‘Junk Metal Dreams’
Photography by Erica Huang.
Junk Metal Dreams
He couldn’t believe that it actually worked.
Doctor Jason Phillips stepped into the room this Monday morning, thinking there would be at
least 50 more mornings just like this one. He’d have a slice of toast and a cup of black coffee for
breakfast, double-checking his briefcase before kissing his wife, Susanne on her cheek and
heading out to his plain gray sedan. He’d make an estimated guess on which route to take to the
lab–he usually settled on the I-285. He’d pull into his designated parking spot nine spaces down
from the elevator before taking it up to the twelfth floor. He’d nod hello to the chatty secretaries
as he passed by, badge wrapped around his fist for when he had to scan it at the end of the hall.
Today, he thought he would come in, create a few new models with his team of surprisingly
quiet interns. (He had them sign homemade NDA’s at the start of this not-yet-approved
experiment, only hoping that they would actually keep their mouths shut as they worked with
him).
The job wasn’t that dangerous, but there were strict rules in place with the higher-ups. But what
better place could a man try to build the work of his dreams?
He saw it while sleeping that night, just half a year ago.
Made from pieces of scrap metal collected from the junkyard and held together by an array of
screws and bolts, he knew it was what he’d been searching for his whole life: a time machine.
In front of his feet sat a magnificent contraption, only as tall as his kneecaps with the length and
width similar to that of his faithful Craftsman M110. Doctor Phillips knelt down and touched the
warm metal, feeling the low buzz beneath its surface. It had been plugged into the panel for the
past half hour, and it hadn’t crapped out on them yet.
He looked up at the intern to his right, who was slightly turned around, scribbling notes into a
comp journal. “This is amazing.”
The whiteboard caught his attention next, across the room with equations and percentages etched
in an disorganized-organized kind of way. He looked over the exact notes written during today’s
session, searing them into his mind just in case he had to scrap all proof of this scientific miracle
once they were finished.
When he awoke, Doctor Phillips was glad for his dream self’s thoughtfulness because he
couldn’t stop going over the formulas in his real self’s mind–not during breakfast, not during the
drive to work, and not on the elevator ride up to his floor.
He’d spent the past few months planning out the execution of his dream. All his life, he’d been
waiting for a sign, from God, from the universe, from some stranger on the street...he never
thought it would have been himself.
“What should we try to send first?” Anne, the young assistant technician asked.
Everyone looked around at one another, while Doctor Phillips’ eyes remained glued to the
machine.
There was a list–a well-planned and detailed list–with specific reasons of what should be tried
first, and the direction in which it should be sent. They were supposed to start with objects, small
of course, moving up size with the number of trials. And then small creatures, bugs first, and
then mice, rats.
“Send me.”
Each member of the team stared at the doctor, every one of them confused and slightly unnerved
by the older man’s request. There was no hesitation in his voice.
“Sorry–what?” The first one to break the silence was Brian, the data manager to the left of Dr.
Phillips.
“It’s perfect. Exactly as it was in my dreams. I want you to send me back to exactly five years, 4
months and 2 days ago.”
“In your dreams? I thought you said–”
The doctor stood and walked over to the magnetic pad on the floor just a few feet away.
“Just do what I asked, I will find you all and explain everything.”
Jason Phillips opens his eyes to find himself standing in the foyer of his home, work briefcase in
hand. “I’m home!”
“Daddy! Daddy!”
He hears the excited child shouting from her bedroom upstairs, it’s nearly her bedtime and he
knows Susanne is going to be upset about him disturbing the nighttime peace and quiet, but he
can’t wait to see her face.
The girl comes running down the hall to the top of the stairs, her bare feet thudding against the
hardwood. He smiles at the bottom, seeing the sleepy grin spread across her face and all of a
sudden remembering.
He drops the briefcase, making his way up to meet her. His hand squeezed onto the rail for dear
life.
Aija Everett is an undergraduate studying English and Creative Writing at East Carolina University. Alongside being a mother and an artist, she writes, dabbling in the experimental and the speculative–with a dash of romance. Her short story “Belly Ache” (2025) was recently published in ECU’s Rebel magazine.
