Penn Charter Lit Mag

Just as they finished their thoughts, I noticed a few pieces of grey material with some sort of metal sticking out of them and linking them together. I questioned the engineers but both confirmed that no such material was used in the construction of the ship. However, we quickly dismissed the thought in search of safety from the strange objects that seemed to populate the waters.

As I opened the doors back to the main deck of the ship, I observed mass panic. Among the screaming masses, there were crying mothers screaming for their children, men searching for their loved ones, and a surprising number of people holding strange objects, questioning others as to what they were. These objects seemed to litter the ship. I recognized some as odd typewriters or smooth glass panels, but these objects were strange and unlike any I had seen before. The panels seemed to flicker and were connected to the odd typewriters with phone lines. Everything about this was so strange.

 Among the wreckage, stewardesses yelled for people to begin boarding lifeboats. The line of women and children ahead of me gave me time to further inspect the curious debris. I tore one of the small typewriters from its cable and was immediately struck with how light it was. I decided to inspect further and easily broke the device open. Inside was a green panel containing many other cables. The green board had letters that spelled “DELL” inside of it. 

“This is all so confusing,” I expressed to the passengers on the lifeboat as we departed. I scanned the clear horizon for the culprit of the mass confusion as we floated away from the wreckage. I spotted the iceberg, but it did not look how I expected it too. It was so angular and in some spots reflective. 

As a spotlight passed over the “iceberg” I realised it wasn’t an iceberg at all, it was the corner of a massive building. The contents of which were now scattered in the water as well as a large portion of one of the walls. I wondered to myself how this possibly could have happened as I inspected the strange object I had found. The strange typewriter, the pieces of grey material and metal, the angles and appearance of the supposed iceberg, it all seemed to come from a distant and futuristic land. I wondered to myself what the flash of light that accompanied the crash could have possibly been as I saw the RMS Titanic disappear into the ocean.

* * *

103 YEARS LATER

My is Andrew Bottlecap. I was busy browsing MrBottles.com, my favorite bottle collecting website, when I heard about the Titanic and I immediately knew something was wrong. I did some research and found some very troubling evidence. First of all, the Titanic was a heavy duty ship capable of surviving collisions with icebergs. It would have taken a much greater and stronger structure to pierce the hull of such a mighty vessel. Also, during the Cold War, the USSR launched countless rockets and space­craft that were never recovered. Where did they go?

I was doing more research into USSR technology when I stumbled upon a disturbing trend that led to the answer. The USSR seemed to have a fascination with a universal sewer system where every sewage pipe led to the same reservoir. This was the answer. The phenomena the communists were trying to emulate was one they encountered during their numerous rocket launches: wormholes. These wormholes all work in the same way, they start somewhere and all end in the same place in the space­time continuum. Whenever an object exits them, it creates a blinding flash of light. What brought these wormholes and their destination to my attention? 

I was reading an old newspaper I borrowed from the hobo two blocks down when I heard about a missing plane. This was a clue. The documents I read on the USSR were written on paper, which is also a plane. This led me to the following conclusion: Malaysia Airline flight 370. It disappeared mysteriously. But where did it go? There were 4927 days between 9/11/2001 and when Malaysia Airline flight 370 went missing. The last 3 digits of 4927 are 927. 9+2+7 = 18. 3*7*0 = 0. 0­18 = ­18. 18+ (­18) = 0. 0 = 0. That’s right! Malaysia Airlines flight 370 went back in time via secret wormhole and hit the Twin Towers, or so I thought.

But the rabbit hole went deeper, much deeper. Those were not the Twin Towers that the plane crashed into, they were fakes. The USSR invariably encountered these wormholes and many of their spacecraft disappeared. Eventually, they discovered how to consistently create these wormholes and worked to use them to sabotage America, their sworn enemies, by committing the worst attack on US soil, ever! Using their tremendous resources and fairly advanced spacecraft, they launched destroyed replicas of the Twin Towers and kidnapped the real Twin Towers. 

How else could the melted steel beams have occurred and the thermite be found at the base of the towers? Jet fuel is not thermite and cannot melt steel beams. Why else did Russia lose the space race? They were in the lead and could have won, but they decided to use the rocket intended to go to the moon to transport a fake version of the destroyed Twin Towers and kidnap the real ones. But where did the real ones go?

I posted this on some hidden corner of the internet on a thread that has long since been hidden by the government. Some people thought that aliens stole it. Others thought it was stuck in the wormhole. However, these people did not have proof to back up their ridiculous claims. Suddenly, a post from a someone who claimed to have been the grandson of a spy who delved too deep into the USSR’s space program. This person, username: xXX_gR34T­4M3r1c4_xXx, did some high level math that I will simply be able to quote. Five minutes after he posted it and I saved a copy of his genius, the thread was taken down and his account was wiped from existence. Here is the first and last thing he posted online:

“9/11/2001, the date the twin towers disappeared. 11 + 01 = 12. 20­01 = 19. Put together, those equal 1912. What famous event happened during 1912? The Titanic sunk on 15/5/1912. 15+5 = 20. 9+11= 20. 20=20. The Twin Towers were sent back in time to capsize the Titanic.”

This makes sense. What was the epitome of capitalism? A massive, luxurious boat for the extremely rich powered by a legion of extremely poor irish. How did the Communists deal with this? They sunk the Titanic and inflicted the worst attack on US soil ever at the same time!

* * * Year of the People 24

21 September: I woke up to the glorious noise of the Russian alarm at 0600 just as any other day. I jumped up from bed, already in my lab coat as any true scientist of Russia, and went down to the cafeteria. I grabbed my state ­certified bowl of Cosmonaut Crunch. While the breakfast was dry due to a lack of milk (mutating the cows to turn them all red did not go as planned), I still could taste the scientific victory in every space monkey I scooped up and ate. After arriving at the Control Over Capitalist Kosmos wing of my building, I conversed with my colleagues. My comrade, Boris “Space Hoe” Borishnakov, had curious news to inform me of. He discovered a ripple in space. He claimed that this ripple passed through quantum physics and potentially disrupted time itself.

22 September: Once again, there was no milk. I barely noticed, as all I was thinking of was the quantum ripple. Boris informed me today that while he could not calculate the mass, the ripple was visibly growing in size. I asked to look at it. Stars seemed to be swallowed up by the ripple, and as Boris informed me, appeared moments later behind. “Boris”, I said. “It is not getting larger, it is getting closer.”

25 September: I found new information on the ripple, but it’s true properties still elude me. I fell asleep in my chair last night. While I slept, I kept hearing whispers, soft mutterings in my head. I cannot perceive their meaning yet they seem relevant.

30 September: The ripple is closer. We are sending out a cosmonaut, Boris “Space Side­Hoe” Borishnakovikov. He will gather information. I have found that I can study the ripple for longer and longer, with food and drink becoming unnecessary and trivial. The whispers grow louder everyday and I’m beginning to understand their meaning. I must investigate more.

REDACTED Oktober: It is starting to make sense. The ripple talks to me now, I hear it in my head, telling me about its life and purpose. I understand it as much as it understands me.

3 January, Year REDACTED 25: The cosmonaut’s ship is back. Boris “Space Side­Hoe” Borishnakovikov will be missed dearly, but I will make the loss worth it. The ripple calls to me, beckons to me. I must study it further.

13 January: I understand it now. I no longer talk to anyone else, the ripple is all I need. Other humans, even Boris, feel ignorant and insignificant when compared to the ripple. I feel its pull. My body compels me. I must join the ripple.

25 January:  I am going into space, I will touch the ripple. No one can know about this except for Russia. No one will know about this ripple. It is my ripple and mine alone.

???: I can feel the ripple bend everything around me. I have been talking to the lost cosmonaut through the ripple. Only he and I understand the ripple for what it is. This is our purpose, the ripple transcends everything else. Nothing else is worthy of consideration.

???: They have trapped me in space with the ripple. They want the ripple, but they know only I understand it. The cosmonaut keeps me company. We talk about the ripple. We only think about the ripple. All other conversation is pointless when something as vast and powerful as the ripple is this close.

???: I do not know how long I have been floating in space. I can see things change. I’ve been weather change and the snow on the mountains melt and reform. However, those are irrelevant occurrences that only exist because the ripple deems them worthy.

???: The ripple has blessed me with immortality, as it is a just god. My Russian komrades keep trying to contact me about my discoveries, but my true loyalty is to the ripple.

???: They want the ripple to destroy capitalist ideals, something about an old ocean liner. I would not let them use the ripple for something so petty, but I cannot stop them.

???: I can not express the anger I have in words. They have taken the ripple. I heard them speak of transporting some kind of trade center.

The traditional symbolism of the Illuminati is encapsulated by the symbolic triangle. The three points demonstrate the evil strengths of the organization: Money, power, and the French. This triangle embodies the platonic ideals of Plato: In that its perfection could only exist within a perfect world. This is proven by the impossibility of the triangle. The world as we know it exists in three dimensions, and we have not yet been able to create a truly two dimensional object. All which we develop has depth, and thus is three dimensional. Therefore, triangles cannot exist.

I opened the doors and stepped inside. There were several long rows of gray folding chairs, but only a few at the front were occupied. Seated on the taken chairs were government overseers assigned to keep peace in case of a riot. Riots happened occasionally when people voted for bad candidates. Large crowds of people would gather and beat anyone who voted for him. Straight ahead were several booths, their linen curtains a faded royal purple, worn from the years of use and countless individuals who passed beyond them. I began to walk to them, heart racing, when a blood-curdling shout rang out from my left.

I turned quickly and was greeted with the sight of a large man with graying hair in fetal position in the corner. He was wearing a military uniform, and from the rank barely visible on the faded outfit, I could see that he was a sergeant. He held both of his hands on his forehead, as if he was covering something. My focus returned to the voting booths looming on the far side of the gym. I swallowed hard and began to walk towards them. I approached the entrance to one. It was only seven feet tall, and its walls were composed of a thick, brown cardboard.

“There’s no way this is as bad as it's said to be,” I thought to myself.

I stepped inside. The walls were plain, but in front of me there were two-hundred and eighty-nine red buttons, each with a small black-and-white nameplate aside it. I put my hand up; I knew who I was voting for. Bernie Sanders stood for all the things I stood for.

I began searching for him on the large panel. Suddenly, my vision became cloudy. I lost feeling in my hands and feet. An endless white expanse consumed me. A bright light engulfed me from seemingly nowhere, but it was not harsh on my eyes.

“That man will doom our country,” a voice to my left calmly spoke. I turned quickly, and before me I saw my dead father.

“Vote for Jeb Bush. He is the only candidate with an ounce of sense in him,” he chanted.

I wasn’t startled or surprised by my late dad’s appearance. Voting was an act performed by the living on behalf of the dead. I knew that others would appear soon; it was the voting routine, according to my friends. I would need to vote not just for myself but for my ancestors. Suddenly, my deceased relatives appeared en masse, relentlessly yelling in my ears.

“Vote for Hillary!”

“Vote for Huckabee!”

“Vote for Cruz!”

Thousands of voices danced around me. None of them bothered to explain why I should vote for their candidate, but all hoped that if they yelled the loudest, I would cast my vote in their favor. I began to panic. Thousands of people were spread out in every direction, pushing against me, trying to get my attention.

“Abortion is wrong!”

“Abortion is right!”

“Bush did nine-eleven!”

I couldn’t think straight. The physical pressure from the bodies and the mental pressure from the mindless screams was overwhelming me. I tried to push the crowd away with my right hand, but my appendage passed right through them.

“Let me go!” I cried, and I uselessly punched my great-great-great-granduncle twice removed, who was advocating for the neo-nazi party.

But my hit connected with something. Suddenly I was back in the booth and I realized that in my attempt to return to reality, my knuckles depressed a single small red button.

I saw the nameplate. Oh no. Out of two-hundred and eighty-nine buttons I could have pressed, I hit that one.

The panel opened, and a steaming red piece of metal extended from within. I stood paralyzed in fear, my fist firm on the button. I watched the hot panel extend towards me, with my vote’s name written on it, slowly approaching me. A sudden intense pain erupted from my forehead, and the metal arm slowly retracted back into the panel. I let out a scream of pain, and crumbled to my knees, writhing like the man I saw upon entering the polling station.

After several minutes of sitting on the ground, I returned to my feet. The booth’s linen curtain was as heavy as lead as I pushed it open, and walked out. I slowly made my way to the door and turned to see the sergeant. I realized we had a single bond in common. A single mistake. He saw me staring at him, and his eyes widened in horror as he saw my branded forehead and realized he, too, was engraved with that scar for eternity. He stared at me in disgust until he noticed the tears running down my cheek. Then his face molded into a sad acceptance, and he stood up, his hands falling to his sides from his forehead. I stared at him for what felt like hours before turning to leave.

He gets up and feels the burn as he jogs outside to admire his great nation. Tipping the doorman, Trump gazes out onto America’s third massive wall. Having built a wall to keep out the drug addicted, rapist Mexicans, and another wall to keep the low quality, labor stealing Chinese away, Trump was building a third one to keep the filthy surrendering Europeans and their rampant baguettes and gun control away. America was truly great. His glorious mane of hair flowed in the hair to the rhythm of Star Spangled Banner. From the door, his eagle -like eyes spied something intolerable working on the new wall, a MEXICAN! Trump watched as the Mexican worked judiciously on the wall, never taking a break until lunch was called.

At lunch, the Mexican talks casually with his American co­workers. They smile and laugh, conversing casually. This is impossible. How could a Mexican steal glorious American jobs, work hard, and be respected by his colleagues? It simply isn’t possible! The Americans must be laughing at him. That was the only explanation. Donald Trump decides to investigate further, riding his motorized scooter down to his Super­Hummer©. Driving the few miles to the wall, Trump burns 5 tons of beautiful American fossil freedom fuels, creating a bald eagle shaped hole in the ozone layer. Truly a symbol that America is the most free and powerful nation in the world! He drives his motorized scooter up to the workers and asked them about the Mexican worker. They regale him with tales of the Mexican’s hard work and raw dedication to America. The Mexican must have tricked them, Trump realizes. All Mexicans were child ­trafficking kidnappers, All of them! Talking to other Americans, Trump discovers the Mexican must have tricked the entire construction crew. Being the pro­active member of society that he is, Donald Trump decides to take it upon himself to find the Mexican’s dark secrets and reveal them to the world before deporting him.

Donald Trump follows the Mexican home and watches as the he cares for his two “children”. The kids look suspiciously like him to be sex slaves, but Trump knows that looks can be deceiving. Trump watches as the Mexican feeds his slaves a meal of steak and mashed potatoes before putting them to bed. Donald Trump waits for the Mexican to indulge his sick minded pleasures, AK­47 in hand. However, the Mexican returns to the kitchen, where he begins to work on his taxes, whistling a tune only an American could know, the national anthem.

Then it struck Donald Trump: this Mexican was an upstanding, hard­working, patriotic member of the greatest country in the world. But that was not possible! He was a MEXICAN! How could he work hard? How could he care for his children? No! No! It must be a lie. It was not a lie. How could it not a lie? Mexicans were as decrepit as America was great. Or were they? NO! He was RIGHT! America was GREAT! Mexicans were NOT! There were no hard­working Mexicans. NONE! But he had seen… It must have been a trick! It was not a trick! YES! AMERICA! NO! IS! YES! GREAT! NO! AGAIN! YES! The Mexican had worked hard. The Mexican had paid his taxes. But how? Had Trump been wrong this entire time? That couldn’t be. Or could it? Never! But he had seen! Trump’s hair shriveled up and died. The world fell apart. The perpetual sound of Star Spangled Banner stopped. Darkness enveloped him as women are given equal rights and Vladimir Putin whispers lines from Das Kapital in his ear.