Max Wagner '23
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I turned my wrench, tightening the nal bolt before the emitter could turn on. Soon the place would be ooded with fundamental particles, the same sort of universe soup present at the beginning of all things, that would be present at the end. I reached for the familiar cold metal handle of the door behind me. My hand met its rectangular edges, and I pushed down. It didn’t move. I tried again. Again. Nothing. I pulled out my radio, but it had no signal. The massive electromagnets that kept the particles within the chamber were already powering up, disrupting any wireless signal that would attempt to reach the outside. The radio trembled in my hand. I looked down in horror. I was about to be sucked to the wall, massive magnets preparing to reel me in like an experienced sherman. I could already feel the pull. I hastily unbuckled my belt, set down my radio, and took my phone and keys out of my pockets. Seconds later, the items started to skitter across the metal grate platform, moving faster and faster until they leaped into the air, clanging against the massive magnets embedded within the walls. I was untouched, for now, but I knew I would soon be evaporated by excited particles. I banged on the door again. No response. Bang. Bang. Bang. I knew everyone would be cleared out, that humming electricity and warning alarms would down out the banging of my sts being brought to blood on the cool metal walls. Outside, the room’s air was slowly thinned, becoming a vacuum to contain any accidents. Sound wouldn’t travel anywhere. I sat down and closed my eyes. This is how it ends. Torn apart by my own life’s work. I knew I couldn’t get out. I’d designed the machine myself, and it couldn’t be opened. That was the entire point. I felt the heat around me. The humming grew louder, louder, deafening. The emitter red. Subatomic particles red at lightspeed around the ring, lling it with energy. My closed eyes went from black, to a dark glow, to red, orange, yellow, white. This was it. I opened my eyes, and there was no completed machine. I saw it deconstructed, like a reverse time-lapse, piece after piece of metal and technology removed and placed into trucks and shipped away. I saw the building around me taken apart, concrete and rebar being moved out of its place in a matter of moments. The lights in the streets disappeared, replaced by lamplit shadowy nights, cars replaced by horses replaced by men replaced by endless forest. Farther. Forests disappeared, giving way to a clouded, ery hellscape. Farther. Dinosaurs appeared, then disappeared, creatures grew smaller, then the world was grass, then sand, then rock. Primordial seas ashed by, the breeding grounds of life. Farther. Before life. A world of re and brimstone and death. The world stopped ashing. I stopped turning back. I exhaled. Then, nothing. I frantically sucked the air. Nothing. There was no oxygen before life, nothing to sustain me. What the hell was going on? Is this what happens at the end of one’s days? I’ve heard of a person’s life ashing before their eyes, but every life? The world’s life? I closed my eyes. Please take me back. Please, god, just let me go back to my time. I was an atheist. I looked around. Lava bubbled, seemed to ow faster. Faster and faster, it rushed by. The sun accelerated, spinning through the sky. Seconds later, it set. I turned around, looking for the moon. Nothing. How long ago was I? I stood, my body consuming the last of the oxygen, as I sped up, up, catapulted forwards. The scenes I had seen played out in reverse. I saw a huge impact, a dark period, then a moon. Plants grew in the pools that formed around me, ourishing underneath the ashing sun. All of
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Turning Back
