Julius Olofsson
Machines
The inescapable truth was suddenly upon me; that Dad was going to die.
It was just a fact, as he rose from his chair, emitting a tiny sound, something new, unearthed, a tune of agony, a small thing that wasn’t him that had become him, and it dawned on me: he’s older now.
He’s not my dad; his suit doesn’t fit him. He pees more frequently.
We used to watch movies together—action and muscles and explosions.
So I suggest it, saying something like, “Maybe we could watch that new one with that car chase,” and he nods as if he hasn’t even heard me but abides and nods again and falls asleep.
I watched the whole thing. Its entirety, and even I felt slumber stalking me, but I refused to give up, to give in. We had nothing more than this. A movie now and then, and this is glue, this sticks, our conjoint appreciation and simplicity of a great action movie.
That night I hatched a plan, nested it. I yearned for the “good ol’ days”—if I could experience one more movie without his eyes closing, without me worrying about hearts and attacks and the inevitability of the onslaught of death, if I could manage that, all would be good.
I’m not that handy but decided to build a time machine to take me back and say “hi,” with him answering with a crispness in his voice—spunky eyes and a groomed beard. As an idiot, I Googled “time machine,” and hours later, I had applied to an evening class, learning basic engineering.
I botched the first machine, causing a small explosion and soot covered the entire garage. On the second go, I had managed to create a small, one-person time machine, fueled by Tesla batteries that I stole throughout a fortnight of nights.
As I came back to Dad, I was already there, me, 20 years younger, we both screamed, I hit “ctrl-z” and returned, a tad shocked, with an immense fear of what might’ve changed so I dashed outside, fearing to see a dinosaur of sorts.
But all was calm.
The second machine was a space-time GPS so I could track myself twenty years ago, knowing past me wouldn’t be in the way.
It worked, and I arrived with Dad being alone.
Still, he asked: “Why do you look so old?” so I returned as my actual age would distort the moment.
The third machine had to be a Facial Feature Reconditioner or FFR device I was to wear upon my head, transmitting a sort of hyper-ray that alters the perception of the receptor—Dad—making him believe I’m twenty years younger.
All three machines were now operational, and I didn’t care that I had missed Dad’s birthday.
I went back and suggested we should watch Cliffhanger as it’s a superb movie where striving, effort, anger, loss, and redemption all create a Hollywood maelstrom where every shot hits its mark.
But we had both seen it, me even more often than Dad, being twenty years ahead of him.
Still, we finished it, and Sly did his thing, and I heard more of the movie rather than watched it, instead focusing on Dad. We ate some candy, as per tradition, with him letting every piece play around inside his mouth. This time without me being irritated. It was bliss. That monotonous sound, to hear it again and again, every piece of licorice, something sour—taking his time.
Back home, I built a fourth machine. It was a small device with a chip that I would inject into my brainstem and, very harshly, into Dad’s too. It would allow us to forget a specific bit of information, namely, having watched Cliffhanger.
The issue was that I had to know every time we watched it, starting with its release on VHS in the early 1990s.
It took me, circa two years, to find all instances of this movie being watched, and by then, Dad had moved into a home.
However, the cautionary traits of this eluded me.
Instead, I returned, geared up with the FFR and the chips. I injected one in Dad, one in me, hit a button, and we forgot the movie. Unfortunately, I forgot plenty of other things, too, so as I returned, I had to build a fifth machine that could recreate me, my persona, and dig deep into the cells that were my brain.
I had to take another evening class, and by now, Dad ate no solid foods anymore.
Whilst building that new machine, the Persona Retracer, I had to study philosophy, as I was faced with a philosophical conundrum: “Who am I?” The Persona Retracer would not work with me not knowing that myself.
Soon, I sat at some shrink’s office and tried to grasp the essence of “me,” as he asked me questions about Dad, but all I could focus on was that scene where Sly doesn’t manage to save that woman who falls to her death.
It took a while, and when I was done, Dad had stopped speaking, and he couldn’t really breathe on his own.
I went back.
The chips were already in place, my younger self wasn’t there, Dad saw me as twenty years younger, and I had the Persona Retracer ready to go once I returned.
We watched the movie, ate candy, and saw everything for the first time.
I had no clue whether that woman would fall or not. But she did, and we gasped, and in the end, John Lithgow died.
I took one last look at Dad, smiled, gave him a hug, and he asked me, “Why?” but I didn’t answer.
Back home, I trashed the machines and saw that I had missed a call from the home; it was something about Dad.
It was just a fact, as he rose from his chair, emitting a tiny sound, something new, unearthed, a tune of agony, a small thing that wasn’t him that had become him, and it dawned on me: he’s older now.
He’s not my dad; his suit doesn’t fit him. He pees more frequently.
We used to watch movies together—action and muscles and explosions.
So I suggest it, saying something like, “Maybe we could watch that new one with that car chase,” and he nods as if he hasn’t even heard me but abides and nods again and falls asleep.
I watched the whole thing. Its entirety, and even I felt slumber stalking me, but I refused to give up, to give in. We had nothing more than this. A movie now and then, and this is glue, this sticks, our conjoint appreciation and simplicity of a great action movie.
That night I hatched a plan, nested it. I yearned for the “good ol’ days”—if I could experience one more movie without his eyes closing, without me worrying about hearts and attacks and the inevitability of the onslaught of death, if I could manage that, all would be good.
I’m not that handy but decided to build a time machine to take me back and say “hi,” with him answering with a crispness in his voice—spunky eyes and a groomed beard. As an idiot, I Googled “time machine,” and hours later, I had applied to an evening class, learning basic engineering.
I botched the first machine, causing a small explosion and soot covered the entire garage. On the second go, I had managed to create a small, one-person time machine, fueled by Tesla batteries that I stole throughout a fortnight of nights.
As I came back to Dad, I was already there, me, 20 years younger, we both screamed, I hit “ctrl-z” and returned, a tad shocked, with an immense fear of what might’ve changed so I dashed outside, fearing to see a dinosaur of sorts.
But all was calm.
The second machine was a space-time GPS so I could track myself twenty years ago, knowing past me wouldn’t be in the way.
It worked, and I arrived with Dad being alone.
Still, he asked: “Why do you look so old?” so I returned as my actual age would distort the moment.
The third machine had to be a Facial Feature Reconditioner or FFR device I was to wear upon my head, transmitting a sort of hyper-ray that alters the perception of the receptor—Dad—making him believe I’m twenty years younger.
All three machines were now operational, and I didn’t care that I had missed Dad’s birthday.
I went back and suggested we should watch Cliffhanger as it’s a superb movie where striving, effort, anger, loss, and redemption all create a Hollywood maelstrom where every shot hits its mark.
But we had both seen it, me even more often than Dad, being twenty years ahead of him.
Still, we finished it, and Sly did his thing, and I heard more of the movie rather than watched it, instead focusing on Dad. We ate some candy, as per tradition, with him letting every piece play around inside his mouth. This time without me being irritated. It was bliss. That monotonous sound, to hear it again and again, every piece of licorice, something sour—taking his time.
Back home, I built a fourth machine. It was a small device with a chip that I would inject into my brainstem and, very harshly, into Dad’s too. It would allow us to forget a specific bit of information, namely, having watched Cliffhanger.
The issue was that I had to know every time we watched it, starting with its release on VHS in the early 1990s.
It took me, circa two years, to find all instances of this movie being watched, and by then, Dad had moved into a home.
However, the cautionary traits of this eluded me.
Instead, I returned, geared up with the FFR and the chips. I injected one in Dad, one in me, hit a button, and we forgot the movie. Unfortunately, I forgot plenty of other things, too, so as I returned, I had to build a fifth machine that could recreate me, my persona, and dig deep into the cells that were my brain.
I had to take another evening class, and by now, Dad ate no solid foods anymore.
Whilst building that new machine, the Persona Retracer, I had to study philosophy, as I was faced with a philosophical conundrum: “Who am I?” The Persona Retracer would not work with me not knowing that myself.
Soon, I sat at some shrink’s office and tried to grasp the essence of “me,” as he asked me questions about Dad, but all I could focus on was that scene where Sly doesn’t manage to save that woman who falls to her death.
It took a while, and when I was done, Dad had stopped speaking, and he couldn’t really breathe on his own.
I went back.
The chips were already in place, my younger self wasn’t there, Dad saw me as twenty years younger, and I had the Persona Retracer ready to go once I returned.
We watched the movie, ate candy, and saw everything for the first time.
I had no clue whether that woman would fall or not. But she did, and we gasped, and in the end, John Lithgow died.
I took one last look at Dad, smiled, gave him a hug, and he asked me, “Why?” but I didn’t answer.
Back home, I trashed the machines and saw that I had missed a call from the home; it was something about Dad.
Julius Olofsson: Born in Sweden, Julius writes anything from flash fiction and books to games and screenplays. He’s been longlisted in The Bath Short Story Award (twice), The Bath Flash Fiction Award and The Aurora Prize for Writing. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, Isele Magazine, Lavender Bones Magazine, The Airgonaut, Sage Cigarettes, The Heimat Review, Hidden Peak Press and elsewhere.