R.H. Walker, Author

(Cover image by NASA Hubble Space Telescope on Unsplash)

This flash science fiction story just came off of submission. I submitted it only once and it was rejected, but instead of sending it off again I think I’m going to trunk it, for a couple of reasons:

1. This flash leans very, VERY heavily on the Pizza Hut imagery, since I’m specifically critiquing the nostalgia culture it invokes. I’m sure there are copyright implications that a magazine doesn’t want to deal with, and since this element can’t be written around, it seems best to keep it in my trunk as a practice piece.
2. While I am proud of the elements that went into this piece, and proud of the story I tell in the small space allotment, it does have a lot of similarities to another story I have on submission right now, The Belle of Red River Crossing. Both are science fiction stories, set in space, that focus on humanity’s obsession with legacy, and I think Red River Crossing simply does it better. It’s still on submission, and I’d rather put my energy into improving and selling it over its sister piece.

And so, Last Pizza Hut finds its rest here in the trunk. I still love it (I hold a special fondness for all my weird little pieces), and I hope you will too.

#

The Last Pizza Hut at the Edge of the Galaxy

by R.H. Walker

This is The Last Pizza Hut at the Edge of the Galaxy.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Enough time has elapsed on Earth that even those retired huts, red roofs painted black or brown to appeal to optometrists and insurance agents in need of cheap real estate, are all long gone. Except for one, nestled on a small meteor at the outer edge of the Kuiper Belt. Perfectly preserved, down to the last detail: beautiful calligraphic signs, custom Tiffany-glass lampshades above cherry-red vinyl booths, gem-green carpet and honeyed woods and the smells of salt and fat and yeast.

When this final building was scheduled for demolition there was a small public outcry– nostalgic millennials, spanning from their late fifties into their early seventies, decried the loss of yet another precious childhood memory. At that moment a man (a old man with a damaged reputation and cash to burn) made a decision. He planned it all in an evening over Nobu takeout and a bottle of Cristal, dictating the idea to his frazzled personal assistant. Surely this would work. After all, everyone likes pizza.

He paid a couple thousand dollars to have it torn down board by board, a couple million dollars to commission the needed replacements, and a couple billion dollars to build the rockets and rebuild it on an asteroid. There were hiccups along the way, of course there were, what project doesn’t have them? It was just an unfortunate tragedy that three of the builders had their spacesuits rupture. Unfortunate, too, that the remaining members of the founder’s family could not afford to sue him for use of their IP. Bad luck and smart business. He couldn’t be blamed for either. And besides, his bad press would all go away once they could see it.

His plan was foolproof. He cashed in his stocks to help fund the space elevator, securing a guarantee from Congress that his asteroid would be the last stop. He poured another couple millions into advertising. He paid for a highly-trained staff, and shelled out extra to compensate their long daily commute. He even had a soft opening, and invited struggling reporters he could bribe into throwing him a bone.

It was all for naught. The bought reviews, the nostalgic drivel, even the surprisingly affordable fair for the shuttle proved inadequate. That first night, the dining room was empty as space itself.

Nights turned into weeks, then into months, and still nobody came. Funds dwindled, and the employees with it. The old billionaire had failed. He didn’t admit it, of course. He still talked a big game to anyone that would listen, but soon found that no one cared to listen anymore. In the end, he didn’t even have his money to comfort him. Just a rock a million miles away, and the shell of a forgotten mid-budget pizza buffet chain.

The building sits empty now. The windows no longer glow with the warm light of the Tiffany-glass lamps. The last pizzas are still on the buffet line, hardened near to stone and never to be eaten. The atmospheric dome has failed, killing the landscaping, but there is no one here to care. This is The Last Pizza Hut at the Edge of the Galaxy, and no one will remember her.

She was not built to withstand the pressures of space, and so not long after the atmospheric dome fails, the Last Pizza Hut begins to splinter away, sucked bit by bit back into the galaxy from whence she sprang.

#

That same night, as the Last Pizza Hut dies, a father in Plattsmouth, Nebraska signs a lease. The building is old, but that means its cheap, and within walking distance of the high school. That’s good enough for him.

His father taught him how to make pizza, as his father before him, and soon he will teach it to his daughters. At first it will be only his neighbors that come, but after the summer he will serve slices to the high schoolers during their lunch breaks, and hungry drunks from the sports dive next door, and after a couple of years he will actually manage to turn a profit.

He will never move out of the little strip mall, but that won’t matter. He will plaster the walls with community event calendars, with high school sports schedules and posters of local bands. He makes a little profit some years, but mostly he breaks even. It’s not intergalactic pizza, he jokes, but he likes it. And so does everyone in town. And perhaps that is enough.