
Joe Wood is a novice speculative fiction writer. Having graduated from Canisius College with a BS in Psychology and a BA in Creative Writing, he now studies School Psychology at SUNY Oswego. During his free time, Joe enjoys going on hikes and reading Heartstopper over and over.
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“Why has Jenelle Oliver Byrne not reported in?” I asked.
Supervisor Soliman sighed. “I’m sorry, Jeanie. She isn’t able to.”
“No apologies necessary,” I said. “She and I can reschedule our trip to a more convenient time.”
“No, Jeanie. I’m sorry.”
The conversation with Supervisor Soliman echoed through my mind, obstructing any new visual or auditory input, including her own words. My colleague would be unable to work anymore. I scanned her desk, looking for clues. Above a photograph of her grandchildren Marcus Byrne and Cecilia Byrne hung a portrait of Wrightsville Beach, which she promised to show me on our “day off” today. The only other item on the desk was her hourglass. I turned it on its head to unearth the seashells plastered at the bottom. As sand particles crashed onto the shells, I became aware of the reason behind Jenelle Oliver Byrne’s sudden, permanent absence.
Director Foster appeared beside Supervisor Soliman. From my peripheral vision, I detected that he also avoided looking at me. “One of the interns will work on you. They’ll keep you functioning like normal until a permanent technician can be found.”
I did not feel it break. I heard their gasps, sharp as the pile of glass shards under my hand.
“Apologies,” I said, sweeping the shattered glass into a waste basket.
The rest of the sand I clutched tightly in my hands. I seemed to ball up my being, shutting myself so tightly that when I looked up, I stood at the top of the wooden staircase from the portrait. Wrightsville Beach. I held my arms forward, and let the wind relieve me of the sand that I had been carrying for miles.
My first few steps nearly buried me. As I learned, steel sinks quickly in sand.
“Unit 12-01, stop right now!” Director Foster shouted at me in the office. Using my factory name prevented me from leaving, but only for a moment.
Supervisor Soliman interrupted, saying, “Tim, let it go. Last week Jen programmed it to take today off with her and her family. That’s where it's heading. It’s just a few hours, and we can track it anyway. When it’s done, it’ll come back.”
Her justification was accurate but limited. My parameters were set but flexible. Remembering this, I regained my balance. I distributed my weight evenly along, so that each footstep glided across the dunes. Even though it lengthened my trip, I would not trek near the human families, lest I accidentally brush sand onto their towels. A service bot to my left dried a pair of children off with two towels, making sure to keep them at arm’s length to prevent any saltwater from splashing onto itself. What a frivolous concern.
The sea thrashed before me, just five paces away. A wave splashed onto my feet, dissolving my foundation. As I sunk deeper, I lifted my right foot to begin the plunge.
“How does saltwater feel?” I asked Jenelle Oliver Byrne last Thursday.
She did not respond at first, since she was finishing calibrating my joints after an arduous day constructing the new parking lot at Dosher Memorial Hospital. “Stings. Especially the eyes. Not that you have to worry, Jeanie-in-a-Bottle.”
I never commented on my nickname aloud. It sounded nicer than Genie Model Construction Unit 12-01. Her jokes, such as printing Jeanie on a magnetic name tag for me to wear, made my directive enjoyable. Without her, only the mission remains: create what the supervisor commands however they wish. While at the beach, I was allowed to evade this momentarily. How I wished to extend this permanently. All it would require would be walking into the sea, allowing it to consume me. Saltwater would seep into my servos, corrupting the circuitry within. How I wish it would sting. How I wish I could step forward.
I looked down to see what prevented my right foot from falling onto the sand. The answer rose from the mud and scuttled around. My ecological impact directives prevented me from destroying any life form, even this tiny blue crab. Did this shellfish fear I would ignore its presence? Was it oblivious? Was it only concerned with feeding, fleeing, and other basic programming?
“Jeanie? Jeanie-in-a-Bottle?”
I stepped back from the water, as I heard the hollow ringing of someone knocking on my left leg. Turning around, I discovered the owner of this voice. A familiar pair of gray-blue eyes looked up at me.
“Cecilia Byrne?” I asked. “You are taller than you were during your last office visit.”
“You too, Jeanie.”
“This is impossible.”
She smiled. “I know. Thanks for coming.”
“I apologize if I arrived late. Jenelle Oliver Byrne did not specify a time,” I said. “I became distracted. I presumed our festivities were canceled.”
“Everyone else is at the wake. Over at our house,” Cecilia Byrne said, pointing across the beach. As she dropped her arm, she looked at her sandals. “But there’s too many people. I needed some air.”
“The air quality is clear in this location. Do you feel better?”
“A little.”
We walked along the shore, listening to the other humans talk. I refrained from speaking, even after their voices faded.
“How long did you work with Nana?” Cecilia Bryne asked.
“Three years and two weeks.”
“How old are you?”
“I was created three years and two months ago,” I said.
“Woah!” she said. “So, I’m like a big kid next to you.”
I considered this for a moment before saying, “Indeed. You are approximately three times my age. May I ask a question?”
“Yeah. Ask me anything,” Cecelia Byrne said, as she held my hand.
“I ask for your wisdom,” I said. “I was created to build for ten years. I realized today that circumstances beyond my control may prevent me from fulfilling my contract. This realization makes me hesitant to build anything anymore.”
“Why?”
“I may not finish a project that I begin. This distresses me. Such concerns inhibit my commitment to the structural integrity and beauty of my work.”
“But Nana said she would close her eyes, and you would make whatever you wanted before she opened them.”
I looked at my hands. “I can quickly build what I am instructed to. At or under any reasonable time constraints. But no matter my speed, I may not see the finished product. What can I build if I do not know how much time I have?”
“Wanna help me make a sandcastle?” Cecilia Byrne said.
I pondered the notion. “A fortification consisting exclusively of sand?”
“Tons of sand and mud,” Cecilia Byrne said. “And any seashells we find.”
The quantities were questionable, but we could start with increments under a ton and establish a foundation. “What style of castle should we sculpt: motte and bailey, stone keep, or concentric? I apologize that I have not downloaded additional schematics.”
“Hmm. I was thinking circle towers with tall walls.”
“Excellent.”
Our roles did not need to be articulated. My hands collected my coarse building materials and began packing them into the walls. These walls wound into a circular track, with enough room for the two of us to sit comfortably inside. When one foot of wall was complete, I would etch 4” by 4” windows into the surface. Cecilia Byrne sought new shells to adorn our castle. She had only been gone for two minutes, and returned with a substantial, eclectic collection of shells. Her ingenuity impressed me; however, she expressed even more surprise at my work.
“Fortunately, the sand possessed enough moisture to facilitate five-foot walls,” I stated. “I apologize for not choosing a design to match your beautiful shells.”
Cecelia Byrne widened her eyes, and her smile. “You even made windows. I’ll start putting my shells on.”
“Very good. How tall would you like the ‘circle towers?’”
“How tall can you make them?”
“I - I will find out.”
15’8” from the floor to the peaks of the six equidistant towers. Over the course of our time together, the castle materialized according to our vague desires, free from any imperatives. Several shells had fallen off, but Cecelia Byrne instructed me not to put them back on, opting instead to lean them against the bottom of the walls. Once the castle appeared finished, we excavated a moat 1’8” deep by 2’ across. At first, I did not know how to complete this request from my partner, since I lacked any shovels or digging tools. Cecelia Byrne rectified this by informing me that my hands were the shovels. She made for an excellent technician.
We sat under the shade of our sandcastle, until Cecelia Byrne received a message on her watch. She rose and stretched, dusting sand off her legs.
“Gotta head back, Jeanie. Mom just texted,” she said.
As I rose to join her, a section of the wall behind me collapsed. The wind had carried bits of it away throughout our building, but this accounted for nearly a sixth of the total surface area. I quickly tried to pack this sand onto the wall, but the sun had dried it out. Sand drifted through my fingers. Any movement on the castle could have jeopardized the entire project.
Cecelia Byrne hugged my shoulders. “Jeanie, it’s alright. Sandcastles aren’t meant to last long. But this was fun.”
I did not comprehend this parameter, but her assurance that we had met our criteria was sufficient to stop my scrambling. Standing up, I began waving goodbye to her the way Jenelle Oliver Byrne had taught me.
“Indeed. Very fun,” I stated.
“I needed this,” she said, waving to me as well. “We’ll do this again. Maybe in a week. Oh, I’ll try to get Mark and the rest to come. Bye, Jeanie!”
After Cecelia Byrne drifted from sight, I checked my time. I still had 44 minutes until I would need to return to the office to clean off and recharge. With this thought, I found myself fixated on the gap in the walls. Perhaps, I could have repaired the damage. Instead, I used this hole as a door. Within the walls of the castle, I felt sheltered from the wind. The sun still streamed in, considering we had decided against including a roof. Other humans visited and peered through the doorway. Without Cecelia Byrne, though, they did not stop to talk. Yet, as I sat in the ruins, I found I was still not alone. One tiny blue crab rested under my outstretched legs, seemingly joining in my vigil. It was difficult to determine which emotions existed inside its shell.
I kept time by watching our creation crumble. The decay began at the towers but soon spread to the tops of the walls. Loose sand spread across my body, burying me in our art. I could feel the walls breaking around me. Yet, somehow, I felt at peace. When I left the beach, I brought our castle back as well – in pieces both innumerable and invisible.
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