BORC-9: a story about a boy and his trash can
written & illustrated by Jordan (JP) Krumbine
© jordan krumbine 2012
HOW TO READ THIS BOOK
Just scroll down! All images are high resolution and clickable, so click, explore, and enjoy. If you've enjoyed this book, consider sending a dollar or two my way or buy one of my other books on Amazon.com.
Enjoy, and thanks for stopping by!
-- Jordan Krumbine
Just scroll down! All images are high resolution and clickable, so click, explore, and enjoy. If you've enjoyed this book, consider sending a dollar or two my way or buy one of my other books on Amazon.com.
Enjoy, and thanks for stopping by!
-- Jordan Krumbine
The Official cover |
The Original, Alternate Cover |
DEDICATION |
This book took a lot of work.
The writing alone took place over the course of four years. And then came the art. Let me put it this way: have you ever attempted to do something without actually knowing you could, you know, DO IT? That’s what illustrating this book was like for me. It was like climbing a mountain without knowing whether or not I had the physical stamina to make it to the top. That being said, I could have put all the work in the world into this book, but I wouldn’t have had a place to start without inspiration. For that, I dedicate this book to Josh Todd, the man who helped inspire the Binary Operated Trash Receptacle. It is also no coincidence that Timmy, the main character in this story, is homeschooled. We’re told to write what we know, and because of that, I also dedicate this book to Momma Krumbles for having the courage to homeschool me and my siblings and encouraging our imagination and creativity. Stay creative, JP Krumbine |
CHAPTER 1
"A Boy Named Timmy"
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To the untrained eye, the city of Greenville appeared completely ordinary. This, my dear reader, is what some people like to refer to as poppycock. Or hogwash. Or utter, nonsensical hoo-ha.
The city of Greenville was rife with oddities, weirdos and other really strange things. For example, there were giant underground caverns spanning the entire city that at one time were home to Malevolently Malicious Martian Mole Men from Mars—alien beings fixated on the notion of world domination through the use of bottled water. (It should be noted that their plan was, by and large, unsuccessful and that it is perfectly safe to drink the bottled water in Greenville.) |
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Another example were the vampires that lived in the Greenville University Library. For the most part, these vampires didn't really bother anybody, although they did have a rather odd taste in reading material, staying mostly to the paperback romance novels. (The vampires also seemed to dislike horror writers such as Stephen King and have been known to write disparaging remarks along the margins of his books. Stephen King has refused to comment on his apparent lack of popularity among the Greenville vampire population.)
To further emphasize the fact that the city of Greenville is anything but ordinary, we need only turn our attention to those individuals who make it their business to investigate the unusual: the Explorers of the Unknown. A trio of paranormal detectives, the Explorers of the Unknown base their livelihood on the fact that Greenville is the proverbial breeding ground for paranormal activity.
This story, however, has nothing to do with the decidedly dashing and handsome investigators of the unknown. They'll be making an appearance later on, but this story is, unequivocally, not about them.
It is about an eight year-old boy named Timmy Topswell. In his admittedly brief lifetime, Timmy has already had a few encounters with the more unusual aspects of Greenville. One time, on a flight out of the Greenville International Airport to visit his great-aunt in Madagascar, Timmy found himself sitting next to a large lizard-man named Bob. Timmy later found out that Bob was from a transdimensional plane of existence known as Bridge World, of which the portal to and from was located inside the men's restroom on board the airplane. Bob enjoyed his occasional constitutionals from his duties as Bridge Keeper and had been personally troubled by Timmy's then-alarming reaction to him.
More recently, however, Timmy was delighted to discover a living, breathing, Tyrannosaurus Rex in his backyard. This, of course, is another story entirely but it was, suffice it to say, an undeniably cool moment in Timmy's short life.
Timmy savored these moments whenever they occurred because the time between them was fantastically boring. Timmy Topswell was homeschooled, and as such, didn't get out very often. He lived at the very end of a very long street where the nearest neighbor (a bitter old woman by the name of Frieda Fingerling) lived over half a mile away. This flat, wooded area of Greenville that Timmy lived in was known as Greenville Acres. The house Timmy called home was small and brown, but it sat upon a large property, half-obscured by the surrounding woods.
Timmy spent more time exploring these woods than he did in his own bedroom. Which is not to say that Timmy's room was an undesirable place to be. Quite the contrary, in fact. His small, square room was filled to the brim with everything that resembled any interest to an eight year-old boy. From dinosaurs to giant robots, Timmy's walls were covered with posters, his shelves were cluttered with toys and models, and the carpet was covered with a healthy spattering of assorted mish-mosh.
And then there were his books. Lining two of Timmy's four walls were solid, hand-made bookshelves. Five shelves high, the two units were jam-packed with a random selection of literature. From fiction to non-fiction, Timmy had collected such an assortment of books that he had found it particularly difficult to organize them in any sort of meaningful way. Instead, whenever Timmy acquired a new book (and after reading it, of course) he would simply wedge it onto a shelf wherever a reasonable slot presented itself.
His favorite books were a prized possession: the complete twenty-eight book collection of the Lunar Dino Clash series, an epic tale set in a distant future where humans had colonized the moon and a scientist had found the perfect environment to recreate long-extinct dinosaurs.
Timmy spent a lot of time reading. His favorite place to read was a small clearing he had discovered in the woods behind the house. The clearing was surrounded by tall pines whose needled canopy provided ample shade for hot summer days. A short length of a crooked tree trunk sat in the middle of the clearing and Timmy would lean against this, sitting on the soft grass and the layers of old, brown pine needles, losing himself in whatever adventure awaited him between the covers of his newest book.
Timmy cherished the time he spent in his clearing so much that it almost hurt to have to leave.
You see, Timmy Topswell—eight years old, homeschooled, and an avid reader—had no friends.
To further emphasize the fact that the city of Greenville is anything but ordinary, we need only turn our attention to those individuals who make it their business to investigate the unusual: the Explorers of the Unknown. A trio of paranormal detectives, the Explorers of the Unknown base their livelihood on the fact that Greenville is the proverbial breeding ground for paranormal activity.
This story, however, has nothing to do with the decidedly dashing and handsome investigators of the unknown. They'll be making an appearance later on, but this story is, unequivocally, not about them.
It is about an eight year-old boy named Timmy Topswell. In his admittedly brief lifetime, Timmy has already had a few encounters with the more unusual aspects of Greenville. One time, on a flight out of the Greenville International Airport to visit his great-aunt in Madagascar, Timmy found himself sitting next to a large lizard-man named Bob. Timmy later found out that Bob was from a transdimensional plane of existence known as Bridge World, of which the portal to and from was located inside the men's restroom on board the airplane. Bob enjoyed his occasional constitutionals from his duties as Bridge Keeper and had been personally troubled by Timmy's then-alarming reaction to him.
More recently, however, Timmy was delighted to discover a living, breathing, Tyrannosaurus Rex in his backyard. This, of course, is another story entirely but it was, suffice it to say, an undeniably cool moment in Timmy's short life.
Timmy savored these moments whenever they occurred because the time between them was fantastically boring. Timmy Topswell was homeschooled, and as such, didn't get out very often. He lived at the very end of a very long street where the nearest neighbor (a bitter old woman by the name of Frieda Fingerling) lived over half a mile away. This flat, wooded area of Greenville that Timmy lived in was known as Greenville Acres. The house Timmy called home was small and brown, but it sat upon a large property, half-obscured by the surrounding woods.
Timmy spent more time exploring these woods than he did in his own bedroom. Which is not to say that Timmy's room was an undesirable place to be. Quite the contrary, in fact. His small, square room was filled to the brim with everything that resembled any interest to an eight year-old boy. From dinosaurs to giant robots, Timmy's walls were covered with posters, his shelves were cluttered with toys and models, and the carpet was covered with a healthy spattering of assorted mish-mosh.
And then there were his books. Lining two of Timmy's four walls were solid, hand-made bookshelves. Five shelves high, the two units were jam-packed with a random selection of literature. From fiction to non-fiction, Timmy had collected such an assortment of books that he had found it particularly difficult to organize them in any sort of meaningful way. Instead, whenever Timmy acquired a new book (and after reading it, of course) he would simply wedge it onto a shelf wherever a reasonable slot presented itself.
His favorite books were a prized possession: the complete twenty-eight book collection of the Lunar Dino Clash series, an epic tale set in a distant future where humans had colonized the moon and a scientist had found the perfect environment to recreate long-extinct dinosaurs.
Timmy spent a lot of time reading. His favorite place to read was a small clearing he had discovered in the woods behind the house. The clearing was surrounded by tall pines whose needled canopy provided ample shade for hot summer days. A short length of a crooked tree trunk sat in the middle of the clearing and Timmy would lean against this, sitting on the soft grass and the layers of old, brown pine needles, losing himself in whatever adventure awaited him between the covers of his newest book.
Timmy cherished the time he spent in his clearing so much that it almost hurt to have to leave.
You see, Timmy Topswell—eight years old, homeschooled, and an avid reader—had no friends.
CHAPTER 2
"Big Burger Boys and the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor"
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Odd things are attracted to Greenville. There is something about the city that draws the unusual to it like moths to a flame. One of those anomalies was Big Burger Boys.
Big Burger Boys was a fast food burger restaurant that bore more than a striking similarity to Burger King or McDonald’s. And as odd as Burger King and McDonald’s were, Big Burger Boys was even worse. The restaurant was unique to Greenville and it could not be found anywhere else in the entire world. |
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One of the strangest things about Big Burger Boys was how bad their burgers were. Really, they were simply awful. The meat patties were cooked in microwaves and were flavorless, colorless, and—on the rarest of occasions—meatless. To compensate, the Big Burger Boy "Big Boy Burger" was loaded down with so many toppings and condiments that if you actually did get a meat patty, you probably wouldn't even notice it. The french fries were never crispy but instead wet and floppy. The food, in general, was so horribly, badly wrong that someone actually invented a new word just to describe it.
Horbawrong.
This doesn't mean that Big Burger Boys as an institution wasn't at all innovative. They were. Just not when it came to food. You see, Big Burger Boys was the only place in Greenville —and the world, for that matter—where you would have found the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor.
In other words, Big Burger Boys was the only place where the trash can was able to take your tray directly from your hands and feed itself your trash.
The story of the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor was a fascinating, gripping, and somewhat dangerous tale. Sadly, the details of its creation are unimportant to the story at hand. Suffice it to say, the trash can was invented by two young men who, during the Christmas holiday, found themselves dining at the fine establishment that was Big Burger Boys (it was not their choice; it was the only place open).
After having a great deal of fun at the expense of the floppy fries, these two good friends discovered the Big Burger Boys old trash can. It was an unimpressive box that had a sensor in it. This sensor told the receptacle when to raise its flap and after receiving the trash, and an electronic voice would say "Thank you".
In true form of great innovation, these two intrepid young men immediately began brainstorming ways to improve the Big Burger Boys trash can. The resulting invention had been called revolutionary.
Of course, the person who said that had thought he was talking about a new kind of bladeless nose-hair trimmer. Either way, the fellow was most certainly short a marble or two.
The Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor was a wonder in the world of trash receptacles. It featured a microprocessor and advanced gender-detecting sensors that took it from saying "Thank you" to "Thank you, sir" or "Thank you, ma'am". (As with most computer-enhanced gadgets, this feature was accurate only about fifty percent of the time.) The Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor had tubular, telescoping arms, each with three digits, designed to take the customer's tray from their hands. The arms would insert the tray into a compartment where the receptacle would "chew its food", loosening and removing the trash from the tray. The tray was then ejected and the arms placed it on the top of the receptacle where an employee would collect it later.
The entire process took four-point-two seconds.
Certainly, this was no ordinary trash can.
After the two young men showed their design to the Big Burger Boys' management, they soon became millionaires and made it a point to never eat at Big Burger Boys again--not even to see the state-of-the-art trash can they had invented and had installed at all three of Greenville's Big Burger Boys.
Horbawrong.
This doesn't mean that Big Burger Boys as an institution wasn't at all innovative. They were. Just not when it came to food. You see, Big Burger Boys was the only place in Greenville —and the world, for that matter—where you would have found the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor.
In other words, Big Burger Boys was the only place where the trash can was able to take your tray directly from your hands and feed itself your trash.
The story of the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor was a fascinating, gripping, and somewhat dangerous tale. Sadly, the details of its creation are unimportant to the story at hand. Suffice it to say, the trash can was invented by two young men who, during the Christmas holiday, found themselves dining at the fine establishment that was Big Burger Boys (it was not their choice; it was the only place open).
After having a great deal of fun at the expense of the floppy fries, these two good friends discovered the Big Burger Boys old trash can. It was an unimpressive box that had a sensor in it. This sensor told the receptacle when to raise its flap and after receiving the trash, and an electronic voice would say "Thank you".
In true form of great innovation, these two intrepid young men immediately began brainstorming ways to improve the Big Burger Boys trash can. The resulting invention had been called revolutionary.
Of course, the person who said that had thought he was talking about a new kind of bladeless nose-hair trimmer. Either way, the fellow was most certainly short a marble or two.
The Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor was a wonder in the world of trash receptacles. It featured a microprocessor and advanced gender-detecting sensors that took it from saying "Thank you" to "Thank you, sir" or "Thank you, ma'am". (As with most computer-enhanced gadgets, this feature was accurate only about fifty percent of the time.) The Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor had tubular, telescoping arms, each with three digits, designed to take the customer's tray from their hands. The arms would insert the tray into a compartment where the receptacle would "chew its food", loosening and removing the trash from the tray. The tray was then ejected and the arms placed it on the top of the receptacle where an employee would collect it later.
The entire process took four-point-two seconds.
Certainly, this was no ordinary trash can.
After the two young men showed their design to the Big Burger Boys' management, they soon became millionaires and made it a point to never eat at Big Burger Boys again--not even to see the state-of-the-art trash can they had invented and had installed at all three of Greenville's Big Burger Boys.
CHAPTER 3
"A Dark and Stormy Night"
It was with a wild ferocity that the rain pelted the roof of the Topswell's small brown house. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark woods that lurked in the backyard. Thunder rolled across the sky, rattling the window that Timmy was staring out of.
Timmy sighed heavily, his breath fogging the glass. The day had been a total waste. It had been dark and overcast, raining intermittently and without warning, making it impossible for Timmy to get out to the clearing and have himself a good read. Dinner with his parents had been a short affair involving greasy fried chicken. Immediately afterwards, Timmy's parents planted themselves in front of the television and watched a reality program where contestants had to perform acts of silly humiliation by singing a song, eating a plate of bugs, and dancing something that bore a resemblance to the chicken dance. All the while, the editing of the program built an artificial tension over who might get voted off the island next.
Timmy didn't care very much for reality television. In fact, there was little on television that he would willingly sit through as it simply lacked the depth and imagination that he found in his books.
The problem, of course, was that Timmy hadn't been to the library recently. The stack of books ready to be returned was sitting next to his door and he knew they were dangerously close to the due date. Timmy had asked his mother to take him to the library after dinner, but she had become distracted by her reality television program and Timmy knew that he stood no chance of getting to the library today.
Another boom of thunder rolled across the sky and lightning arced through the black clouds. An instant later there was another flash of light—a brilliant yellow-orange streak that bore a hole through the low-hanging clouds. The flash of light vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Timmy stared wide- eyed out his window, wondering what it was he had just witnessed.
It hadn't been lightning, Timmy was sure of that. And if it had been lightning, it wasn't like any he had seen or read about before. Timmy's eyes searched the dark skies for another occurrence of the yellow-orange flash, but none came.
A moment later, the power went out in the Topswell's small, brown home.
Timmy sighed heavily, his breath fogging the glass. The day had been a total waste. It had been dark and overcast, raining intermittently and without warning, making it impossible for Timmy to get out to the clearing and have himself a good read. Dinner with his parents had been a short affair involving greasy fried chicken. Immediately afterwards, Timmy's parents planted themselves in front of the television and watched a reality program where contestants had to perform acts of silly humiliation by singing a song, eating a plate of bugs, and dancing something that bore a resemblance to the chicken dance. All the while, the editing of the program built an artificial tension over who might get voted off the island next.
Timmy didn't care very much for reality television. In fact, there was little on television that he would willingly sit through as it simply lacked the depth and imagination that he found in his books.
The problem, of course, was that Timmy hadn't been to the library recently. The stack of books ready to be returned was sitting next to his door and he knew they were dangerously close to the due date. Timmy had asked his mother to take him to the library after dinner, but she had become distracted by her reality television program and Timmy knew that he stood no chance of getting to the library today.
Another boom of thunder rolled across the sky and lightning arced through the black clouds. An instant later there was another flash of light—a brilliant yellow-orange streak that bore a hole through the low-hanging clouds. The flash of light vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Timmy stared wide- eyed out his window, wondering what it was he had just witnessed.
It hadn't been lightning, Timmy was sure of that. And if it had been lightning, it wasn't like any he had seen or read about before. Timmy's eyes searched the dark skies for another occurrence of the yellow-orange flash, but none came.
A moment later, the power went out in the Topswell's small, brown home.
***
Sentient machines—that is, highly advanced technology that is self-aware—is the stuff of science-fiction novels. This was a subject that Timmy Topswell was very familiar with. He knew that self-aware robots were "the stuff of science-fiction novels" because, in reality, there was no such thing and therefore simply could not exist anywhere else but inside a science-fiction novel.
Not that it was impossible. Timmy Topswell was keenly aware that anything was possible. He had, after all, watched as the Tyrannosaurus Rex that had appeared in his backyard was shrunk down to the size of one of his dinosaur models and then carried off by the Explorers of the Unknown.
The simple fact, however, was that technology did not yet exist to allow for sentient machines.
What Timmy didn't know (at least, not yet) was that a series of random events were unfolding that would make self-aware robots—a certain robot, at the very least—very much a reality.
The events were as follows:
First, the two young men who invented the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor sold their design to Big Burger Boys. Big Burger Boys, in turn, installed the high-tech trash cans in their three Greenville restaurants—which included the one located along the west end of State Road 60.
Second, the storm that night had an unusually high occurrence of lightning. And the lightning had an unusually high electrical throughput. After the power went out at Big Burger Boys late that night, bolts of lightning kept striking an exposed, metal steam pipe that jutted up from the roof. These jolts of electricity coursed through every viable electricity-conducting object within the restaurant.
Third, after traveling tens of thousands of light-years through the Milky Way Galaxy, a meteor the size of a small truck burned through the Earth's atmosphere and crashed straight into the Big Burger Boys on the west end of State Road 60. The restaurant was completely obliterated, reduced to little more than a smoking crater.
The Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor, thanks to its close proximity to the doors of the restaurant, was blown free and clear of the crater. The sturdy, orange, rectangular box tumbled and flipped across the street, propelled by the force of the explosion. It came to rest upon a wet patch of grass, the metal plate with cutout letters—the initials of its name— flashed white as it reflected the blinding light of the lightning that seemed to be seeking out the trash can.
Finally, from the depths of the smoking crater, the meteorite's passenger—a green, glowing ooze—ruptured out of the crater, expanding and splitting, seeking out objects for which it could bond itself to.
This was how the Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor became sentient. On this dark and stormy night, through luck, coincidence, and serendipity, BORC-9 was born.
CHAPTER 4
"Timmy's Visitor"
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The next morning the sun shone fiercely though the canopy of pine trees, quickly evaporating all traces of the violent storm from the night before. It was Saturday and Timmy's mother didn't have any lessons planned for him. After a quick breakfast of cereal, Timmy grabbed his backpack and set off to explore the woods behind the house. By nine-fifteen that morning, Timmy Topswell was lost in his imagination, traipsing through the woods, and on his way to his special clearing.
The air was alive with the music of the woods. Birds chirped and called out to each other; small animals scurried along the branches and behind bushes, just out of Timmy's line of sight. |
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Timmy knew that it wasn't just small furry creatures rustling the leaves. No, Timmy was quite aware of the pack of Velociraptors that lived in the woods. Just like in the Jurassic Park movies, the raptors hunted in a pack, stalking their prey until the perfect opportunity presented itself. After all, if a T-Rex could appear in his backyard, who was to say that Velociraptors in the woods were impossible?
Timmy was fairly certain that one day the Velociraptors would stop stalking him and actually attack. This was why, before leaving on his expeditions, Timmy always grabbed a package of thinly-sliced deli meat (roast beef, to be exact). When the raptors attacked, he would pull the roast beef from his backpack and hurl it at the ravenous dinosaurs, buying himself precious seconds to escape.
And if the Velociraptors didn't attack (which was what usually happened) the roast beef made for an excellent snack later in the day.
These were the thoughts that were going through Timmy's mind. That, and why, if there were in fact raptors living in the woods, had he never found so much as a footprint? He had certainly looked for them—such a discovery would be a good reason to call in the Explorers of the Unknown. And Timmy got rather excited whenever he thought about another visit from those guys.
Timmy was lost in these thoughts when he absently entered the clearing where his reading log was. And because he was so distracted, it took a moment for him to realize that he was not alone in the clearing. In fact, Timmy was so incredibly lost in the thought of a visit by the Explorers of the Unknown, he actually tripped and tumbled over the clearing's newest addition.
And in case you were wondering, it was not a Velociraptor.
Timmy hit the ground, the thick bed of pine needles cushioning his fall. His backpack slipped from his shoulder and swung away from his body. He let out a grunt and pushed himself onto his side, gazing at the object that had encouraged his sudden embrace with the ground.
It was a large box. Rectangular in shape and—yes—a bright orange color with the odd stripe of black. Whatever it was, Timmy knew it didn't belong in his clearing.
He got to his feet and inspected it closer. At one end, there were two large wheels on either side of what Timmy realized was the bottom of the box. The wheeled rectangular box was lying on its side.
The top side of the box was featureless and this confused Timmy. What was the point of sticking wheels on an orange box? For that matter, what was the point of an orange box that didn't open up?
Low on the top side of the box, a few inches above the base where the wheels were, there was a nondescript black plastic cover. Timmy leaned closer to inspect it and he lifted the cover to reveal three metal prongs recessed in the casing. It was some kind of plug.
The plastic cover was affixed to a spring and Timmy let it snap shut. As curious as ever, he continued his inspection of the orange box, hoping to reveal a clue as to its origins. Timmy discovered that on the long sides of the box there were two circular metal cuffs—one for each side. Each cuff had three slender rods sticking out of it.
And suddenly, Timmy realized that whatever this strange orange box was, it was lying face-down in the pine needles. If he wanted a real clue as to what it was, Timmy would have to flip it over and examine the front side of the box.
Timmy took a step back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The orange box was certainly large. If it was standing up, it would be almost as tall as Timmy himself. And it was wide, too. He knew without even trying that it would be heavy. Nevertheless, Timmy found himself thinking that instead of flipping it over, he might be able to lift it length-wise, using the wheels to pivot the box into a vertical position. He would just need something to keep the wheels from rolling ...
Timmy was fairly certain that one day the Velociraptors would stop stalking him and actually attack. This was why, before leaving on his expeditions, Timmy always grabbed a package of thinly-sliced deli meat (roast beef, to be exact). When the raptors attacked, he would pull the roast beef from his backpack and hurl it at the ravenous dinosaurs, buying himself precious seconds to escape.
And if the Velociraptors didn't attack (which was what usually happened) the roast beef made for an excellent snack later in the day.
These were the thoughts that were going through Timmy's mind. That, and why, if there were in fact raptors living in the woods, had he never found so much as a footprint? He had certainly looked for them—such a discovery would be a good reason to call in the Explorers of the Unknown. And Timmy got rather excited whenever he thought about another visit from those guys.
Timmy was lost in these thoughts when he absently entered the clearing where his reading log was. And because he was so distracted, it took a moment for him to realize that he was not alone in the clearing. In fact, Timmy was so incredibly lost in the thought of a visit by the Explorers of the Unknown, he actually tripped and tumbled over the clearing's newest addition.
And in case you were wondering, it was not a Velociraptor.
Timmy hit the ground, the thick bed of pine needles cushioning his fall. His backpack slipped from his shoulder and swung away from his body. He let out a grunt and pushed himself onto his side, gazing at the object that had encouraged his sudden embrace with the ground.
It was a large box. Rectangular in shape and—yes—a bright orange color with the odd stripe of black. Whatever it was, Timmy knew it didn't belong in his clearing.
He got to his feet and inspected it closer. At one end, there were two large wheels on either side of what Timmy realized was the bottom of the box. The wheeled rectangular box was lying on its side.
The top side of the box was featureless and this confused Timmy. What was the point of sticking wheels on an orange box? For that matter, what was the point of an orange box that didn't open up?
Low on the top side of the box, a few inches above the base where the wheels were, there was a nondescript black plastic cover. Timmy leaned closer to inspect it and he lifted the cover to reveal three metal prongs recessed in the casing. It was some kind of plug.
The plastic cover was affixed to a spring and Timmy let it snap shut. As curious as ever, he continued his inspection of the orange box, hoping to reveal a clue as to its origins. Timmy discovered that on the long sides of the box there were two circular metal cuffs—one for each side. Each cuff had three slender rods sticking out of it.
And suddenly, Timmy realized that whatever this strange orange box was, it was lying face-down in the pine needles. If he wanted a real clue as to what it was, Timmy would have to flip it over and examine the front side of the box.
Timmy took a step back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The orange box was certainly large. If it was standing up, it would be almost as tall as Timmy himself. And it was wide, too. He knew without even trying that it would be heavy. Nevertheless, Timmy found himself thinking that instead of flipping it over, he might be able to lift it length-wise, using the wheels to pivot the box into a vertical position. He would just need something to keep the wheels from rolling ...
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A minute later, Timmy had retrieved two flat stones from the edge of the clearing and had placed them behind the wheels of the box. With the wheels secured, Timmy went to the top of the box, slipped his fingers under the edge and lifted. It was heavy, but not as heavy as he had thought it would be. The box pivoted smoothly until it stood upright.
Timmy stared at his handiwork. It looked like a robot from a cheap science-fiction movie. Its square eyes had been dim, but now brightened with a yellow glow. Its mouth—if that's what it was—opened and closed with a soft whirring noise. A shiny metal plate on the robot's chest read "BORC-9". And then the robot spoke. "THANK YOU, MA’AM." |
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CHAPTER 5
"An Unlikely Friend"
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Timmy blinked at his orange robotic companion. The square yellow eyes seemed unfazed by Timmy's lack of a response. Still, at a loss for what to do or say, Timmy blinked again.
"Did you just—" Timmy started to say but was cut off abruptly. "THANK YOU, MA'AM," the warbling electronic voice said again. |
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Timmy Topswell, having never been to a Big Burger Boys in his life, was flabbergasted. And then he realized he was indignant.
"Hey! I'm not a ma'am!" he told the orange robot.
"THANK YOU, MA'AM," it repeated.
"Cut it out!" Timmy said. "I'm not a girl and I'm not a ma'am!"
The orange robot fell silent. Its yellow-illuminated eyes blinked off and then back on as though it was processing what Timmy had said. Timmy waited and watched.
"THANK YOU ..." the robot trailed off and an uneasy silence fell over the clearing. Finally, it said: "SIR."
Timmy's breath caught in his throat. Had the robot actually understood him?
"What are you?" Timmy asked.
"THANK YOU—" the robot seemed to hesitate. And then it said, "I AM BINARY OPERATED RECEPTACLE COMPACTOR NUMBER NINE."
"Binary Operated ... what?"
At first, the words made no sense to Timmy. Even with everything he had read and all the things he knew about computers (which was a lot) Timmy didn't understand what it meant. Then he thought through it, analyzing the words carefully like his mother had taught him to do.
He knew what binary meant. He had read about it just a few months ago while studying computers. Binary was a language of ones and zeros that computers used to communicate.
"Binary Operated ..." Timmy mulled the words over. "That means you've got a computer inside you, right?"
The orange robot's fingers—the three metal tubes that jutted out from the cuffs on either side of its body—wiggled in excitement. Timmy grinned in satisfaction. He was right.
"Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor," Timmy repeated again, considering the words carefully. "Well, a receptacle is something you put stuff in. And a compactor—wait, like a garbage compactor?"
The orange robot's fingers wiggled and its eyes blinked. The pieces fell into place and Timmy finally understood what it was he had discovered in the clearing.
"You're a garbage can with a computer inside?"
The orange robot remained silent.
"And that must mean your name is ..." Timmy glanced down at the metal plate on the robot's chest. "Borc-9."
"BORC-9," the robot repeated in its electronic voice.
Timmy thought for a moment. "I dunno, that's kinda long, you know? Maybe we could just call you Borc?"
"BORC-9?" the orange robot asked.
"No, just Borc," Timmy said.
"JUST-BORC?"
"Yeah, that's it," Timmy said with a nod. "Pleased to meet you Borc. I'm Timmy."
Timmy stuck out his hand to shake and BORC-9 stared at it for a moment.
"HELLO, TIMMY," Borc said, "I AM JUST-BORC."
And then BORC-9 stuck out his own hand, his tubular metal arm telescoping out from the side of his body and moving like a tentacle on an octopus. Or like one of Doc Ock's metal arms.
"Wicked cool ..." Timmy said, amazed.
BORC-9 held his hand out, mimicking Timmy's gesture but not actually grasping his hand. Timmy laughed.
"No, Borc—you're supposed to grab my hand and shake it. Like this."
Timmy demonstrated by shaking BORC-9's hand. "That's how you say hello," Timmy explained.
"HELLO," BORC-9 said.
"Hello," Timmy said again.
"HELLO," BORC-9 repeated, pumping Timmy's hand.
"Alright, Borc," Timmy said with a chuckle and pulled his hand back. "We're friends now. You can move, right? Come on over here."
Timmy walked over to his reading log and BORC-9 lurched forward, unsteady on his wheels. He found his balance and trundled after the boy. Timmy sat down on the log, facing BORC-9, and drawing a knee up to his chest.
"Where did you come from, Borc—wait, are you from outer space?" Timmy's eyes widened at the possibility. "Are you a hyper-advanced robotic trash can from another planet sent to Earth to stop, um ..." Timmy stopped to consider why an alien trash can would be sent to another planet. "Stop global warming?"
BORC-9 blinked at Timmy by flicking his glowing eyes off and then back on again.
"No?" Timmy rubbed his chin. "Well, where did you come from, then?"
BORC-9's square eyes searched the clearing and he pivoted slightly. Finally, an arm telescoped out from his side and pointed to a spot in the woods behind Timmy.
"You came from that direction?" Timmy asked, following BORC-9's gesture.
BORC-9 nodded by rocking his entire body forward.
"Huh. Well, that doesn't explain much," Timmy said with a note of disappointment.
"WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?" BORC-9 asked.
"Me? I came from my house. It's through the woods in that direction." Timmy pointed in the opposite direction that BORC-9 had pointed. "I come out here to read books and explore the woods. You know, I think there's Velociraptors out here somewhere cause this one time I had a T-Rex in my back yard and I figure if there's a robot trash can out here, than there must be Velociraptors, too, right?"
Timmy realized he had started rambling. He got that way when he was excited about something. But now he made himself pause. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was scare off his new friend.
"What are you doing out here, Borc?" Timmy asked slowly.
"JUST-BORC IS ..."
Something whirred inside him and BORC-9 pivoted on his wheels. He didn't know what he was doing in the clearing and he didn't remember how he had gotten there.
"JUST-BORC IS TALKING WITH TIMMY," BORC-9 said. " ... FRIEND."
"Hey! I'm not a ma'am!" he told the orange robot.
"THANK YOU, MA'AM," it repeated.
"Cut it out!" Timmy said. "I'm not a girl and I'm not a ma'am!"
The orange robot fell silent. Its yellow-illuminated eyes blinked off and then back on as though it was processing what Timmy had said. Timmy waited and watched.
"THANK YOU ..." the robot trailed off and an uneasy silence fell over the clearing. Finally, it said: "SIR."
Timmy's breath caught in his throat. Had the robot actually understood him?
"What are you?" Timmy asked.
"THANK YOU—" the robot seemed to hesitate. And then it said, "I AM BINARY OPERATED RECEPTACLE COMPACTOR NUMBER NINE."
"Binary Operated ... what?"
At first, the words made no sense to Timmy. Even with everything he had read and all the things he knew about computers (which was a lot) Timmy didn't understand what it meant. Then he thought through it, analyzing the words carefully like his mother had taught him to do.
He knew what binary meant. He had read about it just a few months ago while studying computers. Binary was a language of ones and zeros that computers used to communicate.
"Binary Operated ..." Timmy mulled the words over. "That means you've got a computer inside you, right?"
The orange robot's fingers—the three metal tubes that jutted out from the cuffs on either side of its body—wiggled in excitement. Timmy grinned in satisfaction. He was right.
"Binary Operated Receptacle Compactor," Timmy repeated again, considering the words carefully. "Well, a receptacle is something you put stuff in. And a compactor—wait, like a garbage compactor?"
The orange robot's fingers wiggled and its eyes blinked. The pieces fell into place and Timmy finally understood what it was he had discovered in the clearing.
"You're a garbage can with a computer inside?"
The orange robot remained silent.
"And that must mean your name is ..." Timmy glanced down at the metal plate on the robot's chest. "Borc-9."
"BORC-9," the robot repeated in its electronic voice.
Timmy thought for a moment. "I dunno, that's kinda long, you know? Maybe we could just call you Borc?"
"BORC-9?" the orange robot asked.
"No, just Borc," Timmy said.
"JUST-BORC?"
"Yeah, that's it," Timmy said with a nod. "Pleased to meet you Borc. I'm Timmy."
Timmy stuck out his hand to shake and BORC-9 stared at it for a moment.
"HELLO, TIMMY," Borc said, "I AM JUST-BORC."
And then BORC-9 stuck out his own hand, his tubular metal arm telescoping out from the side of his body and moving like a tentacle on an octopus. Or like one of Doc Ock's metal arms.
"Wicked cool ..." Timmy said, amazed.
BORC-9 held his hand out, mimicking Timmy's gesture but not actually grasping his hand. Timmy laughed.
"No, Borc—you're supposed to grab my hand and shake it. Like this."
Timmy demonstrated by shaking BORC-9's hand. "That's how you say hello," Timmy explained.
"HELLO," BORC-9 said.
"Hello," Timmy said again.
"HELLO," BORC-9 repeated, pumping Timmy's hand.
"Alright, Borc," Timmy said with a chuckle and pulled his hand back. "We're friends now. You can move, right? Come on over here."
Timmy walked over to his reading log and BORC-9 lurched forward, unsteady on his wheels. He found his balance and trundled after the boy. Timmy sat down on the log, facing BORC-9, and drawing a knee up to his chest.
"Where did you come from, Borc—wait, are you from outer space?" Timmy's eyes widened at the possibility. "Are you a hyper-advanced robotic trash can from another planet sent to Earth to stop, um ..." Timmy stopped to consider why an alien trash can would be sent to another planet. "Stop global warming?"
BORC-9 blinked at Timmy by flicking his glowing eyes off and then back on again.
"No?" Timmy rubbed his chin. "Well, where did you come from, then?"
BORC-9's square eyes searched the clearing and he pivoted slightly. Finally, an arm telescoped out from his side and pointed to a spot in the woods behind Timmy.
"You came from that direction?" Timmy asked, following BORC-9's gesture.
BORC-9 nodded by rocking his entire body forward.
"Huh. Well, that doesn't explain much," Timmy said with a note of disappointment.
"WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?" BORC-9 asked.
"Me? I came from my house. It's through the woods in that direction." Timmy pointed in the opposite direction that BORC-9 had pointed. "I come out here to read books and explore the woods. You know, I think there's Velociraptors out here somewhere cause this one time I had a T-Rex in my back yard and I figure if there's a robot trash can out here, than there must be Velociraptors, too, right?"
Timmy realized he had started rambling. He got that way when he was excited about something. But now he made himself pause. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was scare off his new friend.
"What are you doing out here, Borc?" Timmy asked slowly.
"JUST-BORC IS ..."
Something whirred inside him and BORC-9 pivoted on his wheels. He didn't know what he was doing in the clearing and he didn't remember how he had gotten there.
"JUST-BORC IS TALKING WITH TIMMY," BORC-9 said. " ... FRIEND."
CHAPTER 6
"Danger, Timmy Topswell, Danger!"
|
Minutes turned into hours as little Timmy Topswell lost himself in the company of his new friend. He quickly discovered that talking to BORC-9 was a lot like talking to a little child. Unlike a little child, however, the trash can could learn fast.
Very fast. After clearing out a small patch underneath the bed of pine needles, Timmy showed BORC-9 how to play Tic-Tac-Toe. Fifteen minutes later, Timmy had lost forty-one consecutive games. After winning his forty-second game, BORC-9 celebrated with a quick twirl that looked awkward for a large orange trash can. |
|
At first, Timmy was disappointed to have lost so many games. He knew he should be a good sport about it, but it still stung. And then BORC-9 stopped spinning around and fixed his gaze on Timmy. For an instant, Timmy thought he saw BORC-9's yellow eyes glow a little bit brighter and the disappointment Timmy felt about the Tic-Tac-Toe game vanished.
Timmy was just happy to have someone to play with.
Timmy was just happy to have someone to play with.
***
While Timmy and BORC-9 played in the clearing, something lurked in the woods behind them. It had no characteristics to speak of and it had little shape. In fact, the Thing was little more than an amorphous blob that rolled and loped from tree to tree.
The Thing shifted closer and closer to Timmy’s clearing, driven by an unexplainable urge to be near the large orange box that the young boy was playing with. As it shifted across the pine needles that covered the ground, it absorbed them into its gelatinous mass.
Something felt right about that.
The pine needles joined a few hamburger wrappers and empty cups that bore the logo of Big Burger Boys. The trash and pine needles and goo coagulated into a larger blob.
That felt very right.
The mutating trash blob began to circle the clearing, staying just inside the treeline and invisible to Timmy and BORC-9. It absorbed every loose bit of vegetation it came in contact with, growing a little bit larger with every stick and leaf.
The blob was the size of a basketball when it remembered its initial desire to be near the orange box. Ignoring the need to absorb, the mutating blob shifted towards the edge of the clearing just as the little boy demonstrated the ferocious attack of a Velociraptor, complete with a hissing, hacking roar.
The blob hesitated over an exposed root of a pine tree, suddenly afraid of the boy. Tendrils of goo oozed down along the root and the blob's second instinct took over as it began absorbing the root of the tree.
That felt very right, indeed.
***
Timmy froze in mid-roar, his arms above his head and his fingers curled like razor-sharp raptor claws. The menacing expression on his face melted as he looked around the clearing.
"Did you hear that, Borc?"
BORC-9 turned on his wheels, scanning the clearing.
I-I-I-I-I-I-R-R-R-R-K-K-K!
The sound was a groaning squeak that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Timmy spun around but couldn't locate the source of the noise. The squeaking groan grew even louder and tendrils of fear began creeping up Timmy's body.
The groaning gave way to a muffled rumble and Timmy felt the ground beneath his feet quiver. He looked down and saw the ground was in fact shifting—
—no, wait, it wasn't the ground. It was the shadow of one of the large trees that encircled the clearing. The shadow of the tree was moving. Timmy followed the shadow to its source and saw something horrible: the tree was tipping over.
Right over where Timmy and BORC-9 were standing.
"BORC!" Timmy screamed in a frightened panic. His instincts took hold of him and he dropped to his knees, shielding his head with his hands.
The sound of rushing air filled Timmy's ears and he braced himself for the worst.
WHOO-O-O-SH-WHANG!
Suddenly, there was nothing at all. Timmy stayed crouched, eyes squeezed shut, his arms over his head. The clearing was dead quiet.
Timmy swallowed the hard lump in his throat and knew he was still alive. He slowly opened his eyes.
BORC-9, the sentient orange trash can, stood in front Timmy, his telescoping arms extended and bracing the trunk of the mighty tree mere inches above Timmy's head.
To Timmy, it was as if time had stood still. He slowly rose from his crouch. The bewildered look on his face broke into one of sheer amazement.
"Borc ..." Timmy whispered in awe.
With a powerful heave, BORC-9 shoved the fallen tree trunk to the side of the clearing. BORC-9's arms telescoped back into his body and he spun around, looking at Timmy with bright eyes.
Timmy dropped to his knees in front of BORC-9. "... you saved me," Timmy said. "You saved my life."
"TIMMY FRIEND," BORC-9 replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "TIMMY JUST-BORC'S FRIEND."
Timmy didn't know what to say. He had never had a friend before, much less a friend that would risk their life to save his own. He was speechless.
Timmy reached out to touch the orange trash can but BORC-9 suddenly jerked away and spun again to the edge of the clearing.
A wrenching, slurping sound pierced Timmy's ears and a shadow fell over them both. At the edge of the clearing, the mutating trash blob had grown ten times the size of the basketball it originally was. It had absorbed the entire network of the fallen tree's roots and plenty of the surrounding plants. The goo had multiplied and transformed. It rose up, a large gelatinous blob, a cavernous maw forming two-thirds of the way to the top.
And then it roared.
"GRB-B-B-B-B-LA-A-RG-U-U-PHT!"
Timmy stumbled backwards and caught himself before falling flat on his back. BORC-9 scanned the beast to determine if it was a "Sir" or a "Ma'am".
"Borc ..." Timmy whispered softly.
"CANNOT COMPUTE," BORC-9 stated. "NO REFERENCE FOR MUTATING TRASH ... THING."
"That's no thing," Timmy said. "That's a monster, is what it is."
"MONSTER," BORC-9 repeated.
"Yeah. What you called it, too. A Mutant Trash Monster."
The Mutant Trash Monster oozed into the clearing and roared again. Timmy scrambled backwards and his hand hit the backpack that he had long forgotten.
"Borc! I've got an idea!" Timmy exclaimed, digging through his backpack and recalling his emergency plan for if he ran into the Velociraptors. "I'll distract the MTM and when I give you the high-sign, run!"
BORC-9 pivoted and gave a half-spin to show he was ready for action. Timmy bolted to his feet, holding up the package of sliced roast beef like he was brandishing a mighty sword. Timmy ripped the lid of the package as the Mutant Trash Monster oozed closer. With all his might, he hurled the package of roast beef at the Mutant Trash Monster.
The package struck the giant blob with plurb and stopped fast. The monster paused in its relentless ooze towards Timmy and BORC-9 as it seemed to consider the package of roast beef that it was absorbing.
Timmy watched as the roast beef disappeared all too quickly, suddenly worried that this might not have been the best idea.
The Mutant Trash Monster roared again, angrier and fiercer than before.
"That definitely might have been a bad idea," Timmy said.
The Mutant Trash Monster oozed faster towards Timmy and BORC-9.
"Uh, Borc?"
"TIMMY?"
"RUN!"
CHAPTER 7
"Into the Woods"
|
The Mutant Trash Monster was confused. Originally, it was the desire to merge with the orange trash can that drove the monster. Now, with the trash can running from it and the boy hurling things at it, a fierce sense of anger began boiling up within the Mutant Trash Monster.
The package that the boy had thrown—the roast beef—tasted good. Surely the boy had more. Or perhaps, the Mutant Trash Monster concluded through its primitive reasoning, the boy would taste just as good as the roast beef. |
|
***
Timmy ran to the right and the Mutant Trash Monster rolled to block his path. With the lumbering monster already in motion, Timmy dodged left, towards the path that would lead back to his house. BORC-9 spun and rolled after him, but the Mutant Trash Monster shifted directions effortlessly and quickly blocked Timmy’s path home. Timmy skidded to a halt and the monster continued to ooze towards them.
“MUST GO OTHER DIRECTION,” BORC-9 stated.
“We can’t go deeper into the woods, Borc! My house is the other way!”
The Mutant Trash Monster was fifteen feet away.
“MUST GO NOW.”
The Mutant Trash Monster lunged at them and Timmy shrieked. BORC-9 latched onto Timmy’s shirt and pulled him backwards. Timmy stumbled, found his footing again, and started to run into the woods with BORC-9 close to his side.
Abandoning the clearing and heading deeper into the woods, Timmy and BORC-9 raced into unfamiliar territory. The trees formed a denser canopy here and only a small amount of sunlight was able to filter down. There was no path for Timmy to follow and he wove haphazardly through the trees and hopped over fallen branches, dodging around thickets that pulled at his clothes.
BORC-9 kept pace, his arms a flurry of activity in front of him, clearing his path as he went so that his wheels wouldn’t get caught. When he came to an obstructing tree root or a fallen trunk, those mighty, telescoping arms would shoot up and find a purchase above and BORC-9 would literally haul his body over the obstruction in front of him.
The Mutant Trash Monster had no issues in the woods. Its shifting, gelatinous form slid through tightly-spaced trees. It absorbed roughage from the ground and simply plowed over smaller obstacles.
Timmy’s fear turned to panic. He had explored the woods, obviously, but never had he gone this deep. “Borc! I don’t know where we’re going!”
“JUST RUN.”
Timmy chanced a quick glance back and saw the Mutant Trash Monster was no more than five hundred feet behind them.
“RUN FASTER,” BORC-9 advised.
And then a small tree trunk smashed into one of the towering trees to Timmy’s left. He threw his arms over his face to protect himself from the spray of splinters. The shock of the impact sent Timmy rolling to the right, in front of BORC-9.
“What was that?!”
BORC-9 and Timmy looked back at the Mutant Trash Monster just in time to see another small tree trunk shoot out from the gelatinous mass. The wooden missile shot towards its target and BORC-9 moved quickly to intercept it. The telescoping arms shot forward once again, but instead of trying to stop the tree trunk directly, BORC-9 struck at the tree as flew by, diverting its path by several feet so that it missed Timmy entirely.
The Mutant Trash Monster was now only one hundred feet from BORC-9. Timmy shot up to his feet and was about to race towards his friend when BORC-9’s warbled cry halted him.
“RUN TIMMY!”
Timmy hesitated only long enough to see that gaping maw of the Mutant Trash Monster open wide. He took off again, running deeper into the woods.
The Mutant Trash Monster was practically on top of BORC-9. Tendrils of goo oozed out and reached for the orange trash can as BORC-9 slowly backed away. The tendrils touched and probed BORC-9, more and more of the tendrils reaching out until BORC-9 was nearly covered.
The Mutant Trash Monster was filled with a sense of content. It was finally becoming one with the orange trash can.
BORC-9 slowly stretched his telescoping arms out and pushed them into the oozing body of the Mutant Trash Monster. Deeper and deeper, BORC-9's arms penetrated the blob.
And then BORC-9's yellow eyes flashed white as he sent a charge of jolting electricity through the length of his arms and into the Mutant Trash Monster.
The monstrous beast spasmed violently and yanked back its probing tendrils, visibly shrinking from the bolt of electricity. With the monster momentarily stunned, BORC-9 raced to catch up with Timmy.
When BORC-9 found him moments later, Timmy was standing frozen in fear. He stood at the lip of a large crater in the middle of the woods. Rising up out of the crater was a massive pile of decomposing trash.
BORC-9 peered down at the trash. "NOT GOOD."
“MUST GO OTHER DIRECTION,” BORC-9 stated.
“We can’t go deeper into the woods, Borc! My house is the other way!”
The Mutant Trash Monster was fifteen feet away.
“MUST GO NOW.”
The Mutant Trash Monster lunged at them and Timmy shrieked. BORC-9 latched onto Timmy’s shirt and pulled him backwards. Timmy stumbled, found his footing again, and started to run into the woods with BORC-9 close to his side.
Abandoning the clearing and heading deeper into the woods, Timmy and BORC-9 raced into unfamiliar territory. The trees formed a denser canopy here and only a small amount of sunlight was able to filter down. There was no path for Timmy to follow and he wove haphazardly through the trees and hopped over fallen branches, dodging around thickets that pulled at his clothes.
BORC-9 kept pace, his arms a flurry of activity in front of him, clearing his path as he went so that his wheels wouldn’t get caught. When he came to an obstructing tree root or a fallen trunk, those mighty, telescoping arms would shoot up and find a purchase above and BORC-9 would literally haul his body over the obstruction in front of him.
The Mutant Trash Monster had no issues in the woods. Its shifting, gelatinous form slid through tightly-spaced trees. It absorbed roughage from the ground and simply plowed over smaller obstacles.
Timmy’s fear turned to panic. He had explored the woods, obviously, but never had he gone this deep. “Borc! I don’t know where we’re going!”
“JUST RUN.”
Timmy chanced a quick glance back and saw the Mutant Trash Monster was no more than five hundred feet behind them.
“RUN FASTER,” BORC-9 advised.
And then a small tree trunk smashed into one of the towering trees to Timmy’s left. He threw his arms over his face to protect himself from the spray of splinters. The shock of the impact sent Timmy rolling to the right, in front of BORC-9.
“What was that?!”
BORC-9 and Timmy looked back at the Mutant Trash Monster just in time to see another small tree trunk shoot out from the gelatinous mass. The wooden missile shot towards its target and BORC-9 moved quickly to intercept it. The telescoping arms shot forward once again, but instead of trying to stop the tree trunk directly, BORC-9 struck at the tree as flew by, diverting its path by several feet so that it missed Timmy entirely.
The Mutant Trash Monster was now only one hundred feet from BORC-9. Timmy shot up to his feet and was about to race towards his friend when BORC-9’s warbled cry halted him.
“RUN TIMMY!”
Timmy hesitated only long enough to see that gaping maw of the Mutant Trash Monster open wide. He took off again, running deeper into the woods.
The Mutant Trash Monster was practically on top of BORC-9. Tendrils of goo oozed out and reached for the orange trash can as BORC-9 slowly backed away. The tendrils touched and probed BORC-9, more and more of the tendrils reaching out until BORC-9 was nearly covered.
The Mutant Trash Monster was filled with a sense of content. It was finally becoming one with the orange trash can.
BORC-9 slowly stretched his telescoping arms out and pushed them into the oozing body of the Mutant Trash Monster. Deeper and deeper, BORC-9's arms penetrated the blob.
And then BORC-9's yellow eyes flashed white as he sent a charge of jolting electricity through the length of his arms and into the Mutant Trash Monster.
The monstrous beast spasmed violently and yanked back its probing tendrils, visibly shrinking from the bolt of electricity. With the monster momentarily stunned, BORC-9 raced to catch up with Timmy.
When BORC-9 found him moments later, Timmy was standing frozen in fear. He stood at the lip of a large crater in the middle of the woods. Rising up out of the crater was a massive pile of decomposing trash.
BORC-9 peered down at the trash. "NOT GOOD."
|
Timmy shook his head. It was a disgusting blight in the middle of otherwise pristine woods. "It's horrible," he said softly. "And if the Mutant Trash Monster finds it ..."
Timmy let his thought trail off, but BORC-9 knew what the outcome would be. If the Mutant Trash Monster found the old dump, it would absorb the decomposing trash and become even larger and nastier. Worse still, Timmy and BORC-9 both knew that it was less if the Mutant Trash Monster found the dump and more when. |
|
As if to underscore that thought, the sound of splintering trees echoed through the woods behind them.
The Mutant Trash Monster was on the move.
"MUST KEEP MOVING, TIMMY."
Despite the overwhelming fear of the Mutant Trash Monster reaching the trash dump, Timmy conceded the fact that there was nothing he would be able to do about it.
The Mutant Trash Monster was on the move.
"MUST KEEP MOVING, TIMMY."
Despite the overwhelming fear of the Mutant Trash Monster reaching the trash dump, Timmy conceded the fact that there was nothing he would be able to do about it.
***
The brief sense of contentment that the mutating trash blob had felt was permanently gone.
Now it was angry.
The orange trash can had hurt it. The blob hadn't wanted anything but to merge with the trash can and it had responded with hostility.
Now, the blob felt nothing but anger. It no longer wanted to merge with BORC-9.
It wanted to destroy BORC-9.
The Mutant Trash Monster barreled through the woods, smashing through anything that stood in its way. Although the orange trash can had a strong head-start, the monster could still sense BORC-9's location.
The Mutant Trash Monster stopped suddenly and felt a different kind of tingling deep inside its gelatinous body. It had found the trash dump.
The single-track mind of the blob temporarily forgot its anger toward BORC-9 and was overwhelmed with joy.
This was why the Mutant Trash Monster existed.
It oozed into the dump, its tendrils reaching out and touching the trash, absorbing everything it came in contact with.
***
Timmy had lost track of the time and didn't know if had been twenty minutes or an hour since they left the trash dump and continued racing through the woods. The absence of the Mutant Trash Monster, he knew, was both good and bad.
The good was that they were putting considerable distance between them and the Mutant Trash Monster. The bad was that the blob had surely found the trash dump and was taking its time to consume it.
More light had filtered into the woods and the two friends finally broke through the trees and into a large field. Timmy stopped running, hunched over with his hands on his knees and gasped to catch his breath. BORC-9 scanned the field.
"BAD LOCATION."
Timmy glanced at BORC-9. "What?"
"IF TRASH MONSTER CATCHES US HERE, BAD LOCATION."
Timmy looked across the field. BORC-9 was right. Whereas the woods had obstacles in the form of trees and bushes to slow the Mutant Trash Monster down, the field was wide and open. Nothing would stand in its way.
"Wait!" Timmy exclaimed. He pointed to a small house in the distance, towards the other end of the field. "Look!"
BORC-9 zoomed his scanner in on the house. He detected the street just beyond it. It did seem promising.
Timmy realized where they were. "Borc, that's Frieda Fingerling's house!"
"FINGERLING?"
"She's this crazy old lady who lives at the other end of my street."
BORC-9 wasn't sure what a "crazy old lady" was supposed to be, but before he could question Timmy, the ground quaked underneath them.
Timmy lost his balance and fell as the ground shook violently. BORC-9 extended his arms to the ground and dug his fingers into the earth to brace himself. They looked up.
In the woods, rising above the treeline was the Mutant Trash Monster. It had consumed the remains of the trash dump and was now reaching a massive size that easily dwarfed the smaller trees in the woods.
Timmy gulped.
CHAPTER 8
"Frieda Fingerling"
|
The woman who sat at the small desk looked to be about as old as the manual typewriter she was scrutinizing with all the intensity of a lioness stalking a wildebeest. The woman’s hair was white and wispy, sticking out from her head at odd, puffy angles. Her face was wrinkled and tired and there seemed to be a foggy glaze over her once piercing green eyes.
This was Frieda Fingerling, the crazy old lady that lived at the other end of Timmy’s street. Except that Frieda Fingerling wasn’t crazy at all. She was old, yes—seventy-eight to be exact— lived alone, and never left her house, but she wasn’t crazy. |
|
In fact, many years ago, Frieda Fingerling had been an acclaimed children’s author. She wrote the most fantastic, imaginative stories that were beloved by children all over the world. In the past ten years, however, Frieda had been unable to finish writing a new book. She had started thirty-six stories, hoping one would be her next big hit. Without fail, though, she could never write the last two chapters.
Frieda Fingerling had the worst case of writer’s block. It was exceptionally horrible because she was able to invent and write everything but the last two chapters. And they were brilliant stories, full of monsters, fairies, pirates, and adventures beyond the wildest of imaginations.
But she simply couldn’t find the ending.
So Frieda had moved to Greenville Acres, hoping that the isolation might help her find a conclusion to one of her stories. And although she was interested in being alone, it was never her intention to cut herself off from the city all together. Unfortunately, a Tyrannosaurus Rex had crushed her car while some kids were chasing the beast down the street and Frieda had never gotten around to replacing it.
Frieda sat at her old desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper in her old typewriter. She racked her brain trying to figure out how to start writing the end of her thirty-seventh incomplete novel. It was a tale about a young boy who had found a transdimensional portal inside the refrigerator and used it to travel to a world called Trakor where dinosaurs had evolved into the dominant, intelligent species of the planet.
Frieda’s brow furrowed as she concentrated on the blank sheet of paper, desperately grasping for that elusive conclusion. And then the fog lifted for a brief moment and a long forgotten sparkle returned to Frieda’s eyes.
It had been so obvious.
A smile pulled at the corners of the old woman’s mouth as she rested her fingers on the keys of the typewriter. In a moment, the conclusion she had been waiting for over ten years to write would pour out of her like water from a faucet–
RAPRAPRAP!
Frieda’s head jerked up at the knocking on the door. No one ever knocked on her door. And how dare they? Right when she was about to overcome her decade-long case of writer’s block?
She squeezed her eyes shut, realizing that the spark of creativity—the conclusion to her story—was fading fast.
RAPRAPRAP!
The ember died completely. Frieda opened her eyes and sighed a sad sigh. She stood and went to answer the door.
Frieda Fingerling had the worst case of writer’s block. It was exceptionally horrible because she was able to invent and write everything but the last two chapters. And they were brilliant stories, full of monsters, fairies, pirates, and adventures beyond the wildest of imaginations.
But she simply couldn’t find the ending.
So Frieda had moved to Greenville Acres, hoping that the isolation might help her find a conclusion to one of her stories. And although she was interested in being alone, it was never her intention to cut herself off from the city all together. Unfortunately, a Tyrannosaurus Rex had crushed her car while some kids were chasing the beast down the street and Frieda had never gotten around to replacing it.
Frieda sat at her old desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper in her old typewriter. She racked her brain trying to figure out how to start writing the end of her thirty-seventh incomplete novel. It was a tale about a young boy who had found a transdimensional portal inside the refrigerator and used it to travel to a world called Trakor where dinosaurs had evolved into the dominant, intelligent species of the planet.
Frieda’s brow furrowed as she concentrated on the blank sheet of paper, desperately grasping for that elusive conclusion. And then the fog lifted for a brief moment and a long forgotten sparkle returned to Frieda’s eyes.
It had been so obvious.
A smile pulled at the corners of the old woman’s mouth as she rested her fingers on the keys of the typewriter. In a moment, the conclusion she had been waiting for over ten years to write would pour out of her like water from a faucet–
RAPRAPRAP!
Frieda’s head jerked up at the knocking on the door. No one ever knocked on her door. And how dare they? Right when she was about to overcome her decade-long case of writer’s block?
She squeezed her eyes shut, realizing that the spark of creativity—the conclusion to her story—was fading fast.
RAPRAPRAP!
The ember died completely. Frieda opened her eyes and sighed a sad sigh. She stood and went to answer the door.
***
Timmy was looking over his shoulder at the Mutant Trash Monster that was tearing through the last of the woods when the door to Frieda Fingerling’s house opened.
“What do you want?”
The voice was small but demanding. And angry. Timmy turned and looked at the old woman. She was barely taller than Timmy and her wispy white hair made her look just as crazy as he had heard she was.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” Timmy said quickly as Frieda Fingerling stared at the robot trash can at Timmy’s side, “but there’s a giant mutant trash monster trying to kill us and Borc is low on energy and we really need to take shelter in your house.”
This information turned slowly in Frieda Fingerling’s head as she studied BORC-9 who seemed momentarily content to blink at her with his glowing yellow eyes. Frieda looked at Timmy.
“Did you say ‘giant mutant trash monster’?”
Without saying a word, Timmy pointed off to the side of the house, across the field, and at the Mutant Trash Monster crashing through the woods in the distance. Frieda leaned out her door and followed Timmy’s gesture. For the second time in the past ten years, the fog lifted and Frieda’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh my word,” Frieda said breathlessly.
“Please, we have to hurry!” Timmy pleaded.
“IT IS IMPERATIVE,” BORC-9 added.
Frieda looked surprised that the trash can spoke, but began nodding urgently. “Yes, yes, come in, hurry!”
Frieda ushered Timmy and BORC-9 into her home and closed the door behind them just as the Mutant Trash Monster cleared the woods. At the rate it was going, it would cross the field in minutes. Frieda paused and then turned the deadbolt on the door.
“JUST-BORC MUST CHARGE, TIMMY,” BORC-9 said, his eyes slowly dimming.
“Right, over here!”
BORC-9 followed Timmy to a wall and ejected his charging cable from his rear port. Timmy grabbed it and plugged his friend into the wall. The instant the plug made contact, BORC-9’s eyes flashed a bright white and he began sucking power into his internal batteries. A nearby lamp flickered as the electricity in the house stuttered.
Timmy cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”
Frieda listened. There was a buzzing coming from outside. It was distant, but growing louder.
“It’s the Mutant Trash Monster,” Timmy whispered. He looked at BORC-9 who seemed unaware of the noise as he charged as quickly as possible. “That thing devours everything. It grew to that huge size in a matter of hours.”
“We should go to the basement,” Frieda said, starting for the hall.
Timmy started to follow but then stopped at Frieda’s bookshelves. They were about as jam-packed as his own, but what caught his eye was a complete, twenty-eight book collection of the Lunar Dino Clash series. All in hardcover. Timmy looked at Frieda.
“You have the complete Lunar Dino Clash series,” Timmy said. “These are my favorite.”
“Now’s really not the time, young man—”
Timmy followed Frieda to the hallway. “I’ve just never met an adult who liked those books.”
“Of course I like them,” Frieda said, “I wrote them."
Timmy stopped cold. “No, you didn’t. They were written by F. Flemming. You couldn’t have written them.”
Frieda opened the door to the basement. She responded curtly, “It’s a pen name, boy. I assure you I wrote every last novel.”
Timmy was flabbergasted. “No way.”
BORC-9 let out a series of whirrs and beeps as the thrashing of the Mutant Trash Monster grew closer. BORC-9 pulled his plug from the wall and his eyes returned to their normal glow. He spun and rushed to the door.
“Borc!” Timmy called. “We have to hide in the basement!”
“NEGATIVE,” BORC-9 replied.
The house grew dark as the shadow of the massive Mutant Trash Monster fell over the house. The thrashing swelled into a roar. Timmy ran to his friend and grabbed BORC-9’s arm to pull him to the basement. “We have to go!”
“NEGATIVE,” BORC-9 repeated. “JUST-BORC WILL DISTRACT. TIMMY AND FRIEND MUST RUN.”
“What? No, we have to hide—”
“MUST GO.”
“Young man!” Frieda yelled from the door to the basement.
Timmy grabbed BORC-9 with both hands. “If you go out there, that thing will destroy you! You can’t do that, Borc!”
“IF JUST-BORC DOES NOT GO, TRASH MONSTER WILL DESTROY TIMMY.”
“But I just found you!” Timmy cried. “I can’t lose you now!”
“JUST-BORC MUST DISTRACT TRASH MONSTER. THEN TIMMY AND FRIEND MUST RUN.”
Timmy hit BORC-9 with his fist. “But you’re my friend, Borc! You’re my friend!”
The roar of the Mutant Trash Monster grew deafening and the last rays of sunlight vanished from inside Frieda Fingerling’s home. A heavy silence fell over the room and they all looked up.
The house began vibrating.
The Mutant Trash Monster had descended upon Frieda Fingerling’s home.
CHAPTER 9
"The Mutant Trash Monster vs. BORC-9"
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BORC-9 burst out of the front door of Frieda Fingerling’s home and into the amorphous blob of the Mutant Trash Monster that was encasing the home. BORC-9’s arms shot out and plunged into the MTM, letting loose a deadly blast of electricity.
The Mutant Trash Monster contracted, but only barely. It was much stronger now. But BORC-9 was determined. If he failed to draw the Mutant Trash Monster off the house, BORC-9 would surely lose his only friend. |
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BORC-9 released another torrent of energy and began physically pummeling the trash monster with balled-up digits. The fury of energy must of gotten the monster’s attention because it began to pivot its mass just enough to clear the front of the house and turn its ugly maw at the robot trash can.
The Mutant Trash Monster recognized BORC-9 and remembered its desire to merge.
BORC-9 yanked his arms back and spun around, hauling himself into the open field and away from the house. The Mutant Trash Monster eagerly followed.
The Mutant Trash Monster recognized BORC-9 and remembered its desire to merge.
BORC-9 yanked his arms back and spun around, hauling himself into the open field and away from the house. The Mutant Trash Monster eagerly followed.
***
Timmy and Frieda peered through the broken front door as BORC-9 led the massive monster away. Timmy watched with wide-eyed terror as the Mutant Trash Monster gained on BORC-9. The horror of losing his only friend paralyzed him to his core.
Frieda grabbed Timmy’s hand and pulled him through the doorway. “Let’s go.”
With Frieda leading the way, Timmy stumbled into the front yard. The Mutant Trash Monster was oblivious to their getaway as it raced after BORC-9. Timmy stopped suddenly, his breath caught in his chest, as the Mutant Trash Monster caught up with the orange robot trash can and enveloped BORC-9 completely.
“NOOOO!” Timmy screamed.
The Mutant Trash Monster, intent only on merging with BORC-9, remained oblivious.
Timmy yanked his hand free from Frieda and started to run towards the field, but Frieda grabbed him quickly.
“I can’t leave him!”
Frieda grabbed Timmy’s shoulders tightly. “You must, young man. You can’t let his sacrifice be in vain.”
“What?!”
The idea that BORC-9 was sacrificing himself so that Timmy would survive had not occurred to Timmy. He had believed beyond reason that somehow, some way, everything would turn out okay.
“Don’t let his sacrifice be in vain,” Frieda Fingerling said again.
Timmy understood now. He understood what BORC-9 knew all along. BORC-9 had fought so that Timmy could run.
Timmy nodded. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.
Frieda took Timmy’s hand in her own and they turned towards the street. Timmy couldn’t take his eyes off the shifting mass of the Mutant Trash Monster, but when he did and looked around to the street, he was greeted with the most welcome sight in the world.
The three Explorers of the Unknown—Jason, Jordan, and Chris—stood in front of their high-tech black-and-green RV. They wore black jumpsuits and had odd-looking energy packs strapped to their backs.
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“Looks like we’ve got a monster that needs catching, here,” Jason said, his mouth turned up in a cocky half-smile. “Good thing we happen to be in the business of catching monsters.”
“Set your stun-blasters to eleven,” Jordan instructed, making an adjustment to a control strapped to his wrist. “We’ll flank the beast and establish an electro-net field to disable the creature and then take it down with a super-charge from the atomizer beam.” The Explorers of the Unknown started towards the Mutant Trash Monster. Chris winked at Timmy. |
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“Hey, kiddo.”
Timmy realized his mouth was hanging open. These were his heroes and he couldn’t believe they had actually arrived to save the day. The timing was perfect. Just like in a book.
“Enough with the instructions already!” Jason said, cutting Jordan off. “What part of ‘professional monster catchers’ don’t you get?”
“All I’m saying is that you have a tendency to ignore protocol—”
“Protocol-shmotocol.” Jason pointed the barrel of his stun-blaster at the Mutant Trash Monster. “How do I turn this thing on, again?”
Jordan flipped a switch on Jason’s pack. “Just pull the trigger.”
Jason did so and a brilliant blue-and-purple explosion of energy shot out of the stun-blaster and struck the Mutant Trash Monster.
“JASON!”
“What?”
“Could you at least wait until we get into position?!”
The Mutant Trash Monster quaked from the blast and turned its maw to the Explorers. It let out a massive roar and undulated towards the team.
“CHRIS!” Jordan yelled.
Chris was staring at the street, trying to remember something. “I’m getting a wicked sense of déjà vu, guys.”
Jordan opened fire and blasted the Mutant Trash Monster. “Now’s not the time, Chris! Shoot it!”
“SHOOOOT HER!” Jason drawled dramatically.
Chris aimed his stun-blaster at the trash monster that was frozen in place as it was pummeled by blasts from Jason and Jordan. “I just keep thinking dinosaurs from some reason,” Chris said as he opened fire on the trash monster.
Jason squinted at the monster as it shifted and roared, spattering goopy garbage everywhere. “Clever girl.”
“KEEP SPREADING OUT!” Jordan yelled as the trash monster convulsed under their attack. “ACTIVATE THE ELECTRO-NET SETTING!”
Timmy realized his mouth was hanging open. These were his heroes and he couldn’t believe they had actually arrived to save the day. The timing was perfect. Just like in a book.
“Enough with the instructions already!” Jason said, cutting Jordan off. “What part of ‘professional monster catchers’ don’t you get?”
“All I’m saying is that you have a tendency to ignore protocol—”
“Protocol-shmotocol.” Jason pointed the barrel of his stun-blaster at the Mutant Trash Monster. “How do I turn this thing on, again?”
Jordan flipped a switch on Jason’s pack. “Just pull the trigger.”
Jason did so and a brilliant blue-and-purple explosion of energy shot out of the stun-blaster and struck the Mutant Trash Monster.
“JASON!”
“What?”
“Could you at least wait until we get into position?!”
The Mutant Trash Monster quaked from the blast and turned its maw to the Explorers. It let out a massive roar and undulated towards the team.
“CHRIS!” Jordan yelled.
Chris was staring at the street, trying to remember something. “I’m getting a wicked sense of déjà vu, guys.”
Jordan opened fire and blasted the Mutant Trash Monster. “Now’s not the time, Chris! Shoot it!”
“SHOOOOT HER!” Jason drawled dramatically.
Chris aimed his stun-blaster at the trash monster that was frozen in place as it was pummeled by blasts from Jason and Jordan. “I just keep thinking dinosaurs from some reason,” Chris said as he opened fire on the trash monster.
Jason squinted at the monster as it shifted and roared, spattering goopy garbage everywhere. “Clever girl.”
“KEEP SPREADING OUT!” Jordan yelled as the trash monster convulsed under their attack. “ACTIVATE THE ELECTRO-NET SETTING!”
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They each made an adjustment on their stun-blasters and the streams of blue-and-purple energy blasts spread and connected with each other, forming an energy-net that encased the Mutant Trash Monster. Jordan pulled another device from his utility belt, aimed it, and fired a bolt of green energy at the trash monster.
The convulsing abruptly stopped. The roaring maw sagged shut and then disappeared into the amorphous blob. |
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And then the Mutant Trash Monster simply evaporated with a loud POP. Wisps of nebulous energy lingered in the air and were quickly swept up by a gust of wind. The Explorers of the Unknown disengaged their stun-blasters.
With a thud, an orange robot trash can fell to the ground, landing on its wheels.
From a distance, Timmy and Frieda watched, wide-eyed and enthralled. A spark of hope ignited within Timmy. BORC-9 had survived!
Timmy pulled away from Frieda and ran across the field to his friend.
BORC-9 raised his tubular arm towards Timmy. The yellow light that illuminated his eyes flickered. “FRIEND,” BORC-9 said, barely loud enough for Timmy to hear.
And then the light dimmed. The self-balancing gyroscopes within BORC-9 failed and Timmy watched in horror as the orange robot trash can tumbled backwards.
Timmy let out a cry as he reached his fallen friend. He grabbed at BORC-9, shaking him and hitting him, but the machine didn’t response.
BORC-9 was gone.
With a thud, an orange robot trash can fell to the ground, landing on its wheels.
From a distance, Timmy and Frieda watched, wide-eyed and enthralled. A spark of hope ignited within Timmy. BORC-9 had survived!
Timmy pulled away from Frieda and ran across the field to his friend.
BORC-9 raised his tubular arm towards Timmy. The yellow light that illuminated his eyes flickered. “FRIEND,” BORC-9 said, barely loud enough for Timmy to hear.
And then the light dimmed. The self-balancing gyroscopes within BORC-9 failed and Timmy watched in horror as the orange robot trash can tumbled backwards.
Timmy let out a cry as he reached his fallen friend. He grabbed at BORC-9, shaking him and hitting him, but the machine didn’t response.
BORC-9 was gone.
CHAPTER 10
"Home Again"
Timmy’s parents opened their front door to discover Timmy standing next to the crazy old woman from the other end of the street. Timmy wouldn’t look up from his feet, too sad to speak. Frieda tried to explain what had happened, but she didn’t even believe it herself. Timmy’s parents were more interested in getting Timmy inside and away from Frieda.
Frieda wasn’t offended but she worried about Timmy. She had seen in him such a sense of profound loss that it had struck a deep chord in her. The events of the day, while devastating, had inspired her and she was eager sit down and write. She even knew how she was going to end book number thirty-seven.
As his father began to close the door, Timmy remembered something. “Wait,” he said.
Frieda turned and Timmy stepped into the doorway. “Um, thank you,” Timmy said.
“For letting you into my home?”
“Well, yeah,” Timmy thought, “but for writing, too.”
Frieda was surprised by that. The boy had just lost his friend and she hadn’t thought that meeting his favorite author would rank high in the day’s experiences. She shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”
“I’ll see you later?”
Frieda nodded slowly. “Sure.”
“Bye.”
Frieda wasn’t offended but she worried about Timmy. She had seen in him such a sense of profound loss that it had struck a deep chord in her. The events of the day, while devastating, had inspired her and she was eager sit down and write. She even knew how she was going to end book number thirty-seven.
As his father began to close the door, Timmy remembered something. “Wait,” he said.
Frieda turned and Timmy stepped into the doorway. “Um, thank you,” Timmy said.
“For letting you into my home?”
“Well, yeah,” Timmy thought, “but for writing, too.”
Frieda was surprised by that. The boy had just lost his friend and she hadn’t thought that meeting his favorite author would rank high in the day’s experiences. She shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”
“I’ll see you later?”
Frieda nodded slowly. “Sure.”
“Bye.”
|
***
That night, the skies had opened up and another storm drenched Greenville Acres. Timmy stared out his bedroom window as lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the inanimate orange trash can sitting on the Topswell’s back porch. Timmy had wanted to put BORC-9 in his bedroom, but his parents wouldn’t allow it, so they had agreed on the back porch. Silently, Timmy placed his hand against the glass, staring at the cold, dark figure of his lifeless friend. He made a promise to himself that he would remember BORC-9 forever and then he said goodbye to his friend for the last time. |
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***
The storm raged into the night, long after Timmy had fallen asleep. Lighting scorched the sky as if nature itself was angry over the tragic end to the day’s events. Wind howled and blew through the woods, picking up leaves and small branches.
And then a second series of random events began to unfold.
First, a boom of thunder rolled through the sky and the vibration loosened a part of a damaged transformer on a utility pole by the street. A gust of wind blew the strip of metal free and it tumbled across the Topswell’s lawn and into their backyard.
Second, a squirrel that bore absolutely no resemblance to a Velociraptor, dashed across the backyard, looking for cover from the rain. It saw a flash of lightning glint off the metal strip and grabbed it out of curiosity. The squirrel carried the metal strip to the Topswell’s back porch, decided it wasn’t edible, and left it two feet from the inanimate orange robot trash can.
After the squirrel scampered off, another bolt of lightning arced through the sky and struck the old satellite dish that Timmy’s mother had been begging Timmy’s father to remove from the roof of the house for the past two and a half months. The bolt of lightning sent a shower of sparks flying from the satellite dish and the dish itself fell over the side of the house, dangling from a set of old cables.
Lightning struck twice more, sending over one million volts of electricity into the old satellite dish, coursing down a metal rain pipe, and through the scrap of metal from the damaged transformer that vibrated in the air until it came in contact with one binary operated receptacle compactor. There was another explosion of sparks and then the strain on the cables holding the satellite dish was too much and they snapped, sending the satellite dish clattering to the ground.
There was another boom of thunder, but more distant now. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The squirrel scampered out from underneath the porch and raced into the woods.
BORC-9 continued to sit lifeless on the porch.
A moment passed and then the faintest of buzzes could be heard. It was high pitched and muffled, but it was there.
Then finally, the Topswell’s back porch was bathed in the soft glow of a yellow light.
THE END
About the Author
JP Krumbine wrote and illustrated his first children’s book when he was 10 years old. It was called “The Adventures of the Kitchen Utensils” and the story featured the shockingly original plot device of kitchen utensils coming to life when no one was looking. Although this book was never published, Krumbine’s creative genius was quickly copied in various forms of media including the feature films Toy Story and Toy Soldiers. (Since no one actually used kitchen utensils, all attempts at legal restitution were dismissed.)
In the years that followed, Krumbine’s writing improved, as did his drawing skills. One day soon, he hopes that the “JP” pen name might catch on.
In the years that followed, Krumbine’s writing improved, as did his drawing skills. One day soon, he hopes that the “JP” pen name might catch on.
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