The Wonders of the Modern World
The rain hadn’t stopped.
It had poured all night, hammering against the barn roof. George had slept through it, warm and comfortable under his blankets, the soft glow of his charging phone casting an angelic light upon him.
When he finally emerged from the attic in the morning, he felt—miraculously—prepared. A full night’s rest had steadied him, given him just enough resolve to face whatever fresh humiliation lay ahead.
More fieldwork. More humiliation. More Dream.
But instead, Phil, standing by the door with a mug of steaming tea, simply nodded at them.
“Reckon we can take a day off.”
George blinked. "What?"
Phil shrugged. "Ain’t much work to do in the fields when it’s pourin’ like this. And Puffy said they could manage alone today."
George stared at him. Was this a trick? Some kind of cruel joke?
"You mean... we don’t have to do anything today?"
Phil sipped his tea, utterly nonchalant. "Reckon not."
George was so relieved he could have cried. Prime was real. It had to be. No fieldwork. No Dream. No new humiliations. Just a glorious, rain-drenched reprieve. He nearly dropped to his knees in sheer gratitude.
With their newfound freedom, George did what any sane person would do.
He gathered his cousins and prepared to introduce them to civilization.
First, he showed them his phone. Tommy was immediately obsessed.
“WHAT IS THAT?”
“HOW DOES IT LIGHT UP?”
“WHAT SORCERY—”
He grabbed at George’s wrist, trying to get a better look, eyes wide with pure, unfiltered wonder. "DOES IT HAVE A HEART? DOES IT RUN ON BLOOD?"
"No, you absolute imbecile," George huffed, holding it higher, away from Tommy's grasp. "It's technology. A phone. Electricity makes it work."
Tommy gasped. "Like LIGHTNING? YOU HARNESS THE SKY?"
Wilbur snorted, shaking his head. "It’s not quite that dramatic."
Techno, ever unimpressed, leaned in, inspecting the device with a calculating expression. "Seems inefficient. You have to charge it constantly?"
"Yes, Techno," George said, exasperated, "that’s how batteries work. Electricity. Storage. Consumption. Surely even you grasp the concept."
Techno’s lips twitched slightly, his version of amusement. "Seems like a waste. A candle lasts longer."
George ran a hand down his face. "A candle can't show you moving pictures or play music."
"A candle also doesn’t run out of charge every few hours."
Wilbur chuckled, delighted. "Oh, this is good. He’s got you there, George."
Wilbur was intrigued but skeptical. Techno glanced at it once, unimpressed.
Then, George introduced them to photography.
“Alright, stand still.”
He lifted his phone, aimed, and—click.
A perfect portrait of the four of them.
Tommy screamed.
“IT STOLE OUR SOULS.”
George rolled his eyes. “It’s a camera. It takes pictures.”
Tommy grabbed the phone and started taking blurry, close-up shots of his own face.
Techno, arms crossed, peered over. “Seems impractical.”
George ignored him.
Next, he introduced them to music.
Not their banjos and fiddles or their acoustic nonsense, or their weird church choir, but real music.
Pop. Rock. A little alternative indie for Wilbur.
Wilbur, for once, looked impressed. Techno nodded along.
Tommy, who had spent his entire life listening to only fiddles and church hymns, was blown away.
Then, for the final miracle of the day, George pulled out his greatest treasure.
His portable DVD player. Since there was no internet here, he couldn’t exactly introduce them to Netflix.
Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy all gathered around, skeptical, as George placed a disc inside. The little screen flickered to life, casting a warm glow over their faces.
Peter Pan.
A film none of them had ever seen.
The moment the music swelled, and the opening credits rolled, something changed. Tommy’s mouth hung open, eyes darting wildly between the moving figures. Wilbur was transfixed, his fingers twitching as if itching to take notes on the experience. Even Techno, ever the skeptic, leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, watching with quiet intensity.
Then, as Peter and Wendy took flight into the London sky, Tommy let out a sharp breath. "They’re FLYING."
Wilbur whispered, almost reverently, "It’s like a dream. Like a memory you never had, playing right before your eyes."
Even Techno muttered, "Huh. Not bad. How does it work? Some kind of illusion?"
For once, they were silent. Utterly captivated. Immersed. The idea of something unreal yet visible, of a world crafted from light and sound alone, was almost too much to comprehend.
Then, as the final scene faded to black, the screen going dark with the film’s end, there was a moment of perfect, stunned silence.
George leaned back, smug.
Finally. A little bit of civilization in this primeforsaken place.
Then Tommy jumped to his feet, full of wide-eyed certainty, and declared, "I BELIEVE I CAN FLY."
And promptly faceplanted onto the floorboards.
Tommy looks utterly betrayed, his lip trembling slightly as his wide eyes glistened with unshed tears. His whole world had just shattered. "But they flew," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, as if clinging to the last threads of hope. "I saw it."
George sighed, running a hand down his face. "Tommy, it was fiction. A story. Like a book, but not to read."
Tommy's fists clenched at his sides. "So you're saying—you're telling me—that none of it was real? That people can’t fly? Ever?"
George hesitated, feeling an unexpected pang of guilt. "Not like that."
Tommy sniffed, eyes flicking toward the darkened screen, betrayal written across every line of his face. "Then what’s the point?"
George softened slightly, trying to salvage what he could of Tommy’s crushed spirit. "But wasn’t it fun to watch?" he asked, nudging Tommy’s shoulder lightly. "Even if it wasn’t real, didn’t it make you feel something? Like you were flying too?"
It started innocently enough.
Tommy, blinded by excitement, had rushed down to Phil, bouncing on his heels, his socks slipping slightly against the wooden floorboards in his hurry. His face was alight with wonder, his breathless energy nearly sending him skidding into the table where Phil sat nursing his tea.
Tommy, blinded by excitement, had rushed down to Phil, bouncing on his heels.
“Phil! Phil! You won’t BELIEVE what George has!”
George, who had gone back to playing on his phone, sat bolt upright in his attic room.
Something in his soul screamed.
Phil, calmly sipping his tea, leaned back slightly, giving Tommy a slow, knowing look. "Yeah? And what miraculous wonder has George unveiled upon you?"
“A tiny LIGHT BOX that plays music and pictures and moving paintings!” Tommy was flailing his arms, his enthusiasm practically spilling onto the wooden floors. “And it has BUTTONS! You press ‘em and it does things! And it plays music that’s NOT boring as hell—”
“Language, mate.”
Tommy barely slowed down. “IT EVEN SHOWS PEOPLE TALKING, PHIL! HE SHOWED US PETER PAN.”
Phil paused.
His fingers curled around the handle of his tea, grip just a fraction tighter than before. He set the cup down with slow, deliberate care, as if he needed to be in control of every movement lest something snap.
…Peter Pan?”
There was something unreadable in his voice, something so imperceptibly off that even Tommy, still buzzing with excitement, faltered slightly. He glanced up, eyes searching Phil’s face for a reaction he didn’t quite understand.
Phil was looking past him, gaze distant, as though seeing something far beyond the wooden walls of their home. Something that wasn’t there anymore.
George, realizing the danger, was already scrambling to hide his phone.
But he was too late.
A shadow loomed over him.
Philza Minecraft, judge, jury, and executioner.
“George,” he said, far too calm. “Hand it over, and that DVD player.”
George clutched his phone like it was his firstborn. “It’s MINE.”
Phil held out his hand, his expression unreadable. “Not anymore. You’ll get it back every Saturday. You don’t need a phone here. And the boys certainly don’t need to be exposed to the horrors of the outside world. Or to be given the idea that someone could just come and take them away.”
George’s stomach twisted. “That’s insane.”
Phil just raised a brow. “That’s final.”
George almost fell to his knees. “EVERY SATURDAY? THAT’S BARBARIC.”
Phil shrugged. “We can make it every other Saturday, if you prefer.”
George handed it over immediately.
Phil took the phone, and DVD player, nodded approvingly, and walked off.
Tommy, oblivious to the absolute war crime he had just committed, grinned.
“So cool, huh?”
George stared at him, murder in his eyes.
“You.”
Tommy blinked. “Me?”
“You are a traitor.”
Tommy looked genuinely confused. “But… we had fun?”
“I TRUSTED YOU.”
Tommy opened his mouth, then hesitated, clearly realizing something was wrong. He turned to Wilbur for help.
Wilbur, ever the poet, sighed deeply and shook his head. “Tommy, dear brother, you have committed a betrayal most foul.”
Tommy gasped. “Like Squidkid?”
Wilbur nodded. “Exactly like Squidkid.”
Tommy looked horrified.
While Tommy reeled over his newfound betrayal complex, Wilbur did what he always did in times of distress.
He wrote poetry.
George, sullen and betrayed, sat beside him, sulking.
Wilbur, quill in hand, sighed theatrically.
“My dearest Sally,” he muttered under his breath as he wrote, “the days stretch long and cruel without thee…”
George rolled his eyes. “You saw her, what, two weeks ago?”
Wilbur gasped. “As if two weeks is a mere blink in the grand tragedy that is love.”
George, tapping his pen against his paper, scowled. “Must be nice. My parents sent me a package with no note. No concern. No ‘hope you’re doing well, son.’ Just a generator and some sweets.”
Wilbur frowned, setting his quill down. “That’s…” He hesitated. “…Unfeeling.”
George let out a bitter laugh. “Exactly.”
The two sat in silence, both wallowing in their respective personal tragedies.
One mourning a distant lover.
The other mourning his will to live.
George ended up letting Wilbur try some English sweets with him, under the promise he wouldn’t tell Phil.
It was a truce. A bitter one, but a truce nonetheless.