The History Maker

She would have liked it here. White grains of sand as far as I can see. A benevolent and consistent sun always above, lighting the way and keeping me warm. She would have named the sun as it watched over us and spun tales about the footprints in the sand that travel further back than I have come and continue beyond anywhere I will ever go. She would’ve even joked that we have just one more hill to go.

“We’ll get there tomorrow,” I can hear her cheering in her bubbly way. She might even skip while she cheers. Her sandals grasped between her fingers and a smile hanging from her lips. There hasn’t been anything besides today for a while.

She would’ve pestered me to dance with her alone to no music with nary an audience to watch us, nor join in. Under the sun when it should be night, because the moon sleeps through its alarm again. And I’d let her. Maybe I’d even beg her to dance. She might be so shocked she’d say no. Or she’d demand to know who I was and what I’d done with her husband. I’d laugh at that.

Above all, she’d applaud this endless beach for putting up with me for so long and only throwing a few storms my way. She’s say I deserve it and would marvel at the sand’s restraint in not storming more often.

I squeeze her locket in my fist tracing my nail through the rough and sharp heart I carved into its gold surface. Smiling is hard now. Harder than before. I’ve been out of chapstick for what must be weeks. I try to keep my face neutral. Less smiling means less pain.

I trudge on, my determination and stamina continue being whittled down by the sand in my boot and the increasing number of blasts of salty air hitting my face. “One more hill. One more hill.” I try to scrounge up some liquid in my mouth, but none appears. “It’s gonna be one of those days I guess.” I’ve had a lot of those kinds of days. A vulture mistaking me for a walking corpse, or my mind mistaking me for a mad man.

Ahead of me is a shadow of something. I squint. Yellow tinted goggles are great for everything except seeing. I can wink, keep my eyes open, notice where the sun is sitting, but I can’t for the life of me determine what the shadowy figures are out there. More vultures? Other survivors? Safety? I don’t know.

The shadow is a building. An abandoned apocalypse silo forgotten by its ward, then embraced and tainted by the sun. Its narrow shadow is a lovely reprieve from the heat and sandy winds. I almost sit down, but think better of it. What if there are other buildings?

There aren’t any. All that I find is a rusty sign, with letters missing, inviting me to visit a n G e L c i T Y. Angel City sounds good. Maybe there will be chapstick inside. I lick my lips as I make my way back to the front of the building. This time the dryness will forever stay away. The grains of sand that now call my lips home thank me for the hospitality.

The front door of the silo has a rusty crescent shaped handle. I put a glove on my hand before grabbing it. Little puzzle pieces of rust float away as I pull. The door opens without even a squeak. A cool breath of air drifts by ruffling my loose clothes. A shifty blue light flickers in the small foyer area. The floor is carpeted with a red and black checkerboard.

The sand is invades and starts crawling into the rug, so I step in and close the door. It squeaks on this side, but slides shut as easily as it opened.

Scanning. Scanning. Scanning. A mechanized voice shouts. It’s like someone is trying to get someone’s attention from far away while being discreet. The blue light jumps from the walls to me. My hands shoot up. It creeps from my head down to the ground pausing on my sand-filled boots on the rug. Please take your shoes off instead of ruining the rug.

“Oh, sorry,” I sit down and pull them off. I don’t remember my feet being purple and oh so stiff. I stand back up and my newly freed feet rebel. They send shivers up my legs and I fall backwards into the the door. For some reason, even with my whole body leaning against it the door remains closed.

Download Complete. Welcome to the Library of Your Future.

“Download Complete?” Sounds like an interesting place. A safe, cool and interesting place. Maybe some chapstick. I leave my boots in the entry way and take off my sad excuse for a sack to keep them company as I walk further into the library.

I don’t see any books; although, I guess this isn’t a library library. Does the future even have books? But also, if the endless sand is the present, how is there a future where to collect items from? Also, how would this library even get future artifacts? Time Travel? No that’s silly. It’s a catchy title. That's all. There’s no entry fee, or sun. Why not explore, not like there’s anywhere else I should be.

The Library opens up before me. I smell mint. It looks pretty normal to my pitiful memory of what a library, or even a building’s inside should look like. There are four walls and a ceiling way above me. The walls are a little weird in that they look like they have been rotating with the storms. The fancy white plaster designs twist in a fat whirlpool moving towards the ceiling. Little cracks where the rotations of the wall have become too much let little waves of light dance through the Library illuminating the drab interior. Four cylinders stand from the floor to the ceiling creating an aisle in front of me. Blue liquid bubbles from within send ripples towards the roof and scatter little blue blips across the walls. Little piles of things lay around each of the cylinders. Some old stuffed creatures, a toy car, some electronic things I can’t name and even some bones. I shouldn’t be surprised, but even so those empty holes in the skull will haunt me for weeks. I can never get used to the dead.

I step into the aisle and approach the first blue tank. A typewriter floats at eye level. No way. In mint condition. The keys, a pearly white and the letters are painted crisp black. “I remember having one those when I was a kid.” There’s even a piece of paper queued up and ready to create something. I can’t believe it. Not much of a future library if it has a typewriter. “It must be over eighty years old. It couldn’t work.” I can take it out somehow and type a few words. I still remember how to type I think.

I touch the tank and it recoils a few steps, enough to create a space between my wrinkly hand and its surface. Playing recording number one: the beginning of magic the same discreet yelling voice declares. The air between me and the tank blinks to life. I stumble back. The building is filled with a soft clicking noise. A picture of a little boy floats in the air, no it moves. It’s a movie. It shows two adults holding a cube box wrapped in striped paper with a bow. The boy smiles, his mouth moves, but all I hear is the clicking. Soft, and consistent like a purr. He rips off the paper. The walls of the box fall away and the typewriter is sitting before him.

I remember the day I got mine. It was my tenth birthday. I was so excited to be like dad. I had drawn my own keyboard to practice. I could type so fast. I smile. My lips hurt. I didn’t see any chapstick in the library. I had so many stories to tell. Billy the dinosaur and his adventures with the Thesaurus before the meteor. I wrote pages and pages.

I move across the aisle to the next tank. Its contents resembles a tiny alien space ship. Circular with a wire that splits in two and ends with fuzzy circles. Playing recording number two: the whispers in the air the voice warns before the air becomes another movie. It’s a different boy, or the same one, but older. He looks more tired and rebellious. One adult gives him the same object that floats before me. He takes it, smiles and then the movie gets fuzzy for a bit. It focuses with the boy lying down with the object on his chest and the wires leading to his ears. “A CD player,” I shout. Those were the coolest when I was younger. I would listen to my rock CD while using my typewriter. This is incredible. Not the future, but even better. I look around trying to find someone to share in my discovery. I scold myself for being so silly, I’m all alone.

The third tank lacks an object to reminisce about. Just blue and bubbles. Play Recording number three: the heart always remembers. A scene pops up of a woman with long hair sitting on a chair in front of a man. She blushes and then pulls her hair away from her neck. The man reaches around and sets a heart locket around her neck and secures it. “No. No. No. Impossible” The locket has her initial. It has our initials. It has the crap heart I carved with the dull knife I thought was so cool to carry around. It can’t be. No. I squeeze my hand and the locket pushes back. I still have it.

The tank hisses the blue liquid drains away and a heart space with a chain appears in the tank. The movie fizzles back to life, but the woman wearing her locket is now staring at me. “The locket belongs to me.” I can’t look away. I step forward without thinking. Her golden eyes trace the lines of my face. She can’t recognize me after all this time, “As do you,” she smiles. Something deep down that I’ve been hiding from erupts. Happy warmth flows through me and I smile a great, big, painful smile. She remembers me.

My hand opens and I push the locket into place. It fits perfectly with a soft click and then the tank closes around it. I step back. What have I done. It was all I had left.

I should leave. But I don’t. I can’t. Not as long as she floats there smiling at me. I walk to the last tank. There’s a chair and desk in front of it. I sit down and watch the blue bubbles float past me. On the desk is an old computer covered with dust. Its screen flickers on without me touching anything. Words appear in green font:

Are you excited to join the future?

Yes) 1

No) 0

I look down at a keyboard with only the 1and 0 keys remaining. My fingers shaking, I hit 0.

The library of the future thanks you for your generous donation.

…

Welcome to the future, you will never be forgotten.

The fourth tank hisses open behind the desk. A force pulls me over and past the computer into the tank. “I’ll be with you soon," I clench my fist tight, but no locket fights back. "No," I try to shout. The woman smiles from across the aisle. Her mouth moves. A final mockery, or a goodbye perhaps. The tank hisses shut and all I see is blue.