The setting is a house. It always is and always will be a house. It’s not a new house. It never has been and never will be a new house. It’s an old house. It’s an old house that has always been and will always be just that: an old house. Even when it was first built, it was already an old house. It’s an empty house. Nobody’s ever lived in the old, empty house, and no one ever will. It’s a lonely, old, empty house that sits by the lonely, old, empty ocean, with the lonely, old, empty wind and sand. No, wait - there’s no sand, just lonely, old, empty dirt for the lonely, old, empty house to occupy. It’s not the only old house around, but it’s the only unloved, ignored house. Unloved, ignored, lonely, old, and empty,. A remarkably unremarkable setting.
The character is a lonely, empty man, not quite old, but still quite unloved and ignored. An altogether detestable little man. A little, detestable man whose life has the same worth as the old, empty house. The man wasn’t always unloved. Were it real life, he probably would have been, just because of his overall detestability, but it’s a story. So he wasn’t always. Way back when, someone loved him. A girlfriend, boyfriend, mom, dad, son, daughter, or any combination of these. But now he/she/it/they don’t. The detestable little man did something detestable. He’s only just beginning to realize how thankful he is that he did it. He’s not happy or content, he just sort of is, but he doesn’t miss being loved. He’s just not the type. Then again, if this were nonfiction, he’d probably have lost his mind. Maybe even committed suicide in a poetic, detestable little way. It’s fiction, though, so the man took his savings and bought a particularly awful little house by the coast, a lonely, old, empty house. Even he can’t explain why.
If he could, he would say it was so that he could be better than something. Something = lonely old empty house. Better than = on par with. He = zero.
The conflict is a predictable little affair involving the lonely, empty man trying to buy the lonely, empty house. He goes to buy it, but just then, a wonderful, loveable woman happens to provide proof of ownership and denies him the pleasure of the house. The man doesn’t give up, though. He’s filled his empty little mind with spectacular lies about his future with the house, and he won’t relinquish them that easily. He fights. The house is happy; after all, it’s never had so many people care about it. The man is happy; after all, a person’s acknowledging him again. The woman’s not happy, but who cares? Two out of three’s pretty damn good for things like that. And she’s so loveable, she’ll probably end up happy somehow.
The ending is beautiful. Do not change it. It starts with the detestable man realizing his love for the woman. Funny, right? Because he doesn’t love her, he just loves that he’ll obtain the house if they marry each other. Then it gets really good. Seriously, don’t change it. The detestable little man convinces her to love him. He’s detestable, after all. Now, this part’s great. Don’t change it, please, just leave this ending the same. Because here the real irony rears its head. The two of them are getting married in the house, the place where they met. And then, during the ceremony, a shockingly private, lonely, empty affair, the house decides that it doesn’t like all this change. So it collapses around them. Just like that. Everyone dies.
Don’t. Change. The. Ending.
The meaning is happiness.
* * *
Private space flight, what an accomplishment. Wonder. Awe. Just you and your thoughts, your money, and your God damned top-of-the-world mentality. You and your foolishness and your ignorance and your self-centered stupidity. But you know what they say about hindsight.
The name’s a little deceptive. Private, I mean. It’s not really just you, a pilot’s involved too. It’s private in the same way as a private jet. That’s a point they won’t compromise about, either; before going up, I did all sorts of training and lessons for a pilot’s license and other nonsense I thought would qualify me to fly my very own spaceship. But just like happiness, NASA wouldn’t let me buy that one, and so I met Meghan Phillips.
She was the pilot, in case that was too subtle for you. I wasn’t exactly civil toward her, either, in case you missed that as well. I think I even refused to shake her hand when we first talked. The woman who would soon take me away from reality itself, and I wouldn’t even shake her hand. I could have at least gripped it. Touched it. Anything.
The lack of a handshake didn’t seem to bother her. She went about her business, and I about mine. I packed, I trained, I businessed.
And then, I went into space.
My wife wanted to come see the blast-off, but I asked her not to. I didn’t want her to jinx it.
Watching the world get smaller behind you is an indescribable sight. I think other astronauts have probably used words like “humbling,” but I felt something closer to “empowering.” I think “relief” might fit too.
It really did have a peculiar effect on me. Leaving the world, I lost all worldly inhibitions. I enjoyed myself more. Every action had a distinct purpose, and I recognized every second that passed by. Food tasted better, music tasted sweeter, blah blah blah insert your own cliché here, but each one truer than it’s ever been.
Once the moon was bigger than the Earth, I visited Meghan in the cockpit. I felt so fresh, so new. Life felt so exciting. Meghan had never been off the planet either, and it made her cold shell melt. We talked until the next day, the first ever day where the sun neither rose nor set. She fascinated me.
She was from a large family, a sister among seven brothers. She was witty, intelligent, happy. She was opinionated, defiant, brave. She was attractive. She was so many things, none of which I can describe. She made it so I couldn’t think straight.
I fell madly in love in those three days. I wish I could say why.
I began to make plans. I would stay in touch once we landed, I would leave my boring, tired wife, I would seduce and win the heart of this pilot, this woman of my dreams. Nothing could stop me, not my money, my power, my fame, my family. I would have worked it out.
Then, midway through the third day, she said, “We’ll be there soon.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You’ve double-checked all your equipment, right?” Maybe it was just her job, but she seemed worried about me. Like she really did care.
“Triple-checked.”
“Okay, you should probably go to the lunar module now. Good luck.” Good luck.
Those are all the words I can remember her saying to me.
I walked to the module, a section of the ship that separated and took me down for a solitary walk on the moon. This one I was allowed to pilot on my own. I landed and stepped out, and I could almost feel the novelty beneath me. I called through the radio, said, “That’s one small step for man,” and listened for Meghan to complete the sentence. I heard static.
So much static.
I turned and looked at the ship, somehow believing that by doing so I could communicate better. I watched it explode while I stood on the moon. I’m not sure what caused it. I couldn’t even see her. I couldn’t hear her one last time.
I couldn’t feel anything, not even self-pity.
The final frontier’s true finality began to sink in. Space wouldn’t let me conquer it, Earth wouldn’t let me escape it, and life wouldn’t let me direct it. I wished I could die with my dreams. My spacesuit’s helmet suddenly felt very fragile. I picked up a rock.
But then I changed the ending.
I dropped it and crawled to the module. I survived on emergency provisions, used the radio to call home, and, in the miracle of the century, was rescued after only four days on the moon. I returned home and, instead of holding onto what I’d found, dropped back into the same routine.
The meaning is sadness.
* * *
What
happens the house
collapses the ending
changes the meaning
is.
happens the house
collapses the ending
changes the meaning
is.
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