When he asked, he was told the wall cordoned off the owner’s property. How far did the property line extend? Farther then you can see. Was there a quarry nearby? More questions were usually met with violence.
Tools and materials had always been there when he awoke. Once he cleared five feet, it was necessary to use the scaffolding, and a counterweight pulley system, which could be wheeled as he moved further down.
The physical taxation took its toll in the beginning but now only plagued him during times of sickness. The mental fatigue broke him repeatedly, and he would flail about at night. Long ago, he stopped directing his ire at the owners. He’d never met them, wasn’t even sure they existed, save for hearsay and conjecture. Spero kept his focus on work and bided his time.
Furman
The Overseer had a sawed-off shotgun with him at all times. He sat in a fold-out chair adjacent to a red and white cooler full of beer. Spero never saw him eat. A beach umbrella jutted out of the ground next to him. Every so often, he’d play a dinged-up boom box which only got a classic rock station half of the time. He was permanently red by the sun and the drink. Blonde hair, almost white, in a crew cut, wraparound sunglasses, and an enormous gut. Hairy, unconscionably hairy. He wore a brace on his left leg. By eleven in the morning, he’d already be drunk, but he would never pass out or get sick. The Overseer lived in a trailer, only thirty feet away from Spero’s. Both rickety old Jetstreams moved in conjunction with the wall’s growth. Otherwise, the land was sprawling green immensity.
The first few times Spero attempted to mutiny, The Overseer shed his haze and beat Spero senseless. Underneath the doughy frame, The Overseer was carved from granite. Though crippled, he still moved swiftly. Spero had long since given up on a direct attack.
Spero fit another stone to the random courses, pinning it in place with the mortar and smaller stones set in the joints. The sound of scraping occasionally muted by the wind.
“I always feel like somebody’s watching me.” The Overseer echoed Michael Jackson’s voice until static disrupted the song from the boom box.
The Overseer’s name was Furman, but Spero preferred to keep him nameless. It would make it easier on the day he finally got his revenge.
“Just keep thinking about the next stone,” Furman said as if he could read Spero’s mind.
His fingers long since calloused over and deformed, Spero gripped the dense rock and lifted it onto the newly formed row. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he positioned it to fit snug amongst its brethren.
“I work from nine to five, hey Hell, I pay the price,” proclaimed the tinny speakers.
The Overseer produced another beer from his cooler and popped the top. Foam spilled on his stained tank top. Spero picked up another rock. Sometimes, after being pushed too far, he would throw his rock at Furman. Most of the time, he missed. One time Furman shot the stone into fragments. Another time it connected. Spero was laid out for a week after that reprisal.
He’d spend hours, days, contemplating the correlations of size and weight of the perfect stone which would achieve the greatest velocity while maintaining enough force to do any permanent damage. But the opportunity rarely presented itself. Furman always kept his distance and the shotgun pointed. Always one step ahead, warning Spero to keep his mind on work just around the time thoughts of revenge began to manifest. One day, though, he would find a suitable weapon and his wrath would be satiated. Until then, he’d have to stomach arduous work and horrible renditions of ’80s songs.
Spero
He’d have the same dreams each night: memories of a man taking care of him; possibly his father. He had no memories of his mother. There was only the man whose face was blurry but exuded kindness. There was a strength about this man. Youth. Vigor. His father had been working on the wall. Spero watched until he got old enough, then began to help. Eventually, the memories ceased and a blank spot occupied the timeline until Spero was fully grown. Dim recollections of a third man and an altercation. He could sense a violent trauma responsible for the lost period of memory.
At the end of the day, when he returned to his trailer, he’d have a cupboard stocked with canned goods. He never saw anyone come or go. After cooking a meal on his hotplate, he’d retire to his mattress and read; something else he must have picked up from his father, but like masonry, never remembered doing so.
Occasionally, he’d have a vivid dream in which he killed Furman. Except it wasn’t him or Furman but men who resembled them. Hands would finally wrap around a large enough stone which would hurl toward the captor. The accompanying sound would always change depending on the trajectory. Sometimes it would be two pieces of wood clapping together, and other times the biting of a fresh apple. Scrambling, picking up the stone, and bashing, but Spero always awoke before the final blow.
The following morning, the whole process would begin again. It would continue for the rest of his life, or until he’d paid his debt.
The Owners
When he was younger, Furman would allow more questions.
“Who are the owners?”
Furman turned down the volume on the boom box. He craned his neck toward an unseen domicile, and when he faced Spero, had a forlorn look on his face.
“Generations owned this land. Wealth like you couldn’t believe.”
“Pay you much?”
Furman laughed, cracked another beer.
“You just keep working, and maybe you get out of here while you can still walk.”
Spero never saw anyone except for Furman. Yet, everything would always appear out of thin air. Sometimes, Spero would see mirages of cars driving toward them through the vast dirt and brush. Salvation. He was never given a straight answer to how much of the wall needed to be completed for him to “Settle his account.” Furman would be enraged once the topic switched to debt.
One day, fed up, Spero asked: “What if I stop working?”
Furman picked up the shotgun and laid it across his knees.
“You stop working on this wall, it means you’ve ceased paying back your debt. The only way any of us stay alive is if we do our jobs and that wall gets built.”
Mary
Long ago, toward the beginning of his servitude, Furman said there would be rewards. Positive re-enforcement so to speak. He was given books. A voracious reader and autodidact, soon Spero developed his theoretical understanding of things. Ultimately, Mary, too, was added.
Having no practical application of his knowledge, he was awkward in every sense of the word, uncertain of how to act on instinct. The concept of love and sex had never been addressed, and though he could feel an overwhelming desire, he was reticent. She was older, already seasoned. Spero asked questions incessantly. She silenced him. Their lovemaking was one-sided but cleansed him of anxiety and rage. In the aftermath, he put his arm around her but felt no warmth.
“Why?” he asked once.
“We’re all working off one debt or another,” she finally said in the darkness.
They rarely spoke after that. Spero surmised that like him she must live nearby. Perhaps there was a whole commune of serfs like him spread out over the vast empire and keeping them separate prevented a possible revolution.
Once a month, Mary would come to visit, a relic of a once beautiful person. At night, she would lay with him. It was without any semblance of emotion.
Time
Spero’s bronzed skin began to crease; Furman’s to turn yellow. The Wall continued to grow. Mary no longer visited.
“‘Le Temps Detruit Tout’,” Furman said, fishing his hand around in the cooler.
“‘Time destroys all things’,” Spero replied mechanically.
“Let it go,” Furman advised. His tone both threatening and consoling.
Spero eyed his captor with discretion. Wan and overweight, Furman’s once colossal frame had practically decomposed, withered away from the drink.
“‘Who can it be knocking at my door’,” Furman sang, snatched a beer from the depths,
and popped the top.
Spero had just placed a stone when the scaffold collapsed. He found hand-holds but could only grip a few inches. The seconds seemed like hours. His body shook, muscles cramped. He wore enamel from his teeth. He released his grip—scrambling, but no support, body falling in an awkward position. He knew the ligaments in his knee were shredded; not from the pain, but from the sound.
Offspring
Spero awoke to the sound of a baby crying. He rubbed salve on his knee and affixed his brace. Outside, Mary stood soothing the child. Before Spero could say anything, she’d already deposited the child in his arms.
“There will be books, formula, basinet; they’ll take care of everything.” She paused. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” With her restrained recitation, Spero wondered who else she’d given this sermon to, and how often.
We’re all working off one debt or another.
“I’m not going to see you again, am I?”
Momentarily caught off guard, Mary looked away, but her stoicism never wavered.
“Any other questions?”
“What happens when you can’t do this anymore?”
Spero hoped the tears would well. She would curse him for his callousness, then shed her veneer, succumb to her emotions, and embrace him. He needed to feel a connection with someone, anyone, after a lifetime of indifference. Mary’s twisted smile made his insides churn.
“Reprieve.”
That night, Spero cradled his son. Conflicted with paradoxical emotions, he thought to euthanize. His sleeping son rose and fell while on top of Spero’s stomach. Other feelings bloomed within. Placing his arms on him, Spero found a newfound strength and resolve. He named his son Elpis; hope, from Pandora’s box.
Perennial
“‘Sweet Dreams are made of this’,” Furman sang. The boom box echoed in and out. Crushed beer cans surrounded him. Spero fit another stone.
Spero had more difficulty building the wall. He could barely put weight on his knee, and though strong, he lacked the stamina to work as he once had. By the age of 5, Elpis started helping. At night, Spero would teach Elpis to read and instruct him on how to build the wall. Elpis would fall asleep in Spero’s arms.
Furman tolerated Elpis at first, but over the years, he grew curt and withdrawn. He seemed genuinely troubled by the boy’s presence.
“‘Who had a mind’...hey, come here.”
Spero turned in time to see Elpis walk toward Furman. The shotgun was outstretched. Furman had his finger on the trigger.
“I need to end this,” Furman said softly.
At twenty feet, it would cut the boy in half. Without thinking, the rock flew from Spero’s hand; it was as it had been in so many dreams. Clipping Furman on the forehead, leaving a gash, crimson blinding, Furman dropping the weapon and clutching at the wound. Elpis screamed. Spero told his son to stay back and, as he walked toward Furman, picked up a sizable rock to finish the job. Furman had flopped out of the chair and tried to rise but couldn’t. Years of neglect had corroded his body and left him a decrepit mess. Spero rolled him over onto his back. He raised the rock. Shock. Deja Vu. He’d witnessed this before. The rock fell from his hand, denting the soft earth. Unable to speak as the influx of data surged through his mind, old memories rushing back.
“Von,” Spero said, almost a whisper. Furman wiped the blood from his eyes.
Von also means hope. That’s why I named you Spero; hope is the only thing we have.
“You called me Fur Man.” Spero watched as Furman ran his fingers through his chest hair. Spero looked over at Elpis, frozen with fear, unable to take his eyes away.
“Go on,” Furman said. “It’ll be over quickly.”
Spero picked up the rock.
“I’m sorry,” Furman said.
It wasn’t like it had been in his dreams.
The following day, Furman’s body was gone. Spero assumed Furman’s spot in the chair. He opened the cooler to find a case of beer buried in ice. The boom box had been replaced with a new one, but still, only the one channel remained. He selected the station and got comfortable. The brace chafed, but he knew he would get used to it.
Elpis had cried throughout the night, but today had stopped. He seemed a shell of his former self. Spero saw no warmth in his son’s eyes, no trust. Instinctively, Elpis picked up a rock and began construction of the wall.
The only way any of us stay alive is if we do our jobs and that wall gets built.
Spero reached into the cooler. The cold bit his hand. He removed a beer, the first of many. The amber liquid would do the trick. Hoping to erase the guilt and steel his resolve, Spero took the first gulp. He watched his son place the stone, then eye Spero with contempt. They stared at each other for a long time before Spero finally spoke.
“Get back to work.”
Suppose they Gave an Invasion and Nobody Came
Brian K. Lowe
It’s been six years since I conquered the Earth, and I still can’t get you to believe me.
They told me back home it was useless, that Earth was too vast, its inhabitants too disparate.
“It’s been tried before,” they said. “It’s always the same,” they said. “The only way to conquer that planet would be to bomb the humans out of existence, which would defeat the whole purpose. Not to mention be really expensive.”
But finally my professors just shrugged their various shoulders and said, “It’s your dissertation. If you want to waste your research grant trying to conquer one stubborn planet, go ahead.”
They were right, they couldn’t stop me. Since previous attempts had failed, I started from scratch. I couldn’t rely on anyone else’s research. I got to Earth without help, set up a new identity in one of your more liberal societies (once I got to California I barely had to hide who I was), and started people-watching.
Within a week, I was packed to go home. What a madhouse!
Perhaps my predecessors were not all ham-handed morons, and if I had bothered to study their efforts, I might have saved valuable time. Indeed, I might have abandoned the idea altogether.
And then, right in the middle of my lateral discorporealization, it struck me: They had failed because they had given up and gone home. I had not yet gone home, ergo I had not given up, ergo I was not a failure. As long as I remained, I might succeed.
For a month, I sank into a meditative trance, trying to find a common thread, a link which joined all of humanity, a weakness I could exploit against the whole world.
I found none.
When I emerged from my meditations, it was raining, and my ceiling was leaking. Apparently it had been leaking for several days.
“My discorporeality console! It’s ruined! My photonic neutralizer! My DVR! Crap! I hate this weather! Earth sucks.”
In the midst of rain, a ray of light.
Earth is humanity’s home, so I made a leak in their ceiling. I siphoned off atmospheric ozone over Antarctica, stirred up cyclonic currents in the Bering Sea, little things like that.
Call it global warming, shifting of the magnetic poles, the Wrath of God, but it was just me and a whole lot of help from humans who didn’t understand the impact of CO2 in the atmosphere. In the past few years, you have seen the strongest hurricanes, the highest tides, the worst monsoons and droughts. Your icecaps are melting. That’s me (and you with your carbon fixation, to be honest). I control your weather; I control your planet.
Except that you’re too dense to see it.
You are so tied up in yourselves. You’re so blind to the larger universe, you blame your gods, just like your cave-dwelling ancestors did. The tiny fraction who have grasped some of the truth are so wrapped up in their fantasies about Area 51 and little green men who can’t drive their own spaceships without crashing that even I don’t believe in them.
I stepped up my efforts, you’d better believe I did, and it was expensive. Volcanoes don’t erupt by themselves, you know. (Well, you don’t know, but take my word for it.) Nothing.<
br />
So I’m going medieval on your sad little planetary ass. I’m going to sit down in that Starbucks at the Third Street Promenade and write a screenplay. It’ll be about an all-powerful alien who conquers Earth by controlling the weather. Then you’ll have to acknowledge me, because I know if you see it on a screen you’ll believe it.
At least, you would have. I’ve conquered the damn planet, but I can’t get an agent.
That’s that. I’m out of here. But I’m not going back a failure, oh no. I still have a good chunk of my research grant left. I’m going to tear up my notes on this project, then I’m going off to conquer those little green dwarves you're always talking about. They can’t even drive a spaceship; how hard could it be?
And if anybody else wants to take a crack at this place, they’re welcome to try.
This is Not the Apocalypse You are Looking For
Philip Harris
Reality TV shows are like cockroaches, even the end of the world can’t kill them.
It started with climate change. Just like that politician predicted; melting icecaps and tornados and earthquakes and tsunamis. At first they didn’t affect the US. It was always some other country, somewhere we’d never heard of. It was shocking, of course, we were appropriately appalled, but we only had to experience the horror vicariously through grainy iPhone footage on YouTube.
Then California fell into the ocean.
That upset a lot of people. Mainly because of all the dead movie stars.
Then the tornados hit New York and the firestorms hit Las Vegas and hailstones the size of cows hit Seattle. Then actual cows hit Washington, and things really started getting bad.
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