ancient relics to future tech
The artifacts of our making blindly remake us in their image—a creative look at pivotal moments and objects in history.
Our lives embody the influence of historical artifacts—a painting, an invention, a monument. These are stories of lives unwittingly guided by objects of human creation, lives influenced by artifacts. The full title has 42 short stories.
Hieronymus Unbound
Antwerp, Belgium, 2024
“The Garden of Earthly Delights” is a triptych by Hieronymus Bosch (circa 1490-1510). In “Hieronymus Unbound,” the fourth panel reveals a new form of hell: the office cubicle.
You’d think someone would’ve noticed a missing panel after 500 years. Yet, when the fourth panel of “The Garden of Earthly Delights” was unveiled, the world was agog.
The panel was discovered, of all places, behind a Taco Bell in Antwerp by a guy named Gary. The latter was looking for a place to pee.
Not typically a finder of priceless art, Gary became an overnight sensation. His face spread across the news, and his lost-in-the-headlights expression became the meme of the year.
The fourth panel depicts something bizarre, which says a lot, given what’s in the triptych. It shows what can be interpreted as an office landscape.
Cubicles stretch to the horizon, each little square a world unto itself. Sure, this begs disbelief—how could Bosch know about office life?
Yet, the paint and canvas check out. The artistic style affirms authenticity. And you have to admit, a cubicle is its own kind of hell.
The workers, if you could call them that, were engaged in Sisyphean tasks. One cubicle housed a man furiously typing on a keyboard not connected to anything.
Another featured a woman staring at a phone that would never ring. Yet another, someone just standing there, holding a stapler and looking lost.
Was Bosch making a comment on the futility of modern work? Or the existential dread of the 9-to-5?
Or the soul-crushing monotony of corporate life? Or was he just ahead of his time, predicting the open-plan office by half a millennium?
Gary, whose résumé boasted more gaps than jobs, was thrust into a whirlwind of high art and higher expectations. He was invited to galas.
Asked for his interpretation of the panel (he had none). Offered a book deal about his life-changing discovery.
Eventually, the novelty wore off, as these things do. The next big thing came along (a cat resembling Abraham Lincoln).
Gary found himself back where he started. He took a job at the same Taco Bell, serving chalupas and doling out wisdom gleaned from his brief brush with fame.
The fourth panel was installed next to its siblings. It drew crowds eager to see Bosch’s take on modern malaise.
Taking in the bizarre landscape of cubicles and office drones, patrons felt a twinge of recognition. They spoke of kinship with those figures trapped in their little squares.
In the end, isn’t that what we’re all searching for? A place to make our mark, however fleeting, in a world that often feels as confounding as a Bosch painting.
Gary found his place behind the counter of a fast-food joint. The rest of us wander, hoping to stumble upon our fourth panel, our moment of clarity in a world that can be both absurd and unexpectedly beautiful.
Last Train Home
Union Station, Toronto, 2025
The first commuter trains in North America began in the early 19th century. The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad (1828) is perhaps the first. In “Last Train Home,” a man reflects on the changes he has experienced during his routine commutes as he takes his final train ride home.
The last train home is a ritual I’ve performed countless times, but tonight is different. Tonight marks the eve of my retirement. As the train pulls away from the station, I feel the years spent in the rhythm of the commute.
The train car is empty except for a few weary souls scattered among the seats. Each of us is in our own little world, I think as I pick a window seat.
The landscape outside blurs into streaks of colour as the train gains speed. I settle into the familiar rhythm, like a soundtrack, the clack of the wheels on the tracks.
I imagine myself as the young man I once was, full of ambition and certainty, boarding this train for the first time. I remember the dreams I harboured. The plans I made. And the way life has a habit of diverting the best-laid tracks.
As the train snakes its way through the city’s outskirts, I turn to the reflection in the glass.
There is a map of lines upon my face, each a marker of time: joys and sorrows, victories and defeats.
The conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing the next stop. I watch a woman with a small child climb aboard and take the seats across from me.
The child’s laughter pierces the quiet. It reminds me of when my children were that small, their futures as open as the sky.
At the following stop, a young man in a suit, not unlike the one I wore on my first day, sits down a few rows ahead. He’s on the phone, speaking of deals and deadlines.
His voice has the same urgency I once felt. I want to tell him it would all pass in a blink, but the words remain unspoken, a silent wish sent through the rhythm of the train.
* * *
The journey continues. Each stop is a chapter from my life.
The couple bickering softly over something forgotten. The teenager with headphones lost in a world of sound. The elderly lady with a book open on her lap. They are all mirrors of moments I have lived.
As the train approaches the final stop, I feel complete. I have ridden the rails of routine, watched the seasons change from this seat, and grown older with the passing landscape.
But the end of the line is an invitation to a new beginning.
The train slows, the station comes into view, and the lights are welcoming. I stand, my legs stiff but steady, and make my way to the door.
I step onto the platform and into the cool night air. I turn back to look at the train, the vessel that carried me through so much of my life and I feel grateful for the journey.
The train—the constant, unchanging train—showed me the beauty of the ever-changing world outside its windows. With a final whistle, the train departs, leaving me alone on the platform.
I take a deep breath and start the walk home. My steps are unhurried, and I am open to the final chapters.
Genesis Blossom
Old Yosemite Park, 2175
The Voynich Manuscript (15th century; discovered 1912) is a book filled with unknown symbols and botanical illustrations. In “Genesis Blossom,” a botanist discovers plants that promise to revive a barren Earth, transforming herself and the planet.
Nia, the last botanist on Earth, tended to her flora in the sanctuary of the greenhouse, a bubble of life in a dead world.
Inside, the air was heavy with humidity and the scent of soil. The world beyond the glass lay silent. Cities abandoned, forests barren.
“I found the key to our salvation,” Nia said, not looking up as the door sealed shut behind Jin, approaching in his standard-issue environmental suit with curiosity and caution.
“In the Voynich Manuscript?” he asked, peering over her shoulder at the obscure text beside the plant whose leaves she pruned.
“Plants that can resurrect our world. But not from the past. From the future.”
“The patterns match the genetic markers of these,” she gestured to the greenery around them, pausing, “but they’re more advanced. Evolved.”
“And you can grow them?” Jin asked, removing his helmet and knitting his brows to underscore the question Nia considered briefly before assuring him, yes, “I can … but it’s not just about growing them. They change things.”
“Change what?”
“Reality. Perception.”
Jin let out a slow breath. “Not sure what all that means, Nia, but it sounds dangerous.”
“No more so than the path we’re already on,” she replied, a smile creasing her face. “This could be our reset button.”
The first plant they decided to cultivate was modest, with lush green leaves. Nia explained its potential to cleanse the air more effectively than any existing plant or machine.
As the plant grew, so did the rift between Nia and Jin. He was skeptical and worried about the consequences, while she was obsessed with the potential of their terraforming discovery.
When the plant blossomed, its flowers released a sweet, potent fragrance. Nia inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. When she opened them, Jin was staring at her with a mix of awe and fear.
“Your eyes,” he stammered, stepping back. “They’ve changed.”
Nia touched her face, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Your eyes are a different colour.”
* * *
Nia’s dreams became vivid, with visions of a verdant, thriving Earth. She saw the plants communicating, their leaves and stems moving subtly and deliberately. She shared her experiences with Jin, who listened with a growing concern.
“This isn’t natural, Nia. You’re changing.”
“We’re all changing,” Nia insisted. “This is evolution. The plants are showing us the way.”
“But at what price?” Jin pressed. “You’re not the same anymore.”
“Maybe I’m better,” Nia said softly, turning away from him.
The changes became more pronounced. Nia could understand the plants. They spoke of a world in balance, a future where humanity lived in harmony with nature.
Jin watched as Nia spent more and more time with the plants, her skin taking on a subtle green hue. He realized he was losing her, not to madness, but to a transformation beyond his grasp.
One morning, Nia didn’t return from the greenhouse. Jin found her among the foliage, barely distinguishable from it.
“Nia?” His voice was barely audible. She turned to him, her eyes now a vibrant green.
“The time has come,” she said. “The Earth is ready to be reborn. Not as it was, but as it must be.”
Jin reached out to her, tears in his eyes. “And what about us?”
Nia smiled a serene, all-knowing smile. “We are the seeds of the new world.”
As he watched, vines and leaves enveloped her, and she became part of the greenhouse, part of the earth’s rebirth.
Jin stepped outside, the silence replaced by the stirrings of life. Green tendrils spread across the barren ground. The air was fresher, filled with the promise of life.
He looked back at the greenhouse, at the new world with which Nia had become one. And he understood.
This was their legacy, a future reborn from the ashes of the past. To be remade in the image of the earth.
Through the future vegetation of the Voynich Manuscript, the last botanist of Earth had given humanity a second chance.
