ephmrlst

by Rudi Dornemann

Alexander wasn’t sure when he became aware of the ephemeralist. At first, he’d only heard the name, thought it was maybe an email discussion group (the ephemera list). But he noticed more and more mentions and eventually found it.

The trick was leaving all the vowels out after the first “e” as if the word were already going away. Whoever Twittered and retweeted under the name covered all kinds of transitory happenings–locations and specials of the newest food trucks, gps coordinates of pop-up restaurants, schedules of subway flash mob dance troops, Saturday night invitation-only book auctions in the empty apartments, street corner moment-museums…

For a while, it was enough to read about them, but actually tracking one down seemed intimidatingly hip for Alexander. His job involved turning weekly statistics into multi-color charts for a multinational more or less in the financial services industry and he coveted the trendier existence in the marketing and advertising departments two floors up.

Then he stumbled across a food truck that had been mentioned the day before, and he was hooked. It was as if that Chinese steamed bun filled with spicy Ethiopian stew was something he’d always craved but never imagined existed. His still devoted his days to surrounding pie charts with haloes of callout lines, but evenings and weekends he explored cuisines, places, events, micro-societies that wouldn’t exist in a week, in a day, in an hour, that might have already ended.

On the subway, after watching midnight PechaKucha projected 50-feet tall on an abandoned building, he dozed for a moment, and woke to find his iPhone displaying ephemeralist’s Twitter page. He looked again–he wasn’t viewing, he was logged in with a new tweet just started. It read “The next.”

He looked around–the ephemeralist must be here, pranking him. The girl in the hoodie and earbuds not meeting anyone’s eyes? The middle-aged hospital scrub-wearer with spiky frosted hair? The ponytail guy reading Stieg Larsson?

He had a quest, and began scanning his fellow attendees for any repeat visitors. Easy enough–she always wore the same sweatshirt.

“You’re him!” he said, plunking down in the next seat on the train.

Beside him sat Mr. frosted hair, eyes closed, snoring lightly.

“Sure,” she said. “I’m infected, same as you.”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw the man in scrubs was texting in his sleep–something about a moment-museum…

Sneak Peek

by Luc Reid

“Two for After Serenity, please,” said William, a linebacker-sized guy with a Beatle haircut. Tucked up against him was a short, copper-haired woman with the face of a Greek goddess. She was looking around Robbie’s modest living room with an air of complete disbelief.

“That’ll be twelve hundred dollars,” Robbie said.

“And a large popcorn.”

“Four dollars. Do you want butter?”

“Is it real butter?”

“It’s an amazing, fat-free, butter-like food from the future. People eat this stuff and have orgasms.”

“Really?”

“No, actually it’s real butter.”

William grinned as he handed over the cash. Robbie made change, locked the front door, and followed William and his date down into the basement.

Several of the patrons milling around in the recently-remodeled basement called out Robbie’s name. Some were settled in the big, faux-leather movie chairs, sipping soda or peering at the DVD case. Others watched Robbie’s 65″ flatscreen TV expectantly. Robbie popped in the DVD and took a seat in the back row, next to the copper-haired woman. She bent over as the preview began, until her lips were almost touching his ear.

“When is this movie supposed to be from?” she whispered.

“It comes out eight years from now.”

“And you got it how?”

“Time travel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You will after you see a few of these movies.”

“At these prices?”

“A guy’s gotta make a living.”

“If you can time travel, why don’t you just play the lottery? Or buy stocks?”

“I’m numerically dyslexic.”

“You’re a big, fat liar.”

“Well, I’ve been trying to lose weight.”

The movie started then, and the copper-haired woman stopped to watch it. It wasn’t as good as its predecessor, but it didn’t have to be. Everyone in the room, Robbie knew, was keenly aware that they were seeing something nobody else would see for years.

Animated conversation broke out over the credits. When the disc was done, Robbie took out the DVD and held it up in one hand. In the other, he lifted a hammer. As the others watched, he dropped the DVD into a steel bowl and smashed it with the hammer. Everyone cheered. Robbie took out a bottle of 12-year-old scotch.

The copper-haired woman peered into the bowl and shook her head while William poured them both doubles. “This is a hell of a way to make a living,” she said.

“Yes,” said Robbie, grinning. “Yes it is.”