Featured Story

We’re basically living in the future. Let’s just go ahead and get that out of the way right now.

Want to watch tv on a computer in your pocket? Sure. Want to talk to a robot? That’s cool, man. Want to put a worm’s mind in a robot? Whatever, let’s do it.

Each and every day we wake up and pop open our digital screens to find a new story about some mindblowing technological development that is turning science fiction and magic into something we can buy on Amazon. And that’s why it wasn’t a surprise to many when a kickstarter popped up for a revolutionary new 3D printer.

This 3D printer was making waves all over, as it was the first of it’s kind to link directly to the user’s brain and print whatever object they focused on. Interestingly enough, I had the exact same idea only a few days ago and had only told it to one person – the same person who started the Kickstarter. It was truly a god damned coincidence that didn’t upset me at all.

I’d had this game changing idea on my hands, and a big meeting scheduled to pitch it, and all I wanted was to confide in someone I could trust. Someone to lend an ear and boost my confidence. And for whatever reason I thought that person was Aron.

I mean, it made sense at the time. We knew each other from childhood, went to school together, bro’d down together, slept in separate beds together. The works. So I dialed his digits and he agreed to meet up for some drinks. On me of course.

But then that snake in the grass dropped knockout gas in my drink, making me Rip Van Winkle my way through the week and missing my pitch meeting. Knowing Aron, I really should’ve seen that coming.

Next thing I know, it’s three days later and I’ve got a face full of anger as I watch the Kickstarter’s donation counter jump with every second. This was too much. All kinds of thoughts were bouncing around the inside of my skull, but all I could really focus on was Aron. I needed to go find him and kill him and set things straight by killing him.

I was mad. I was angry. And with my drugged body and sleepy eyes, I was a blur of danger as I sped my way down the interstate towards the last known residence of Aron Minow.

Crashing through the community gate, I jumped the curb and began the slow and painful process of parallel parking on the finely manicured lawn. I speedwalked to the front door in what I’m sure was record time and jammed my finger in the doorbell hole, searching my mind for cool things to say while punching someone in the face.

The door flung wide open, much sooner than I’d anticipated, leaving me without a snappy one-liner as Aron stared down at me from the doorway. Despite it being late afternoon he was still draped head to toe in a one-piece pajama suit, but with his masculine face bones and brown feathered hair, he somehow pulled it off. As I succumbed to the silence of quiplessness, I furrowed my brow and tilted my head forward in an attempt to project my rage. But no matter what I looked like, Aron would inevitably be ecstatic and beam his freshly Crest™ed smile directly at my face. “What up Gilligan! I was hoping you’d show up,” Aron said ecstatically, hurling his smile into my face.

“Sup Aron. Be an ass much?” Damn.

The smile faded slightly from his face, and for a moment I couldn’t tell if he was faking ignorance or honestly couldn’t remember that he’d drugged me and ransacked my future. But his face soon lit up with clarity, “Wait, you’re still sour from all that? I didn’t want to do it, but it was for your own damn good. Now get in here, you brilliant bitch,” he shouted, slapping me on the shoulder with intense camaraderie. He moved his hand to my back and led me towards his house.

“What are you doing? We’ve got words to trade, Aron. You stole my idea. I came to you with an idea, and you 100% stole it. Also you drugged me and I’m not entirely cool with that this time.”

“Shut up. I wanna show you something. Trust me, you’ll be less mad than you are now.”

For a moment I wrestled with my anger and ability to be easily led, “Fine, but you’re still a dirtbag.”

“Haha yeah, I know.”

Upon entering Aron’s house I was immediately assaulted by the pungent scent of sunscreen and pizza-blasted pringles, Aron’s particular brand of awfulness. We walked the narrow hallway, lined with pictures of family members that I was sure Aron didn’t even know, until we came upon his “study” – a room with little more than a desk, computer, and walls covered with motivational posters focusing on getting homework done on time. “Check this out,” he said, sitting down and pointing to the open window on his computer. “Check. It. Out.”

I leaned in to see exactly what I was supposed to be checking out. Dollar signs and exclamation points covered the page. “Yep, I definitely see it. It’s the kickstarter for the idea you stole from me like an ass.”

“Yeah, ok. I get that you’re a little ticked off, but I had to do it. Telepathic 3D printing is a killer idea, and I’ve seen you let too many of your ideas slip away to let you do it again. I mean, what was your pitch anyway? ‘Uh, well, geeze. You connect your brain to the 3D printer and you can replicate anything you think of’?” He paused a moment, “Actually, that’s not bad. You should’ve done that.”

“So you drugged me and took my idea for yourself?”

“So, I did what you wanted me to do and took it off your hands and made sure that it was done right.”

“Oh, and it was done right? How’d you come up with that notion?”

“Because it’s over 300% funded and I’m cutting you in on the whole thing.”

I leaned in closer, incredulously inspecting the growing dollar amount, “Wait… So you– we — actually get to use all the money people donated to make it?”

“You bet your sweet bippy we do,” he said, a smile plastered across his face.

“What a bunch of idiots.”

“You bet your sweet bippy.”

---

The timer on the kickstarter inevitably ran itself down to zero, and at that moment Aron and I found ourselves the proud owners of millions of dollars. With all that cash flowing in from deep-pocketed saps all around the world, we had the elbow grease necessary to lubricate the production process. And lubricate we did.

That lubrication led to rapid advancements in a multitude of fields that I don’t care about, but which ultimately gave us our very own Telepathic 3D printers hot off the presses and ready to replicate.

Somewhere between a printer, a microwave, and a Creepy Crawler oven, it was a simple looking but immense machine covered in a glossy black matte. Its two large walls were made of a moldable flubber that compress at the speed of sound, smashing particles together to form any object you could wrap your brain around. When linked up to the machine via the mind bucket, the machine scans and creates whatever item you focus on. Basically a colander with multi-colored wires jutting out of it, the mind bucket is admittedly a bit of a fiasco.

Outside of a few mechanical mishaps, initial tests were looking positive. Just three days after testing began we were able to produce fully-formed objects simply by thinking of them when connected to the printer.

Then we hit a snag.

It was this stupid cup. Once belonging to the Russian witch that ran my old slum of an apartment complex, it seemed like a good place to start testing. A cup has no moving parts and contains no organics. It’s simple. But more than anything it was a simple item that I could easily focus on because I hated it so much my soul hurt.

It had haunted me for years as the aforementioned spectral witch roamed the halls and terrorized any tenants unlucky enough to be tenants. She would scold and scream and curse, wildly adding more to people’s rent like points to Gryffindor. Only once the cup was drained of the strawberry cough syrup and whiskey that coated its insides would she slink back to her room, chain-smoking her Slovakian cigarettes in her sarcophagus-shaped coffin until morning.

I had replicated the cup multiple times, each one just as I had remembered it, but this time it came out shattered. Nothing more than a pile of disjointed and alcohol stained ceramic pieces, Russian letters barely recognizable among the amorphous shards.

“The hell, technology? Is it busted already?,” Aron yelled from across the room. “Let’s get the forklift guys to chuck this thing in the garbage. Bring out the next one and we’ll go again.”

I removed the colander from my head and delicately dropped it on the floor, “You want to throw out thousands of dollars of equipment because things temporarily aren’t going your way? That’s insane. I need you to understand that.”

“How’s that insane? You thought of something and it didn’t come out the way you thought of it. That means it’s broke. I mean, you were thinking of the cup, right? Because unless you were thinking of it as a broken glass, then I’m pretty sure there’s a problem.”

Oh, damn. I totally was.

It was the day that I was finally evicted from that swampass apartment. That heartless harpy had been raising my rent every month for years until I finally couldn’t afford it, forcing me to vacate. But as I hauled out the last of my boxes I noticed that bastard of a cup laying around the lobby like it was some kind of cool mug, and saw a chance to hit her where it hurt the most.

I raised the horcrux with purpose and chucked it against her door, shattering it into a million beautiful pieces as a gaggle of moaning spirits rocketed away from their ceramic prison and off towards Valhalla. I broke an old woman’s drinking glass, and I felt like a better person for doing so.

As the rose-tinted glasses of hate-nostalgia faded from my eyes, I looked at what we were doing in a new light, “You know, I didn’t think it mattered when I was thinking of the cup as long as I was thinking of it. As crazy as it sounds I think we need to look into the possibility that we’re bringing this thing back from different spots in time.”

This is the exact moment where the project should have come to a complete stop.

“Gill. Gilligan. Gilly. If what you’re saying isn’t totally bonkers, and we’re actually printing objects from the past, then what’s to stop us from doing the same with people?”

“What? Like, a million things. Easily.”

Instead of hanging up our coats and calling it a day, my partner made the decision that we would go full speed ahead and mess with time. Aron flipped the colander around in his hands and slapped it on his head. The colorful cords flowing out from it were instantly tangled and choking each other as they weaved back into the 3D printer.

Seconds after Aron popped the unit on his head, the flubber walls mashed together and a fully grown man sporting an argyle cardigan and bushy moustache was standing between the black plastic walls, very much alive and confused. The man and I shared a glance, and there was instant recognition between us, “Son? Son, is that you? I thought you were off at school! Is everything alright? You look older–”

BLAMM

Aron murdered my dad in the head with a pistol that I didn’t even know he had. The impact threw him to the ground with excessive force, splashing his rapidly flowing fluids all about him like a messed up spirograph. Aron made no attempt to evade the moat of gross that encircled the body. He just stood there, slowly trying to spin the gun around his index finger.

Recently printed blood glossed over my pants with bits spattered on my shoes. I was baffled by the chain of events, “Wha… Why? Why did you do that?”

“Do what?,” he said calmly, arching his back and twirling the pistol above his head.

“How about any of the things that you just did.”

“I always carry a gun. I just don’t like to tell people because they get weird about it.”

“Ok, sure. And the homicide?”

“What, you think that counts as murder? We’re messing with time here, man. I just shot your dad from 10 years ago when he was still alive, not your dead dad from today– Oh, ok. Yep, I see what you’re getting at.”

Lab technicians scuttled about the dead replicated man, squawking amongst themselves and furiously scribbling notes all the while. Slipping his gun away down the front of his jeans, Aron looked to me and tried talking sense, “Ok. I know you think we shouldn’t go further with this, but since we are we should probably talk to someone about this.”

“Yeah, I see where you’re coming from, but who are we going to talk to that’s going to help explain that?” I said, looking away as I pointed to the general vicinity of the bloody mess.

Looking out towards the lab technicians, Aron asked aloud, “Anyone know about this?”

One of the many men draped in white paused from his note-taking and raised his hand. “I do,” he said meekly. Instead of crossing the room to talk to him appropriately, Aron cupped his hands around his mouth and loudly addressed him, “Do you think we can mess up time by recreating things from the past?”

The man pushed his glasses back up his nose and thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. Probably not, I would guess,” he yelled back.

“Cool. See? That guy knows whats up. Wanna go time printing?” he asked excitedly.

“Sure. But let’s lay off printing people for now, ok? That seems like a sure-fire way to bringing Hitler back or something. And I could go for not seeing another family member murdered today.”

“Hitler’s one of your family members?”

“Shut up.”

---

The lab was filled with dozens of people, all of which were printed from various periods of time.

Our chronoprinting adventure may have gotten away from us temporarily, but it’s hard to not get swept up in the action of time-resurrection. Despite the cramped conditions, our “research” was gaining momentum as we brought more and more historically significant people back from the murky recesses of time.

We had already scoured the depths of our historical knowledge to bring back all of the US presidents that we could remember, and were quickly making headway into biblical times. It turns out that Jesus was actually, like, five people. All women.

But with the discovery of the extent of our replication abilities came the inevitable desire for Aron to print himself a sidekick. A “little buddy to have time adventures with”, as he put it. To which I said hell no, because I already knew that his sidekick would be himself.

He begged and pleaded with me like a child asking for a pet. And though the idea of two Aron’s parading around set my brain on fire, I figured that he would probably get sick of himself just as quick as I would and the problem would solve itself. So I relented.

Slapping the colander on his noggin, Aron wracked his brain for an ideal memory of his past-self. He squealed a squeal of excitement, and a moment later the machine mashed its walls together and pooped out a miniature version of Aron. His light-up sneakers and ridiculous backwards hat were dead giveaways that this kid was from the 90’s and super cool.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to adjust to a new time period, but past-Aron was doing just fine. In fact, it wasn’t long before he was eating lunchables and playing Magic the Gathering with the white-coated lab assistants at the lunch table.

I was in the midst of tweeting out our recent discoveries to Bill Nye and other important scientific institutions, but Aron was busy with self-loathing and mouthing expletives to himself.

“Man, that kid is a real handful, you know? Something about him makes me want to put him on timeout in a hot car with the windows rolled up.”

“Ok? So do it. You didn’t give it a second thought when you shot my dad.”

“I know, but honestly I was kinda hoping that he could help keep me hip and up-to-speed on what all the cool kids are up to these days, but he just keeps telling me to listen to his 90’s nonsense garbage,” Aron said, his brow beyond furrowed.

Young Aron’s ears perked up at this slander and was none too pleased. “Shut up, uncle Aron! You just don’t get it!”, he screamed as he jumped up on the table, pretending to surf some killer waves.

“No, you don’t get it! Do I need to chronoprint you an older brother just so you can tell yourself how wrong you are?”

Little Aron ignored this, plopping himself back down at the lunch table. He looked around at the scientists that surrounded him and rolled his eyes, “What a lame-o, right guys? I know he’s me from the future but I sure hope I never turn into that dorky dweeb.”

This struck a chord with Aron. A chord I’d never seen struck before. “I’m cool, right Gill?” he asked, sounding unsure of himself.

“Yes? I don’t know, Aron. Don’t let him get to you. You know what a dick you ar– were.”

His shoulders sank and he slumped back in his chair. And just like that, he was the physical embodiment of mopey.

“I think you’re a pretty cool person, herr Aron,” Hitler said kindly.

“Oh great, thanks,” he responded sarcastically.

---

Due to all the high concept sci-fi stuff going on, the lab used up an excessive amount of energy during the day. So we sat with the lights out with only a lantern to illuminate us. It was after hours, but Aron didn’t want to go home. Instead he wanted to sulk in the dark.

And so Aron and I sat in lawn chairs, drinking heavily as we stared at the metallic frame of the Chronoprinter. Despite all of the incredible advancements we’d made in a single week, Aron was plagued by depression. “Who does that punk think he is? Acting like he’s a huge dog on campus. I’m cool. I’m–In fact, I’m the coolest. Oh god I’m not, am I?” He was on the verge of tears, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

Aron stumbled up and out of his seat, brilliant ideas yanking at his brainstem, “What if I print myself from the future? I’m bound to be crazy cool by then!”

I wasn’t on board for this one, “That’s stupid and sounds risky. I think we’ve messed around with time enough as is. Bringing back the future could be bad news.”

“Gill, what if I’m the coolest dude in the world? I don’t want to wait around to find out if i really end up as cool as I think I am. And I need to shove that stupid brat’s face in it.”

“Fine, whatever. Do what you want.”

“Yusss.”

Aron ran over to the cot that Aron Jr was sleeping on and kicked it from underneath, nailing him in the legs and splashing pogs out over the edge.

“Geeze! What’s your problem?”

“Get up. It’s time to prove you wrong.”

He took him by the arm and led him over to the chronoprinter. Lights lit up and motors whirred and soon the lab was filled with the mechanical hum that the chronoprinter generated.

“What? Are you gonna make a weiner for your face?” Aron Jr asked. Had Aron not been so pissed, he would’ve laughed at that.

The shapeless walls vibrated and slammed into each other, the force behind the contact shaking the room. The fog machine that we had added for effect was working beautifully, really jazzing up the whole deal. The lights dimmed and the rotors slowed, and as the walls released themselves from each other there was a pop of compressed air escaping from within them.

And then light.

The brightest of lights emanated from within the growing chasm of the chronoprinter. I was blinded, desperately trying to cover my face and turn away from the burning sensation that enveloped me.

And then the light and the heat that came with it disappeared, and I quickly turned to see what fresh hell we had unleashed on ourselves. Only to find nothing. “Well that was anticlimactic. I knew that we couldn’t print things from the future.”

Aron was silent and frozen in place as he shot concentrated energy out of his eyes.

I turned for help, with Aron Jr. nowhere to be found. I was alone with Aron. My worst nightmare.

His eyes flared a white mist that shot outwards in conical rays like a flashlight. He was lighting up the room like an infernal disco, his eye-flames dancing about as he spun round and tried to stabilize himself. Anything that the cosmic light hit would ripple and warp, morphing them in indistinguishable ways.

Finally able to balance himself against a wall, Aron closed his eyes, extinguishing the light behind his eyelids. “Gill. Don’t be mad, but I think I broke time.” Beneath his glowing eyelids, there was a swirling glow of tumultuous energy. It was like watching galaxies forming.

“What do you mean you broke time?”

“I can see everything. I’ve lived millions and billions of years but I’m still here. I’m here, right?”

He didn’t break time. He embodied it.

A single person spanning three separate points of time at once had met at a single crossroad, which is never a good thing. Past, present, and future Aron had melded into one, and Time had folded itself within him. He could see all things at once, projecting his time-vision onto whatever he looked at.

People like to think of time as the organic fabric of the universe that is beyond man’s grasp, when really it’s a delicate piece of string that can be tangled up as soon as we find out how to use it.

---

In the end, I decided to can the project. With the chronoprinter’s extensive replicating abilities, there were just too many ways for the average Joe to ruin the world. I mean, two random jackasses fiddled with it for a week, and now Aron can peer endlessly both forwards and backwards through time. That kind of thing doesn’t need to keep happening.

Aron was a self-proclaimed Time Prophet, and while the title he gave himself would change frequently, there was no doubt that he had tapped into something interesting. But while he could delve his consciousness anywhere in time, his specialization lay in the future.

At first he took house calls, telling people their futures and how they’d die. But eventually he grew tired of the small-scale wow-factor he was delivering and decided to push things further. He did this by publishing the history of the world. Beginning to end.

Before, history was written by the victors. Now Aron writes it.

These books are essentially “How-To” instruction manuals that detail what the future holds, and the steps necessary to get there. But I don’t really want to know anything about the future. I prefer the idea that free will exists and that I’m capable of making my own decisions. I like this better than the thought of Aron being some kind of time vessel that can tell me what I do for breakfast thirty years from today.

I’m happy just being able to print money.