Margin of Error: a short fiction for you
Also some regular things
Morning darklings,
My body is doing poorly this week. The skin covering my bones burns, my scalp feels bruised, my joints ache, and I can't stay a consistent temperature. So I've taken some time off. I've played my tap game more. I've slept in late. I've been slow about things I wanted to do quickly. But I still got the important things done—went to the DMV, dealt with a printer issue, got a new event to replace one that fell through, saw people in person, tore my non-fiction book to the studs and started rebuilding it. It needed a refresh. I stepped away for too long and now see a way to present the material a little differently.
Life is complicated and hard and wonderful.
Which is why I when I saw a fun lil thing, I just had to do it:
Ian Patterson on Substack has an event called "The Thousand Faces of Elias Thorne". Jeanninne Lawall told me about it in the comment section of my blog here (you can find her blog here / she's written a few of these!). I'm not one to interrupt life to write something for a prompt, but this one is about writing a story where any and all characters are named Elias Thorne. It's both a joke and social commentary. We were told to go all out. I've really taken that to heart. My Elias story is absurd and sarcastic.
In short, "Elias Thorne" is a name that LLMs created. It's more than likely, if you've read that name in a novel from early this year or last, you read an AI written book (or at least partially written/ideas suggested from). AI decided it was a good name and suggested it to... a lot of people. Much like in Bring It On where one choreographer gave a dance to many squads.
*Truly be careful what you take from AI and use without edits is the takeaway to be sure.
When I first heard about this phantom name I laughed and cried a little. So many Elias Thorne's have written books and are the main characters for books. There was also a lot of lighthouse talk associated with the name, and I had just started a story with a lighthouse. Needless to say, I set that aside for now. I don't have the energy to fend off "this is AI" comments. Because nope, not now, and not ever. My brain is far more interesting than AI, thank you very much. A serial killer with hEDS. A woman experiencing grief and Disability through metaphors come to life. An amnesiac in a complex marriage grappling with memories that aren't what you think. A game show experience in written form through the perspective of dozens of people. I'm proud to say that AI couldn't have "imagined" those. Now that my books have been added to its memory, things may be different, mind you. But still, trust that it will never be AI if you get it from me. My body suffers as I type letter by letter, word by word to share my stories with you. It's why some years you get short fiction or anthologies and others you get novels, some years you get more of other peoples' stories and some you get mine. I do what my body allows.
And now I step down from my lil soapbox to present a short story, yeah?
Next week, that doll one I mentioned.
Margin of Error
Elias has her heels kicked up on her desk as she calls for me. Of course I race in, harried as always, with a stack of papers in my hand that are for show more than anything. I always have to look busy, or Elias will throw things at me.
I made you in my image, the least you can do is help me, she said once in my nightmare. Her lips curled in a way that was hard to imagine my face being able to make.
Despite the dream, Elias had no real part in making me, luckily. But I still hate sharing my face with Elias or Elias or even Elias—they aren't good people. Their values are off. But no one asked me, did they? At least every once in a while I get to see Elias Thorne on TV, standing proud behind a podium, swearing she'll shut it down for good. It's been a talking point since before she was born, but maybe Elias Thorne or Elias Thorne or Elias Thorne would get things done, stop the madness. How many more decades?
Elias' voice shoots to a 9 immediately. "I haven't gotten the quarterly report! Have you visited the factory this month?"
I hate it there. "No, Elias said she would handle it. Said she would send me her findings."
Heels slam to the polished wood floor. "Absolutely not. You know I don't trust Elias. Only you, Elias Thorne. So go look yourself. I want numbers, I want letters, I want answers!"
You want fluffing.
As I walk the three blocks to the factory, I think about how much I want to move to the beach where everyone lives in small brick homes and keeps time by the large clock tower in the center of each city. It's shaped like a lighthouse. We have nothing so unique here—only squares and rectangles. But I'm stuck. My parents, Elias and Elias, did this. When I was little, they said even the suburbs wouldn't do—all off-white siding and plastic green lawns. I deserved the city, they thought. After a car crash left me orphaned and sent off to live with the Eliases in the country, it was all I could do to get back to the city. For my parents. Besides, a red barn and white truck didn't feel like the right fit.
The factory is a smooth, gray building that's a replica of the other stone buildings around it. There are two sets of doors and no windows.
Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell beside double doors that resemble my two front teeth—just slightly longer than the rest of my mouth.
A familiar voice comes over the line. "Yes?"
"Ms. Elias Thorne here on behalf of Ms. Elias Thorne. Inspection time," I say, trying to keep a steady, firm voice. It sounds just as flat as the disembodied voice, though.
"Ms. Elias Thorne was here just yesterday," the speaker shouted back. Only the volume seems to change.
"Well, she didn't report to me or Ms. Elias Thorne. What can I say?" I press my hand to my hip and lean to the side a little. I haven't learned this skill yet. Elias says that only High Level Elias Thornes are allowed to be taught physical emphasis. And the highest ones get vocal emphasis.
A buzz reverberates through the cement beneath my loafers as the teeth swing open, revealing the mouth and throat and guts of the factory.
"Welcome in, Ms. Elias Thorne," Ms. Elias Thorne says. She is different than the Elias over the loudspeaker.
"Thank you," I say. "Shall I go alone, or do I need an escort?"
"You may go alone." Ms. Elias Thorne waves her arm wildly to welcome me, and I'm jealous. I didn't realize she was considered a High Level Elias Thorne.
My loafers occasionally squeak on the polished concrete as I head towards Production. There, Ms. Elias will tell me numbers that Elias doesn't actually care about and show that the machines are working properly, which Elias does care about.
Ms. Elias is waiting for me with a smile I've seen in photos dozens of times. Thirty-two, to be exact. Our annual photo sees me make this fake smile with my hair in the same bun at the base of my neck. We just had this year's, and I wore the same blouse as the six years prior—black long sleeves with a tiny ruffle around the collar that's close to the neck. Ms. Elias is wearing the same blouse in green. I'm shocked. A little too much color for the workplace, I think. But I don't say so. Here, today, I'm just an observer.
We go through the motions.
The numbers: 20 a sheet. As always.
The margin of error: 1 every sheet. Up since last quarter.
The sheet thickness: 5 inches. As always.
The inflation time: 30 minutes-72 hours. Up since last quarter.
The margin of error: 1 every 6. Up since last quarter.
The curing time: 1 hour. As always.
Ms. Elias takes me to the machine. We start at the first step. She Emergency Stops production to show me everything. She pulls the levers and tells me to listen. No squeaks. She has me pull one myself. No friction. We go to the mixer, and it's all coming together smoothly. When it plops onto the conveyor belt, it oozes as it should.
Gelatin powder dusts the top as a massive roller takes the dough and flattens it to the expected 5 inches.
"See? All is well," Ms. Elias says.
I nod. "And the next step? The margin of error has changed by an entire sheet."
"Yes, the cutter is growing dull. We are just waiting for Ms. Elias Thorne to come put an edge back to it. Maybe your report will speed that along."
An arm holding 20 cutters presses into the dough and rises up. Two cling to the cutter and go up, up, up, and disappear into the darkness of the machine. The others are perfectly shaped. My shape.
I mark down that two are failures.
The next room is the Inflation Room. A countdown timer is on one side of the glass window, a large metal clock is on the other.
"I'll take lunch while I wait," I say.
Ms. Elias leaves to grab me a boxed lunch.
Three hours later, two Eliases have inflated. Their bodies are not completely proportional yet, but that can sometimes come during the curing process.
One hour and six minutes later, only one Elias has been cured. She is misshapen. Her hips and waist are the same size.
Ms. Elias stutters, "D-don't worry. We would never let this Elias out of the building." How is everyone but me considered High Level?
"Show me the Recycling Room."
Ms. Elias looks nervous. "Um, of course."
We walk three doors down past the Curing Room. Inside the Recycling Room, there are Eliases piled high up onto each other. There are different shapes and sizes. Some have different hair or eye color. One has a strange extra glob between her legs.
"What is this?" I ask. "I was here just last quarter!"
"Yes, well, it seems that the politician Elias Thorne and her cronies broke in one night and tinkered with the machines. We've been trying to recalibrate them, but it's been hard."
"Do you know what they did?"
"Some of it." Ms. Elias Thorne is clearly nervous.
"Good," I say. "Undo what you've done. Bring those Eliases from the Recycling Room to the Curing Room."
"But, Ms. Elias Thorne, that would..." Her eyes go large. "You're part of The Reb—"
"I am just trying to make sure that Ms. Elias Thorne sees what's been going on accurately. If there Eliases that look off, that's not really any one person's problem, is it?"
Ms. Elias Thorne crosses her pinkie and ring finger—the sign for The Rebellion. "That's a great idea, Ms. Elias Thorne."
And one more thing before I go...
There is a book you should check out if you have the brain space to learn and get introspective. I mean it. Buy it, read it, listen to it, request it at your library, engage with the author. I'm reading it bit by bit and loving it so far (partially biding my time until the audiobook is available—any day now!). Normally I wouldn't recommend something I haven't finished, but I've spoken with the author about the book at length, so I know the overarching contents. It's fascinating! It's not a quick and easy read, it's a deep dive, and I've needed to slow down a few times already. But I love getting in over my head now and again. I have listened to many books more than once to make sure I understood them, to make sure I didn't miss anything, etc. It'll be one of those. I'm excited about that, honestly. I've got my sticky notes and highlighters handy.
I'll probably have much more to say about it later. After all, I just started trying a new approach to therapy with my long-time therapist and am learning about others (like in this book). It's an exciting time in healing.
The header photo is of a cookie cutter I found at an estate sale on my saw blade table.
Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.
