“This is our newest exhibit,” said the curator. “Terran Origins.”
The grand hallway darkened as classmates, aged nine to eleven, murmured. Planets and moons of the solar system glowed to life among a celestial amalgam overhead. Originating from Earth, white spindly lines slowly traveled to other bodies that orbited the Sun.
The curator said, “Believe it or not, Humanity was once confined to a single planet believed to house our origins…Earth. After over six hundred years removed from our first ventures into space, we were able to leave our home to colonize other places.”
The curator led the class along as the room relit.
“What are those?” asked a child through a stuffy nose.
Lively structures towered over them, dotting the girth of the grand marble hallway. “These,” he said, pointing a sharp finger, “are trees my young friend. Synthetic, but perfect nano copies assembled by our professionals. Let us continue to our most prized acquisition of the exhibit.”
The curator ambled down a smaller hall, children in tow. He didn’t have to look at them to know they were captivated. A glass case, roped off, awaited them at a dead end.
“That’s it?” A female chaperone of the group scoffed at what she saw. A touch of annoyance feathered the curator’s smile.
“This is quite the piece, ma’am. It is a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. Used for maintaining records and history long before the most primitive computers. This is one of six pens in existence and the last known piece of paper. Both are dated as far back as the year 2248 of Earth’s Common Era,” the curator said.
She took in the information. “I guess that’s impressive then,” she said, still snarky. The woman folded her arms and walked away.
“Quite,” he said, “Now for the final room of the exhibit. Follow me please.” The curator led the group back to the grand hallway, past the trees of the courtyard, and into a large, clear dome that enhanced the subdued sunlight of Ganymede.
A colossal machine stood over fallen trees in the center, roped off of course. Other pieces of history lined the circumference of the dome: An automobile, a small pasture with model cows, and dozens of twenty-first century human mannequins crowded together. Each piece featured accompanying literature via holo podiums.
“Wow,” a short, portly lad exclaimed, reading about the steel behemoth, “that bull…dozer is big.”
“That it is, my child,” said the curator. “I shall let this be a proactive endeavor for you all. Read and explore to your wondrous heart’s content.”
“What do you call this part of the exhibit?” asked the teacher of the class.
The curator widened his bony smile said, “It’s simply…the end of the beginning.”
—
Mr. Harris is a native of Charlotte, North Carolina, but currently resides in Arizona. He enjoys reading, time with his son, and breaking (er…fixing) equipment as a biomedical tech.
Good flash fiction. Well-written and evocative.