may i have a word?
The dull thump of the press stamping letters onto the page echoed through the empty halls of the mill. An hour ago, it was packed with the heavy noises of human work—huffing and puffing, grunting and groaning. Now all that remained was the cold clink of machinery.
And that was how it was supposed to be. At this hour, the people manning these machines were meant to be home, with their families, cooking dinner and resting for the next day. But Lee-23, the 23rd Lee born on the 23rd of December, always stayed well past his shift. He was known to be resilient—toiling long hours without eating, often choosing the repetitive act of cranking the lever to keep the paper spooling along, lowering the ink-soaked pad with a peddle-press, over the wasteful act of sleeping. ‘Efficient,’ that was what the overseer wrote about him. ‘Dedicated.’
Lee-23 watched the words blur by, a stream of black, freshly-bubbling ink. Once the motion was put in place, it just kept flowing, rinsing and repeating whatever was important enough to take up space on the public’s doorstep. Every once in a while, he’d reach out and press his thumbprint into the paper and smear a word down the page just to remind those at home that there was still a human behind the wheel.
Lee had worked here nearly a decade and one thing he had learned across ten years of blotting was this: people changed, but words didn’t. People grew old. They fell in love and had babies and made up reasons to kill each other. But words, once etched into permanence, were unflinchingly stout. Humans could twist their own selves into them and maybe in a couple hundred years they would become something wholly new. But for his lifetime, they would stay still. Thank you, for example, would always mean thank you.
He did not write the words swimming in front of him and he was glad he never would. He liked this—pressing, watching, reading. He’d often thought about transferring to a story mill, but there was a sense of duty in spending the news. In a world without a voice, he spun the yarn that connected it all together. Further down the line, guillotine blades would chop them into square sheets that, tomorrow morning, human fingers would fold and spread through the vein-like streets connecting all the neighborhoods. By dawn, everyone would be clued in on everything they needed to know and all the nastiness of yesterday would be flushed away.
When he closed his eyes and thought of it like that, like he was just another part of a human body working to re-energize itself for the next day, it was easy to lose himself in the motions. But when he opened his eyes and saw the sunlight seeping through the dusty windows, the peace of dawn interrupted by the rumbling of automobiles, it reminded him that he was not just another cog in the machine. No, if he was, he’d be out there with them, rested and ready to return to work. Instead, he was still here, hunched over and exhausted, still working, because he had something more than just a family to feed.
He had a dream.
Lee-23 didn’t clock out until midnight the next evening. When he gathered his things—a satchel with two changes of clothes and a worrying amount of crinkled sugar-snack wrappers—the metal bones of the mill seemed to let out a heavy, oil-soaked sigh of relief like the machines were worried about him, too.
And why wouldn’t they be? With moonish bags under his eyes and unwashed hair that birds would fancy a nest, he looked not like a man, but a machine himself, overused and rusted.
He found his way into the overseer’s office. The bulldog of a man shook his jowls as he noted down the hours on the punch-card—thirty-three in a row—then counted out more coin than he had in his own wallet. When he handed it over, Lee-23 gleamed at his treasure.
The Overseer, who wrote every word the newspaper put out, took out a notepad, dipped his quill in an inkwell, and wrote: Is this finally enough?
He kept his writings short and succinct. Sensible. A hand could only take so much wear and tear, and that hand printed the words that the mill printed a fortune off of. When he offered the quill to Lee-23, he had no good reason for not taking it and writing other than this: he was too happy to think of what to say.
And so, he just smiled. Just smiled and nodded.
Congratulations, the overseer wrote. You earned it.
Lee-23’s boots stuck to the charred asphalt as he hurried across a street silent save for marching footsteps and spinning wheels. On the sidewalk, he slipped into the crowd and moved through it quickly. Nobody made to stop him, but everyone watched, recycling his excited breath. On a day like today, with oppressive heat gluing your clothes to your skin, there was little reason to run—unless, of course, you didn’t want to be late.
And Lee-23 couldn’t be. Two months ago he had requested a reservation, but that didn’t mean anything if he wasn’t there when the doors opened. People working in the mills, couldn’t often afford luxuries such as this—he wasn’t about to let all his efforts be passed onto some wealthy buzzard who had been camping out since midnight.
He slipped through back alleyways hidden by cobwebs and reeking of stale bum-piss and almost got barreled over by a buss of grannies who shook their umbrellas at him. Soon, though, he was there, at one of the official houses, tucked between rowhomes and noticeable only by the emblazoned banner which hung from it. Already three people waited outside.
Two of them were aristocrats with powdered faces, manicured nails, and towering stacks of horse-hair pluming their heads. The other was a short, bone-skinny girl dressed in the same dirty clothes as he. He passed a friendly glance at her and she gave it back—in a way, they were in this together.
It wasn’t long before the line snaked around the corner, spilling into the streets and causing a parade of automobiles to line up, honking and hollering. When finally the doors opened, it was half-past eight and an egg-shaped guard waddled out, twirling a night-stick like he was hopeful he’d get to dirty it. He stamped his fist against his chest, cleared his throat, and everyone, including the dowdy nobles in front of them, straightened up.
Because in his hand, he held what they all desired. It was a simple device, unassuming and unimpressive at first, an onyx-colored stick no longer than a hair-pin. But when he pressed it against the flesh of his neck and opened his lips, something beautiful happened—his voice flew free.
“I need everyone to remain calm,” he said. “Act foolish, and there will be a dozen other guards out here to handle you all. Understand?”
There was no response. Everyone just soaked in the voice as it fluttered around them like a bird free from its cage. To hear another human speak in person, that was a privilege. Even Lee-23 had only ever heard it once before.
“All right. Reservations, step out of line,” he said. “And do not lie. Your history will be checked, and if you try to play us, you’ll be permanently barred from—”
There was a crackle, then the fizzing pop of a shaken soda bottle. The machine splintered, cracks coursing through its metal shell as smoke spewed from it. The guard took it between his gloved hands and crunched it with an annoyed grunt. His lips moved, but no words came. Just huffs and puffs.
That was one of the weaker models, something like what they’d all be getting. Expensive, but disposable and short-lasting. They gave the kiss of the human voice, but not much more. Most would take much less—even a gasping breath.
Many go their entire lives without knowing what their own voice sounds like. Lee-23 included.
He was the first to step out of line, followed by the rag-wearing woman in front of him. The guard waited another moment, but nobody else came forward. For the aristocrats, this was just another weekly flex of their wealth. A trick to pull out at a party or maybe something even more trivial. But for the two of them this was everything.
Satisfied they were the only two, the guard led them into the building, guiding them down a dimly-lit corridor. They were soon separated, taken to their own booths, and Lee-23 sat underneath a buzzing overhead lantern. Across from him, behind a pane of glass, was a toadish man with a series of complex controls surrounding him—copper-colored levers and silver chain-strings, wide ruby buttons and golden cranks. He grunted, pulled the lever closest to him, and the wooden table between them retracted, revealing an intricate set of metal blocks with letters pressed into every side. One might have thought them a children’s toy if not for the machinery skewered through them.
With the grace of a surgeon, the toadish man began pulling and plucking and pressing. With the grinding growl of an enraged bear, the blocks rotated and shifted. Soon, they spelled out: YOU ARE HERE TO SPEAK, YES?
Lee-23, with no way other way to respond, just nodded.
The toadish man went back to work.
ONE THOUSAND, he spelled out. Then: ONE MINUTE.
Lee-23 nodded again and pulled the bundle of coin out his pocket. He dropped them into a slot on the side of the booth that carried them to the toadish man, who brought each coin up to his rounded spectacles and examined them carefully. Once they were all deemed satisfactorily legitimate, he brought that first lever back up and, once again, the wooden table returned—only this time, a small brown parcel sat atop it.
If you didn’t know what was in the package, you might think it no more than a bundle of cookies or a loaf of bread. But Lee-23 did know what it was, and that was why he pulled it to his chest like it was a diamond.
Finally, it was his.
The worst part was the waiting.
Lee-23 had, upon returning home, immediately showed the parcel to his wife, and they’d both agreed not to open it. If they did, temptations would take over, and what would all the bruises and sleepless nights have been for, then? So, it sat with them in the den, and they stayed silent, communicating through all those nervous ticks: tapped fingers and toes, sipped tea and clinked plates. They shared a piece of lemon cake. Then they shared another one too.
Both kept flittering on, trying to ignore the clock in the corner of the room. That one hour could’ve been three. Sometimes life grinds to a standstill. This wasn’t one of those times. It just moved painfully slow. Lee-23 watched the grains of a sugar-cube dissolve in a mug of coffee.
Then, the front door flew open.
Picture-frames rattled against the drywall and the silverware shook in the drawers as Blue-2, their ten-year-old daughter, came barreling through the house, backpack stuffed with notebooks. She had one in hand and came hurrying into the room looking for a pen, desperate to write all she’d experienced that day.
But children, even when they don’t understand, have a way of knowing when something serious is going on. And so, she tilted her head at her daddy, and he took the notepad from her.
On it, he scribbled: It’s time.
They carried on the rest of the day like normal.
They ate their dinner and did their dishes and helped Blue-2 with her homework. These days it was science that was getting the best of her. She had a hard time wrapping her head around all these things that she couldn’t see. Lee-23 didn’t blame her—so did he. They fed the fish in the pond out back and tended to a garden that was sorely in need of some rain to quench its parched roots.
All the while it sat in the kitchen, just waiting.
And when it finally came time—when the moon sneaked over the slanted roofs of downtown and the gloaming enveloped the house in darkness, they gathered in the living room, drew the curtains shut, and cranked on the lanterns.
Things were quiet as Lee-23 unwrapped the parcel, pulling its drawstrings and letting the device roll onto the table.
Seeing it now, the culmination of all his exhaustion, almost brought tears to his eyes. He’d first come up with this plan months ago. He, throughout his entire life, had never known his own voice. Neither had his lovely wife, nor their friends, siblings, or parents. But Blue-2 would. He would make sure of it. Even if just for a moment.
It will only work for one minute, he wrote.
That’s not very long, Blue-2 wrote back.
I know. I’m sorry.
She shook her head. She wasn’t trying to make him feel guilty.
His wife sat there, peering at the device. He knew that she, like he, wished she could use it on herself. But part of being a parent was foregoing some of your sense of self to help the little ones develop theirs. Having lived their entire lives muted, they knew how momentous this was. Blue-2 was ten years old, on the cusp of leaving childhood behind…
…but she’d take with her the memory of her voice.
At the beckoning of her father, Blue-2 took the device between her thumb and pointer like it was a bug she was worried to bring too close. It was foreign and thus frightening. But in time, she raised it to her neck. First, it emitted a buzz that caused her to drop it—but Lee-23 was quick to snatch it up. Again, there was the brief temptation to raise it to his own neck, but he returned it to Blue-2.
Hurry, he motioned.
And she did. She closed her eyes and pressed it to her neck and opened her mouth.
What came out was a garbled bunch of nonsense. Her tongue, unused to the motions required to bring words to life, slapped against her gums, slinging spit around. Blue-2’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she was just about to toss it away when Lee-23 dove forward, grabbing at her sides, tickling her.
This brought out something beautiful—a laugh.
It didn’t happen all at once. It sneaked out at first with a few short giggles, like soap bubbles popping. Each one widened her eyes and soon it strung into a chorus. She was laughing, genuinely laughing, and couldn’t keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks even after Lee-23 pulled his hands away. It was silly, yes, but happiness often was.
Then, quick as it came, it was snuffed out. There was a crackle that took her laugh and twisted it into a static-soaked whirrrrr, then a pop that ripped the sound out of the air entirely, leaving it still and cold, full of a moment lost to time.
But while Lee-23 and his wife looked at the smoking device in mourning, Blue-2 had a smile crinkled into her cheeks. The laughter was gone but joy it brought? That would last a lifetime.
She pulled the device away from her neck and sat it down on the table. A year’s worth of savings, splintered and smoldering and soon to stain the wood with soot. Yet, Lee-23 didn’t pick it up. Whatever marks it left behind would burn this moment into being. Anytime they forgot about it, they could look at the blackened pot-mark on the table and come back to right now—to laughter.
Blue-2 took the notepad and began to write. Her hands were too shaky, so she scratched out the first couple words. After a minute, when she passed the paper to him, all it said was: Thank you.
But that was enough. Lee-23 stared at these two words for a long time, soaking their heaviness in, then took the quill from her.
Don’t forget this, he wrote back. Promise me you won’t.
I promise, she wrote. Ha-ha.
And when she looked at him, he saw it in her eyes—the hunger to laugh again.
He hoped that, one day, she would.
THE END