The man sat in his chair staring at the multitude of screens before him. All the screens stared back at him all reading the same messages: ERROR! CANNOT COMPUTE! INSUFFICIENT INFORMATION!
The creak of the chair echoed in the vast area as the man let out a loud sigh into the empty space. Surrounded by so many beeping and blinking machines the man did not know what to do; he was ready to give up. Ready to give up on the problems the world had left him to fix. His withered and wrinkled face sagged with his frown as many rolls manifested upon his brow. These machines that were supposed to be so smart, so able and efficient in helping him, helping society, had failed him in every aspect.
“Do you require assistance sir? I heard a noise of distress,” a concerned voice called from the doorway behind him.
In came a blank faced machine, this one’s purpose to be more human like making it easier to be calm around, and came to rest in front of the elder. The old man thought it comical that the robot could voice ‘concern’ but couldn’t make its lifeless features move to form that expression. The robot was a rusted piece of garbage that needed many repairs, its gears and circuits long since rotted and decayed, but it was ill equipped to do so itself, so it deteriorated more and more year after year.
“No, I don’t need any help. When have you ever been of any use to me anyways?” the man growled in spite at the robot.
“Very well sir. Call me if you need anything,” the robot bowed respectfully and shifted back out the door.
The man let out another despairing sigh as he looked back up at his many screens, still blinking the same messages. He raked his hand through his fading hair and pulled it down to see a clump of white, matted follicles in his palm. He felt his grief rise up again and he prepared to just call it quits, to turn off all the lights, the blinding lights that could never come close to the brilliance and beauty of the star blocked out in the days of his youth. He looked at the small button on his chair and once again found a ironic thought. Such a small thing held the power to end it all, as is such with small buttons. It had to have been a small button that caused so much damage to his vibrant world. This button didn’t have quite that affect, then again, it would be just as affecting to him as other buttons. Life was supposed to be something cherished, and perhaps it would have been, had there been a life to live. All the old man saw the button cutting off was a bunch of machines.
“Sir,” the robot from before called out tentatively, “I have to make sure everything is regulation with the machines for your ailments.”
“Come in God, and after you’re done we’re going to try out the last test,” the old man answered.
“But sir, none of the others have worked and it would not be logical to waste any more of the energy we have. You need as much as you can keep.”
“Do as I say!” the old man snapped.
“Yes sir.”
The robot fully entered and fiddled with several of the machines hooked up and laced in the man’s back and chest, checking and making sure that his lifetime companion was well taken care of. In his memory banks he could remember seeing the man before him as a young child going about his adolescence until adulthood where he had lived a life of fear. Where the two of them hid from the realities that shouldn’t have been real. He remembered the day he really looked up and saw what his friend had become. He became the withered prune he was now. In the past he might have voiced his thoughts in a humorous tone but the man had long since lost all sense of the feeling. The robot sometimes wondered who was more human now? He, who was given artificial intelligence and the ability to share the human mind, or the old man before him, born human, now needing as many gears as he did just to survive and function day to day. Once done making sure everything was functioning correctly the robot was promptly pushed out of the way as the man had his chair wheel itself to a table cluttered with many different vials. The scraping of the wires protruding from his back and chest flowed through the wide space until he came to a stop and began searching through the mess on his table. After some time it seed he finally had what he needed and the chair wheeled itself back to its original position.
The old man stared back up at the screens for a moment and then had himself turned to a set of doors. The doors scanned him and the robot before shifting open slowly only to stop midway. The old man gave a curious glance to the doors as they had never done this before. These doors always opened and closed dutifully after scanning and making sure everything was safe. Not once had he ever had any problems out of these doors, and then suddenly, they fell. The two sliding arches of the doors fell off their belts and slammed to the ground on both sides of the chair. The only reason the robot and the man weren’t smashed to their relative bits was because of the small opening the doors had made before malfunctioning. Both the man and the robot stared at the fallen doors for a time before the man shook himself out of his stupor.
“Come on God,” he demanded and they made their way through.
Inside this room heaps of scrap metal sat in various places, rising like the skyscrapers that used to stand a testament to man’s capabilities.
“Sir are you sure you want to do this?” the robot asked staring at the huge piles of failed experiments.
“Quiet,” the old man ordered.
On his lap sat a vial of quickly flashing liquid. The liquid inside changed colors from green to blue to brown to white and so on and so forth. The old man picked up the vial and emptied out the contents into the palm of his hands. The liquid puddled in his hand for a bit until solidifying into a large teardrop shape. The old man then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an identical object in shape. The only difference between the two was that the first was made of different patches of color like the the original liquid while the other was a distinct silver color. He set both together in his hand and the merged together like magnets. There was a quick flash of light and then the end product was a glowing white teardrop in the palm of the man’s hand. The chair wheeled over to a decent sized hole set aside from the piles of metal. The floor, being metal itself, looked as if it had been carved out and smoothed until it was the crater that was there before them. The man and the robot went to the edge of said crater and peered down into it. The man took the object in his hand and threw it down into the crater, then he reached behind himself and grabbed onto one of the many wires attached to him.
“Sir please reconsider,” the robot tried to reason with the old man.
“This is my choice and I will create this life in my own image God,” the old man snarked at the robot before yanking a batter out of his many circuits.
The robot turned his head as the man threw down the battery with the teardrop. On his chair was a switch and he flicked it. The old man tensed up as if a heavy strain was being placed on him and out of the chair flowed blue sparks of electricity into the small crater. Finally it all stopped and the man let out a loud gasp as his body finally relaxed and he laid limp on his chair.
Inside the crater a pool of sparks had covered the battery and teardrop and small sparks flew out and into the air before disappearing. The pool was swallowed into the ground and nothing was left in the hole, then suddenly the ground began to shake. The piles around crumbled further and became a great mass of metal surrounding the man and the robot. Out sprang a large silver and brown base. Bulky and strong limbs spiraled out of it and seemed to reach for the sky as if searching for something, anything to grasp on to. The figure kept climbing and climbing and continued to sprout out more limbs, only these were smaller and the grew small specks. The specks shook creating a rushing and mighty sound that the old man could barely remember, from a time where the wind used to actually flow and those specks had a name. Finally the shaking stopped, the limbs stopped appearing, and there stood something beautiful. A strong sturdy base, multiple limbs, large and tiny specks vibrating in the gleaming light, it all stood there. The limbs wide and inviting as if beckoning to the man to come home and then the glowing stopped. A loud and desperate groan resonated throughout the room as the color drained from this great beast. Soon all the specks started to fall and drifted to the ground, leaving behind only a skeleton of a great creature. Its many limbs still outstretched, still searching desperately, until those too started to fall. Withered and weak they broke on impact with the ground leaving only a tall body of a once beautiful thing.
The man stared at his creation with a blank expression. After everything, after all those breakthroughs, after all that trying, he had failed. That was his final chance to right the wrongs of those before him. He couldn’t even find it within himself to despair; it was all over.
He let out a self-hating laugh before turning to his robot, “You know I can’t believe they named you God. They thought you’d be our savior.”
“Have i failed in my service to you sir?” the robot asked having a panicked lilt to its voice.
“No. That was a flaw with the humans. You did nothing wrong. Could you push this button for me God? I can’t do it anymore,” the old man asked.
“It was never your job to do so Adam,” the robot replied and pushed the button.
Adam stared up at his creation as the light faded out of his eyes, as the light faded from everything. The whirring and beeps ceased to sound as all the lights faded. He looked up with a blank stare. In his final moments the robot sank to the ground beside the old man. As all his functions started to power down fluid flowed from his upturned eyes and he cried at the loss of his friend.
Iris stood alone in her room, too tired to take off her shoes, even though the two inch heels were killing her. It had been a long day, and not because of the endless hours she had spent listening to what felt like an endless court case and defending her client. No, that part was easy. The trouble came when she ran half an hour late to dinner with Ray, her boyfriend. What was even worse than her late arrival was his news.
"Iris, listen," Ray had said, taking both of her hands in his. "You've heard about Creekstone, that movie company that's out in LA?"
She had smiled, wondering what on earth he was up to. "Um, yeah?"
"I applied to a job there, they've got good opportunities."
"In, in LA?" The shock was beginning to hit her. "That would mean moving..."
"It's not ideal, but, there's not much work for me here."
Iris slumped down onto the bed at the memory of those words. We live in New York city. She thought. There's plenty of work here.
For the rest of the meal he had tried to comfort her. "Nothing's certain yet..." "We could make a long distance relationship work."
Iris kicked off her shoes in anger. "I don't care," she said to thin air. "I want him here." She sighed and slowly raised herself off the bed and looked in the mirror. "I can't convince him to stay," she told her reflection. "I love him too much to do that." Iris rarely cried but she felt tears well up in her hazel eyes. "But I love him too much for him to leave." She sobbed. "There must be something I can do!" She flopped against the side of her bed like a fairy tale princess whose father has forbidden her from marrying the prince in disguise.
I can't call the company and tell him what a horrible producer he is, because he's good at it. I can't call his parents in Washington to convince them to convince him to stay; they'd probably support the move because he'd be closer, she thought hopelessly. Suddenly she lifted her eyes. "If I can't convince anyone here on Earth, maybe, just maybe, I can convince You, Lord!"
She stood up and started pacing the room. "Now, how does one convince GOD to keep a man in New York City? I guess I just need to prove that we're meant to be together! That we're soul mates, and all that good stuff. It could require a lot of convincing..." Iris laughed, "Oh, I'm a lawyer, this will be a piece of cake!"
Looking up at her ceiling she began, "Dear GOD, or Your Honor, I am here today to make a case for why Ray should NOT move to Los Angeles, and I will be making that case by proving to You" -She pointed her finger up at the sky for emphasis- "That we're meant to be together. Now I know this is probably not what you're used to, but I have won quite a few hopeless cases in the courtroom, so winning my own case right here shouldn't be too much of a problem."
Iris stood up a little straighter. "If two people are meant to be together, than nothing should separate them. Therefore I believe that I can show You that my client, excuse me, Roy, my boyfriend and I are meant to be together. I will be doing this by showing that we have the three things needed in a successful relationship. First, passion and romance. As we can clearly see in the example of every single candle-light dinner date we have ever been on, we definitely are romantic. And we are very passionate about each other, thus the whole reason why I'm presenting this case!" Iris was about to move on what she thought, is that enough evidence? How am I supposed to officially present it?
Then she realized that it was very unlikely GOD received a lot of prayers like this one, so he'd probably be just fine with only verbal evidence. After all, He was all knowing. For a final piece of evidence under her first argument she added, "And Your honor, er, LORD, we did take a very long walk in the park last week, which I think anyone would agree is very romantic."
Iris paused, as if awaiting some response. Realizing that this was pointless she continued. "Another very important thing to have in a relationship is teamwork." For lack of a better word. She added silently. "All couples in life must be teams. Ray and I know how to work well together, like when we made spaghetti." Okay, not the best example, since we nearly set his apartment on fire when we forgot about the garlic bread in the oven. "We also helped organize a charity drive at his old job last Christmas." Though his boss did get pretty upset when the mountain of cans fell over and damaged the new floor. Iris bit her lip. There had to be some example of their teamwork that didn't end in a minor disaster. "We've almost never missed a date together, even when we're both super busy. Even if I'm running late he'll still wait for me. Or if he really has to cancel, I make sure we reschedule." She smiled, thinking of all the happy times they had shared together. "We never even made an agreement about it, we just know how important it is to each other to spend time together, and I think that's a pretty good example of teamwork." She looked up at the ceiling, wondering if GOD was smiling as much as she was.
"Are You convinced yet?" She wondered aloud, all of her typical courtroom formality melting into gentle charm. "I have convinced myself more than enough, but You may not be, so, I suppose I will present one last argument..."
She took a deep breath, her heart beating in bliss. "The third thing that every relationship needs," she whispered, "is love." "He loves me, and I'm not sure how to provide proof of that, because I just know." Straightening, she replaced her lovestruck smile with her everyday lawyer face. "But if You would like evidence, I can provide plenty; he tells me so very often how much he loves me, and he is always sure to spend plenty of time with me." Iris sighed, slipping in between an infatuated girlfriend and a firm defender of truth. "I suppose now, there is just one thing left to prove- how much I love him."
She swallowed hard, not realizing that although she had just poured out so much of her heart here was the final piece. "I've stuck with him for almost two years, through times when he's been rich enough to take me out to nice steak dinners and in times like these past few months, when he's struggling to find employment. I have spent so much of these past few years with him, and only fallen in love with him more every moment." Once more she felt tears form in her eyes, but she wiped away the first one that fell across her cheek. "Maybe I shouldn't have presented this case at all, because I know deep down I could never stop him from pursuing his dream, if that's what LA will be. I don't know if it is, but if so, You may need to just disregard everything I've said. I'm not sure anymore," Iris laughed through the tears. "Anyways, GOD, or Your honor, I rest my case. I do truly believe that Ray and I are meant to spend the rest of our lives together. I have fully convinced myself of that fact, so please LORD, be convinced of it too."
Saturday night, crickets chorusing in pleasant harmony by the creek. Saturday night, children playing by steps of their houses. Saturday night, football game on, the town cheering. Saturday night, Smith’s Grocery closing up early. Saturday night, the orchestra is practicing. Saturday night, sun setting quick. Saturday night, moon rising. Saturday night, settling. Saturday night. Silence.
Saturday night goes fast. Children sliding out of trees and into their beds. Ice cream dripping down their chins. Saturday night rests. Saturday night escapes. Fleeting, it wanders the week, waiting for its chance to arrive again. Saturday night. Nothing to be heard. Nothing to be seen. Waiting.
All he ever wanted was power; so he got power. He stole, he lied, and he killed, but never did he smile once.
His actions were hidden from the world, so he led an army of followers. Everybody loved him and no one could bring him down. Millions at his side? What more could he ask for? But even so, he never did smile once.
He came and he conquered; land after land were under his control. Any wish of his was granted. The world was on its knees and at his feet. It was all his, but still, never did he smile once.
Then the day came when the earth began to quake, and the trees and mountains around him began to crumble. He watched as his kingdom turned to ruins and his people turned to dust. The sky became dark and for the first time, he felt fear. He fell from his throne and drowned into the world that was once his. He searched frantically for help, but power could do nothing to save him that day. For right before he could breath his last breath, he finally realized the reason as to why he never smiled.
"Shh.. Stop struggling. It's going to be okay soon."
You're hurting me, Armani wanted to say. No words could find their way out of his squeezed throat.
"It's all going to be over very quickly. Your pain and heartache, gone forever. I've been watching you suffer for far too long. It's time I realize that death is the best gift I can give you as your best friend. It's for the best. Your soul will be released."
He's crazy. My best friend is crazy. After those thoughts ran through his head, Amrani's body succumbed to death.
"You are free now," he whispered, leaning over his best friend's dead body.
“Take this”, the man gasped as he lay on his deathbed and handed his little son a stopwatch that he always wore around his neck. “This is how much time you have left,” he motioned to the stopwatch. “Ignoring the gift of time can be a dangerous thing. Wear this stopwatch, for it will show you how much longer you have.”
With that, the old man took his last breath. The boy, Charles, stared at the stopwatch that had just started a new countdown. Years, months, days, minutes, seconds.
Charles wore the stopwatch, always. It made him feel secure. He became a risk taker. Nothing scared him, for the stopwatch showed he had a long life to live. As the decades passed, Charles knew that his time was running out. He was proud of having lived a full life. He spent the time with the people he loved, doing the things he loved.
As the stopwatch began it’s final ticks, Charles lay on his bed, smiling, surrounded by people he loved, ready for his end. The stopwatch stopped, but his heart was still beating. Everyone cheered, but not Charles. For the first time in his life, Charles was scared.
Spring four years ago, I was offered a job at a local environmental research center to test samples and run machinery. That was before the center’s budget cuts were announced and my coworkers were laid off one by one, a process I escaped from. Now it’s just Andrew and I in a white building filled with empty desks and computers, all an off-white that looks like the yellow of old age, but is really just the yellow of someone’s design choice. Andrew and I work in the lab of the building, a constantly humming set of rooms that, I think, might have given me tinnitus.
I work next to a river that runs a deep gray-blue in the spring and freezes over a pale turquoise in winter. Some areas are swampy with reeds growing twice my height and a plastic pathway mowing them down; some areas are foaming and white, with stones atop of rushing water that flows through man-sized pipes underneath.
The first week I came here, I bought a pair of leather boots to keep the red dirt surrounding of the waterbanks out of my socks. Almost immediately I had formed a habit of taking walks around the area after work, and sometimes before. The very first day I stood on the plastic pathway sturdy above the lapping water in an area freed by the reeds, mesmerized by the way the water ran so dark and reflected light in even domes, never staying still. I felt an urge to let myself fall in to touch my palms to the moving mud at the bottom of the river, even though I’m deathly afraid of drowning. Some teenagers found me once, torso half-draped over the plastic railing, just looking into the moving body. They must have thought that I was crazy.
Over the course of my weekday walks in the past four years, I’ve seen a lot of dogs, fishing rods, and older women gossiping in pairs that venture through the river. I’ve only met another person so transfixed with the water as I am once, last year. He was tall and disheveled, and his name was Jackie. He always had a smell in his hair, something like grease but a little like car engine. The first time I saw him was after work some time in February, when the January chill was relenting and the ice caved in around certain portions of the river.
He always had a smell in his hair, something like grease but a little like car engine. The ducks hated him. I saw him after work. Sometimes we talked about baseball, which he really knew nothing about, and sometimes we talked about the river. Sometimes he would turn his gray face down towards me and exhale something colored, always musty and pungent.
“Why do men fish here?” Jackie once asked.
“For sport,” I answered. “We warn them not to eat any of their catches.”
“Sport? I thought sport was baseball.”
“Sport is entertainment.”
“The fish die.”
“The men get diarrhea.”
It is now a bit after my one year anniversary of meeting Jackie, if you can call it that. He has greeted me every day after work in the same exact spot week after week, season after season. And as we approach summer, Jackie has been smelling stronger of gasoline - I decided gasoline was the name of the odor that always surrounded him after I discovered that my car suffered a fuel tank leak a few weeks ago when I went to get it washed. I thought it came from the slicked-back, shiny black hair he always sported, but the occasional whiff has spread throughout the air around him. I think it would be a bit rude to point it out. Instead, I yesterday all I mused about was the coming heat. Summertime is approaching. Summertime, when the river runs heavy and bright, full of active life and movement. The air gets hot and holds onto sharp smells closely. Birds are aplenty, and people of all ages come to stand by the rocks. Yet nobody is ever around when I meet Jackie.
A job of mine and Andrew’s is taking samples of the river water and soil every season for river quality check, and we chose today to do the deed. Andrew, a man with a dull sense of smell and the clumsy hands of a toddler, commented only on the refreshing feeling of dunking his arms into the water as a release from the humid, pulsing air around us. Summer had hit us with full force. Yet as the motorboat roared us through the river, all I could think about was the pungent smell rising from the water we touched. Feces, gasoline, and a whole array of chemicals I couldn’t name wafted up in the air and into my skin.
I left the white building today with sterilized hands (soap and sink water) and a fuzzy mind, exhausted from standing against the wind of the motor boat all day. Yet I still took my sweaty walk alongside the river. Jackie was there.
“Hello, Jackie.”
“Hello.”
“Why the long face?” I asked. Jackie never really smiles, but his complexion is unusually dark today. His eyes bulge out of his face when he stares at me.
Before I can ask another question, Jackie says, “I must be going soon.”
“Huh, even river freaks like you have appointments?” Honestly for all I knew, Jackie never strayed from his spot by the river. Although he technically isn’t allowed to stay in the area after dusk.
“I suppose an appointment is what it is,” Jackie says before the sides of his neck slit.
“The dissolved oxygen levels are low today,” I say. Andrew and I took them that afternoon when we were on the motorboat.
“I will do what I can to breathe.” Jackie’s skin reflects the summer sunlight. I wave goodbye and the water ripples.
Man to fish, dust to dust. The river runs black. My samples peak in the GC.
When I lived in the city, I never got to appreciate the stars. They were always there, hidden behind skyscraper lights and fogs of cloud, but I never saw them for what they really were. Not tiny dots in the sky, but jewels. Balls of fire and gas and beauty that we, as humans, can't quite comprehend.
Then I moved to the countryside. And I met Jupiter.
“Do you like it?” a voice asks quietly—speak of the devil—and it brings me back to reality. I can just barely make out his face in the darkness of the night; amber eyes the color of honey. Hair as pale as snow, stray strands disheveled on his forehead. I resist the urge to flatten them back in place.
We sit on a blanket laid out on the very peak of a hill stained with grass and past sunshine, waiting for the sky to open fire.
Meteor showers are hard to come by, and it’s Jupiter’s last day here. I want to make it count.
“Of course,” I say truthfully. “It’s beautiful.” He smiles at this, that warm smile that makes me weak in the knees and my stomach all fluttery. I hate how Jupiter makes me feel sometimes. So vulnerable, like the smallest touch could send me shattering to the ground. And with him gone, no one would be there to piece me back together.
I shake my head, blocking the thoughts out so that they can only infiltrate the back of my mind. No point in worrying about a future that hasn't happened yet, or missing someone that's still by my side.
"Look,” Jupiter says, gently shaking my shoulder. He sounds calm, but I can see the undertone of excitement behind his eyes. “It's starting.”
I turn my attention to the darkness of the sky, and it falls.
The stars make way for streaks of light painting themselves on a charcoal canvas, and then they fall in elegant swoops behind curving mountaintops and an invisible horizon. More and more come to await their ends, a seemingly never-ending shower.
Admist all the awe, Jupiter reaches for Jupiter’s hand. I let him take it, and our fingers intertwine. His touch is cold against my palm, but soothing nonetheless.
The shower ends, finally, though it must have only lasted for a brief moment anyway.
“How was it?” I say softly, exhaling a content sigh as I rest my head on Jupiter’s shoulder. It's not too bony, or too small. Just the perfect ratio to the crook of his neck, and okay, maybe it's a little odd that I’m examining the qualities of his shoulder, of all parts, but sometimes that happens when you fall in love with someone and you know it won't last. You spend so long thinking about how they are now, so that the parts you try to remember will stay ingrained in your memory when they depart.
That's when the cold finality of the situation sinks into my head—tonight is the last time that I will ever see him again. One moment, I hold his hand. The next, he will leave only remembrance as a reminder that he was once here. Coming and going as fast as a falling star.
I swallow, forcing myself to stand up.
“So,” I begin. “Are you...are you going soon?”
“Yes,” Jupiter says. His eyes flit to the sky, then back to me. “They should be here soon.”
"Ah,” I nod, sadly aware of how pathetic I sound. “I had fun today.”
“I did as well,” Jupiter agrees. He smiles. “It's fun, being with you.”
Damn it! I can feel my face flush, and my cheeks turning into the color of boiling tomatoes. Stupid, stupid, Jupiter. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I’ll miss you,” I finally blurt out, and as soon as the words comes out of my mouth, I internally facepalm. “Er, um, you—will you ever come visit again?”
“Perhaps,” Jupiter says thoughtfully. He looks at me curiously. “What does it feel like, to miss someone?”
I raise my eyebrows. "I mean, well, it's hard to explain, but I guess...it's kind of like you wish they were with you instead of somewhere else, and it sort of leaves you feeling empty, like they made up a part of you that's gone without them, and they're always on your mind..." I let my voice trail off. "Um. Yeah. Something like that."
"I see," Jupiter says. "Hmm. I suppose that means that I would—" A loud, whirring buzz—almost like helicopter blades spinning—cuts him off. It sounds like it's coming from above us, and when I look up, lights flash in the sky. Not stars, but something bigger. More foreboding.
The lights come closer, and in the pale reflection of the moon, I see the shadow of a ship. It's shaped like a saucer (talk about stereotypical), and maybe big enough to cover the same amount of land as a house.
It hovers above the hill that Jupiter and I stand on, and the look on his face is so melancholically beautiful that it makes me ball my hands into fists. Don't cry, don't cry, don't—shit, I'm crying, I'm crying, I'm—
"Sorry," Jupiter says softly, brushing my tears away with the tips of his fingers. "I didn't mean to make you upset."
"No, it's—it's not your fault," I say thickly, rubbing my nose with the back of my sleeve. "I just—I wish you weren't going."
"I wish I wasn't, either," he says sadly. A strange look flashed across his face, and for a moment, he seems...sheepish, almost.
"Sometimes," he hesitates. "Sometimes I wish I could cry."
"What? Why?"
"I always thought feeling emotion so strongly was a rather human trait," he explains. "And,..I suppose I've always wanted to feel human. I've wanted to be like you, Elliot."
"Though I know it's impossible," he adds quickly. "When I'm an alien to your planet. But I do dream about it sometimes. I despise that I do."
"Don't," I argue. "You're one of the most human people that I've ever met! What does it even mean to be human, anyway? A lot of people don't cry and they're as normal as everybody else. I think, if you can feel and love and communicate somehow, then—you're human."
"Love," Jupiter repeats. He looks at me intently, amber eyes glowing. "And what...what does it feel like to love?"
"God, do I have to explain everything to you?" I tease. The smile fades from my face. I sigh. "It's, like, when you care about someone so much that you'd do anything for them, even if it meant you had to sacrifice something. You couldn't imagine life without them, because, well, you love them."
Beeeep! The sudden noise makes me flinch as I realize it's coming from the ship. A signal for Jupiter to hurry, probably.
"I should go now," Jupiter says. He gives me the butterflies-in-my-stomach smile again, giving my hand one final squeeze. "Thank you for everything, Eliot. For teaching me about life, about your planet, about the stars."
"O—of course," I stammer. "It's nothing."
"And according to your definition of love," he continues, taking a step closer to me until his breath feels cooling against my skin.
"I think I love you."
Before I can even register what this, the ship casts down a ray of light, and it sweeps Jupiter up with it.
As he leaves the ground, his fingers slowly leaving mine, I search his face for what must be the last time.
A tear drops from the corner of his eye.
I must be imagining things, because it feels so impossible, really, but the ship has already disappeared as soon as I blink away my own tears, his silhouette gone with it.
The words echo in my head, over and over and over until it gets to the point where I should be tired of it, but I'm not.
I think I love you.
I look up at the view above my head, still glittering with twinkling stars, when the impossible happens yet again. A stray meteor makes its way across the horizon. I smile.
"I love you, too," I whisper, and I hope that somehow, he hears me.
Your world is falling apart, yet you seem to be the only one noticing it.
The ground around you is crumbling away to an endless darkness, the sky above is shattering into pieces, but people pay no mind, as if nothing is happening. They make no sound or motion as they are swallowed by the void below.
You try to escape, to run away from this calamity, but it’s only a matter of time before the ground crumbles beneath your feet, and you start to fall as well.
As you fall, memories start to rush back to you, partying with your friends, your wife’s laugh, the burn of alcohol, an argument with your wife, driving home alone, a rapidly approaching, blinding light, everything going so fast and so slow at the same time, and the rhythmic beep of a heart rate monitor.
The small pinprick of light that you knew as your world starts to fade away, and just as you are about to be swallowed by the endless deep, you hear a voice:
“Are you sure you want to do this, miss?”
“Yes, it’s been 4 years.”
Your life flashes before your eyes, and everything fades to black.
Perhaps it was due to the rise of cinemas or mainstream television, but the men and women of Rolling Hills in the late 1900’s seemed to prey on bold news, bold accessories, and bold clothes - though on a much lower scale in liberality.
And through the chaos that encased them day after day, a young man held onto his lifelong dream of being amongst the world’s handful of finest writers, in hopes that he could quit his job at the local newspaper office.
The man had just arrived to work and began hastily flipping through pages of the trending news to reach a small section on page seven, wherien authors paid to have excerpts from their latest books published.
A rotund figure approached him and tapped his finger lightly on top of his head.
“You are but a rookie writer at best, Theo! It is time to focus on a real job - would you go make some calls for me?”
His boss proceeded to push him out of the door, placing a cigarette in his hand.
He paused at the door’s frame and looked down at his palm then back up. His boss quickly replaced it with a rolled up piece of paper and motioned to the telephone booth across the street.
Theo rushed out and waited patiently for a group of businessmen to cross before him, only to hear noisy chatter grow increasingly loud as he approached the telephone booth. Behind the booth, a woman clad in a red vest too loose for her small frame exited the Rolling Hills theatre.
“Excuse me miss, but what’s all the fuss about?”
“Boy, are you a writer?” she asked.
“I would like to think so - “
“A fine young writer like you must enter the competition. I hear the prize is a fruitful one,” she looked up at him with bright, child-like eyes.
“It seems our world is much too busy with new Hollywood today,” she called over her shoulder as she bustled away.
And so the young man began devising a plan that would distract his world from the hustle and at the ripe age of twenty-two, Theo created a pen name.
“Angus Schlep,” he revealed to his youngest sister.
“Like Guy de Maupassant!” Marline exclaimed.
He paused for a moment and nodded, “Yes, I suppose. Marline, you’ll visit me when I become famous, isn’t that right?”
“Theodore,” she laughed to herself, “if you manage to win this I shall be the first fan knocking at your door.”
Marline reached over and fixed a stubborn strand of hair atop her brother’s hair and urged him out the door, “There are only three hours left of the day!”
Theo, with a couple hours left to write a fruitful prize-winning story, walked briskly into the spare room located in the back of the theatre when a blinding flash stopped him. He looked around - numerous young men were having their photos taken and being urged towards rows of tables messily set up. He sat down in the far corner and wrote what he already considered his greatest work, a rather sarcastic tale of a man who achieves unwanted fame because he had the same name as a successful writer’s pen name.
As the red-vested lady had mentioned the morning before, large letters had been sprawled across the next day’s newspaper: “Congratulations to Rolling Hills’ own Angus Schlep!”
Theo’s boss’s eyes met his own and with a confused look on his face, his boss shouted “My glasses - quick! Here boy, how is it that this one here has your face?”
Theo repeatedly scanned the black-and-white photograph plastered onto the front page and frantically crossed the street to phone Marline.
Yet, to his dismay, his eyes surveyed a freshly-painted Ford resting outside the theatre. A lean man in a solid blue suit coat scurried out to shake his hand.
The man resembled a cane, Theo thought to himself, with the way his long body hunched over the steering wheel.
After a drive that seemed to surpass hours, Theo was taken to a hotel he did not know the name of, on account of him being rushed inside to avoid reporters. Without a doubt, hopeful men and women everywhere were all anticipating a word from Angus Schlep himself.
From behind Theo, a muffled voice similar to Marline’s called, “Mr. Schlep!”
He turned around to face a pale young woman instead, who whispered into his ear, “Do not worry, Angus! You will have plenty of time to address all the reporters at the dinner tonight.”
Theo imagined a dining hall larger than any he had seen before. This one was filled with important men, packed like sardines, whose biggest problems in life were most likely deciding between a corduroy jacket with leather buttons or a double-breasted suit.
The woman introduced herself as Annelise and informed him that she was to be his first assistant. He hesitated to shake her hand and instead asked, “Miss, how am I supposed to be dressed for this ... dinner tonight?”
She was looking at him with the same childlike eyes as everybody before had been.
“I believe the suits in your closet are equally as fashionable as the jackets, Mr. Schlep,” she motioned to the suite behind him and smiled softly, “but corduroy is of desire these days!”
Theo managed a weak smile in return and watched as Annelise carefully closed the door behind her, leaving the now famous writer alone in his room. He sat by the door and eavesdropped on the excited small talk outside until it died down.
Though having finally acquired a promising career, Theo found himself lonely without a Marline. He missed a comparatively quiet Rolling Hills, where he was known as the humble and conservative man.
But Angus Schlep, who had been ushered into the fanciest hotel room in all of the city, seemed to be the most famous and boldest man emerging in Hollywood.