Story a Day

Sarah was doing laundry. As she measured the powdered soap, she remembered she was supposed to call Michelle today. Sarah put down the plastic cup and reached into her jeans pocket. The phone rang. It was Michelle.

“Hi, Michelle.”

‘Hi, you want to get lunch soon?”

“Sure, I’ll be right over.”

The two girls walked to the Greek deli on the corner and ordered dolmades and sodas. They sat at the deli’s only table and ate, making prolific use of the tiny, square paper napkins in the old aluminum dispenser.

“I wonder what Alison is doing later,” Sarah said. She reached for her phone. As she was scrolling for Alison’s number, she got a text message: What are you up to? It was from Alison.

“That’s so weird,” said Sarah. “Twice today I’ve gotten my phone out to call someone, and that person has called me right then.

Michelle wiped olive oil from her lips. “That’s just the microwaves coming from the phone when it’s about to ring. Someday the whole species will be able to predict that.”

“Ha. Only if it helps me reproduce.”

“How could it not?”

“What do you mean?”

“If it helps you communicate, it will help you fuck. And besides, it’s not like you’re the only one who can do this already.”

“Wow,” Sarah said, as they left the deli and went to hang out with Alison. “I have a mutant superpower.”

This eminently stupid story has been postdated to appear on Friday, June 6. The author will be away from her computer until Monday, June 9.

image: Milica Sekulic on flickr

The shopkeeper looked at his screen and gave Tommy a very funny look, but he did let Tommy buy the pack. Outside, as Tommy shook a cheap, dirty-tasting fag out of the box, he looked over his shoulder. The merchant was making a phone call. Tommy lit the cigarette and headed out to enjoy the day.

Later, he went to buy a pint. The bartender shook as she handed over the sloshing glass. Her eyes darted back and forth. Then she went to clean glasses at the far end of the bar, keeping an obvious eye turned on Tommy. Tommy tried to enjoy his beer.

A hand rested on his shoulder. “You should come with us,” said a friendly voice. It was a police officer. “You’re wanted for armed robbery.”

At the station, Tommy tried to explain himself. He was sixteen and still went to school. He was not a violent criminal.

“If you’re underage,” the sloppy officer said, sloshing milky tea into his saucer, “What are you doing out of school, smoking?”

He had him there.

The officer snapped his fingers. “I get it. It’s the face software. You just look like this robber, that’s all. Don’t go smoking and drinking, though. And stay in school, now.” The officer seemed slightly flustered as he shooed the boy out.

Then Tommy stood blinking int he sunlight, wondering what this resemblance would mean for the rest of his life, and whether the two of them would keep looking the same as they aged. What if the other man committed murder? What if Tommy didn’t have an alibi?

He also wondered if this other man would be able to buy a beer, the next time he tried.

image: this Daily Mail article

idea: this Boing Boing post

We thought it would be great having a time machine. But there was one major downside.

I don’t mean like the butterfly effect. That’s a big exaggeration, as far as I can tell. I mean, when we got back from the first trip, people were wearing pants and shirts instead of unitards. But whatever. You expect reality to change just a little, when you start visiting the past. We could deal.

And so far there haven’t been any problems with people meeting themselves, or sleeping with their grandparents, or preventing their own births, et cetera. “All that stuff is very Shakespearean,” Connor liked to say. “It makes good drama, but it doesn’t happen in real life.”

The problem is that time machine has bugs.

Imagine driving through the desert on a road trip, listening to your favorite song on the car speakers. Suddenly, your car battery dies. You roll to the shoulder, and you stop. You think you passed a mechanic a few miles back. But still you panic. Your heart beats faster and you ask questions. Is there enough water to get to fuel? Is there enough money to get home? What if there isn’t?

Now imagine that, instead of Death Valley, you are stranded in 400 A.D. You don’t have antibodies for the viruses, and you don’t speak any languages.

Connor and I shipped the machine UPS to Rome. We wanted to talk to early Christians. We flew there, picked it up, climbed inside, and set the time. Then we climbed out.

It was broken.

image: Leo Reynolds on flickr

Things moved fast from the twenty-first century on. Once they got over their religious prudery, people started making one innovation after another. It was cloning organs on demand one year, extending life to a hundred and thirty the next. It seemed like science fiction when they said on the news that one wealthy old man would live forever by uploading his consciousness onto a computer.

Once he did it, he said, “wow, guys, this is great. You should try it.”

Five years after that, uploading yourself was all the rage. The very rich were doing it before they even got old.

We had quite the nest egg then, what with Uncle Walter, rest his soul, making all that oil money. But even so, we could only afford to give one member of the family the gift.

Who would live forever: Hank, me, or one of the children?

I made a good case for Loretta, since she had the highest I.Q. But then I turned right around and made the case for me and Hank, since we had less time—the kids had years and years to make their own damn nest egg.

Finally, they came out with the budget plan, where up to four people can share a space. We asked them to cram us all in together.

It’s nice to have eternity and everything, but I have to say, it’s a little crowded. We’ve got only so much RAM for the four of us, and Junior always wants to play his video games. Plus, no one wants to listen to you when you’re not even human, so we’ve only got each other.

Maybe when we make our next big break, we can afford a bigger place.

images: Savannah Grandfather on flickr, estherase on flickr.