.

“Hey Marjorie,” I added, “did you wanna borrow my minty finger?”

A stifled, but not entirely resigned chuckle buzzed in my ear.

“Forget it. You can stay out there.”

She laughed again.

If you enjoyed this story, but haven’t yet grabbed your copy of Nothing Works, Everything Happens, please consider it! The book is a whole lot like what you just read, but a whole lot more of it. Thanks!

Buy Nothing Works, Everything Happens

For today’s post, I thought I’d share a story that ended up on the editing room floor pretty early on in the process (for a few reasons I might explain in a later post). Though it’s not in the collection, this story still gives a good impression of what you’ll find within the book. For your enjoyment, “Back In A Few”. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Back In A Few

My brother, Marv, was always the type to wade a bit too far out into the weeds. He’d fixate on things. His computer, ancient history, whatever his current obsession was, he’d let things take over his entire life. When he had a new project, he’d forget that the rest of the world existed.

Just before he disappeared, it was time travel. He was reading too much Asimov, watching too many obscure documentaries. He’d rant about the fallacy of the continuum something-or-other. He’d say things like, “Moments aren’t points on a line, they’re bodies with gravitational fields. If you remember hard enough, they can pull you back.” I didn’t understand any of it back then. He’d talk, I’d nod. We’d crack a joke about how, if he kept it up, he was going to wake up in the future someday.

It got weird in those last few weeks. He’d been living in my basement apartment at the time, and I’d see lights on at all hours of the night. He’d come up to raid my cupboards at 3 a.m. “Morning, Marv!” became “When did you last leave the house, Marv?”.

And then one morning, I found a note from him taped to my back door.

Sis,

Heading out for a day or two. Gonna try a thing. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ll be back before you have time to worry.

If I remember, I will pop in and grab the Old Man a present from Buck’s—for tomorrow. Sorry, I’ve been so distracted lately.

Love ya, back in a few.
Marv

And that was it. Marv vanished.

A year later, 2023, on the same date of his disappearance, I found it again. I was heading to work, and there it was, written on a long grocery receipt, taped to the back door with a crooked strip of green painter’s tape. I stopped dead in my tracks, all my arm hair stood on end. Marv’s last note.

I went digging through the bedroom closet. I knew I’d kept that note in a box of Marv’s stuff. At first I thought I must have been sleep-walking in the night or something, that I’d dug it out and stuck it to the back door without remembering. People do strange things on the anniversaries of things like their brother disappearing. Memories get intense. Heightened emotions and all that…

The real shock came when I found the same note in that box in the closet. A duplicate; same receipt, same tape, same handwriting. I couldn’t have re-written this during a sleepwalk. I was standing there, holding one in each hand, re-reading to make sure they were the same.

Sis,

Heading out for a day or two. Gonna try a thing. I don’t know how long, but I’ll be back before you worry.

Remember, I will pop in and grab the Old Man a present from Buck’s. Sorry, I’ve been so distracted.

Love ya, back in a few.
Marv

It was shorter. There were words missing. The message was the same, but there were bits left out. Why?! At that time, I was mostly frightened. Who was doing this and how the hell did they get in my house? I hadn’t yet rented out the apartment. I lived alone. I locked the doors and had a little crash out. I remember calling in sick to work. I remember calling Dad.

The really salty part was that Marv had poofed into thin air the day before our dad’s birthday. Dad never got a present that year. In the midst of a missing person’s case, I felt so bad about having nothing for Dad to unwrap. Strange, the things you remember…

And so, another year later, on that same morning, I was half-expecting it when I found the third note stuck on my door. I dug the other two out of a pantry drawer and compared again.

Sis,

Out for two. I don’t know how, but I’ll be back for you. Have time.

If I remember, I pop in present. From tomorrow. Sorry I’ve been so late.

Love ya,
Marv

I spent that whole day staring at these notes. The original, the near-duplicate, and now a third version. Why rewrite this note every year? Why leave stuff out? Why would anyone but Marv be doing this?

Eventually, I just read the fresh note for what it was.

He’d been gone for two years, out for two. He wanted to come back, I’ll be back for you. The next bit was the part that Marv would have loved, and that I couldn’t believe I was thinking. The note looked like it was saying he could travel back, pop in present, from the future, from tomorrow, if he remembered.

If he could travel back, why not just stay and talk to me? Maybe he couldn’t. Why only come once a year? I wrestled with it for a long time. My brother had got himself stuck in the future and was time-travelling back to communicate with me by leaving out words he’d written on a crumpled old receipt. I called Dad again and rambled to him for an hour. His response was simply, “People do strange things on anniversaries…”

It took months, but I actually came to believe it. I even wrote Marv back. I asked him everything. It all poured out. Was he really stuck in the future? What was it like there? What was he doing? I went to Buck’s, the hardware store, and bought a weatherproof, fireproof, lifetime-warranty lockbox—something that could keep the notes safe for the foreseeable future, carry them to whatever future Marv had waded too far into. I put my notes in there and left it by the back door.

Last year, by the time Marv Day rolled around, I was completely on board with the whole time travel thing. Dad & I each had our theories about how we might get Marv back. The lockbox had grown full of additional questions we’d written out and left for him. Instead of answers, we got distance.

Sis,

Heading out. I long. I worry.

If I remember, I will. From tomorrow. Sorry, distracted.

Love,
Marv

Marv’s messages were getting shorter. He was losing his recall; and with it, his connection to us in the past.

Dad & I talked it over for days. He reminded me that Marv probably had a life wherever he was. There were 364 other days in his world, not just the one day of the year we’d hear from him. Dad mentioned Mom and how long he’d sat in the memory of their life together before letting his own life move forward. He said, memory fades, but we still love as it does. Marv was Marv; things took over. Marv fixated, but he’d write again.

I sat by the back door and wrote down everything I could in vivid detail. The green tape, the dim light, the hum of the fridge; I wrote it all down on one last note. Everything that might spark his memory. I stuffed it in the lockbox and left it for him. That’s all I could do.

I don’t know how far he might have gone, but Marv’ll be back in a few.