Better Luck Next Time

Better Luck Next Time

By J.A. Roggie

I am Conner Artorious.

Number one best explorer of all time. Ever. Period. Not that it means much these days, explorers are a dying breed. Metaphorically, sure. But also, literally. Let me explain.

I was born on a small, half-forgotten planet called Earth. The year is 2073, and we’ve done what humanity does best: ruined a perfectly good thing. We turned paradise into ash. Torched our own home and then acted surprised when the fire burned us too.

Earth is now a wasteland. Cracked dirt, and poisoned skies. You know the kind of place where hope goes to die with a whimper and a cough. The last estimate put our population at around three hundred thousand souls. Give or take a few thousand. Hard to keep a headcount when most comms were fried and half the people left don’t want to be found.

In the mood for some water? Well, too bad, that’s a luxury. What about some good food? Scratch that, what about any food? How unfortunate because that’s just a memory. We scrape by on scraps and synth-paste, and even that’s starting to run low.

And that...well, that’s where I come in.

Our communities have been working together on something strange. Desperate, yes, but odd in a way that just might save us. We’re trying to pull water from things that shouldn’t give water at all. Let me explain.

Everything in the world contains water on some level. Even the driest objects, like rocks, dust or rusted-out machinery, hold trace amounts deep down at the molecular level. Water is everywhere. Just not in a way we can drink it.

Now, the few scientists we have left, and I use the word “scientists” loosely as most of them were chem teachers or amateur physicists before everything collapsed. I mean we even have some guy named Jim who did none of those. All he did was tell them, “I once had a science kit when I was five”. So, they gave him a lab coat and bam suddenly he’s a scientist. Okay, they have a theory. I’m not saying it’s a bad one. Let me tell you what it is.

They believe we can extract water using a process called Acoustic Levitation. It’s an old concept, something that used to be more sci-fi than science. Basically, they use sound waves to manipulate matter. Turn the right frequency loose on the right material and, in theory, you can separate molecules. That includes pulling water out of solid objects.

It sounds insane. But then again, surviving in a dead world is insane already. If this works, even partially, it could buy us time. Maybe a few more years, or perhaps just long enough to find another way to keep breathing.

Anyways, there were these three scientists and of course, Jim. No idea why they always ask, Jim, but together they cobbled together this acoustic levitation device and stuck it in the gymnasium of the old school

They all worked hard to get it functional. After weeks of scavenging parts and tuning frequencies, the thing finally powered up. It started vibrating, humming, doing its sonic thing. Looked like it might actually work.

But they missed something.

They didn’t properly account for the velocity at which it would vibrate. Someone botched the math. Yeah, you guessed it. It was Jim. The levitation unit didn’t just float particles or shift air, it bent reality. Everything around them wobbled, like the fabric of space itself had a hiccup.

Jim, being a guy who always seems to get himself in far over his head. Naturally was standing right next to it when the whole thing went sideways. He began to shake. Not a normal kind of shake, but an oh-no-the-universe-is-melting kind of shake.

And here’s where things got... complicated.

According to String Theory, reality isn’t just one flat pancake of existence. There are multiple dimensions layered on top of ours. Folded, twisted, compactified realms, and yes compactified is the scientific term…I think. Anyway, each vibrating at its own unique frequency.

Well, someone, I can’t say who, screamed that the machine had hit the natural vibrational frequency of one of those hidden dimensions.

And boom.

A micro-wormhole tore open, and just like that. One moment, they were in a busted-up gym. The next, someone got yanked into a tear in space. Jim, he was the who got pulled in like a little girl holding the leash of a mastiff.

Now, he’s sitting in a weird Jungle. The plants don’t look right, the air hums with electricity, and the birds have way too many eyes. This place evolved differently. Completely.

Which brings us to the awkward part.

Yeah... Jim’s not here. He never was.

In fact: There is no Jim.

I didn’t plan to be an explorer, alright? That was never the goal. But I’m the one who got pulled through the wormhole. And this whole time, this whole story, the “Jim” you’ve been hearing about?

That’s me.

I’ve been Jim. I just didn’t want to admit it until now.

You happy?

This isn’t what I signed up for. Not by a long shot. I didn’t ask to be yanked into some alternate dimension jungle where even the fruit comes with a disclaimer.

Granted, I will say this. I did manage to find something that might pass for edible. See, after hours of stumbling through oversized ferns and dodging vines that looked like they wanted to shake hands, I spotted one of the strange birds of this world.

These weren’t Earth birds. Picture a parrot, then stretch its neck like a periscope, paint it a flat black with stripes of glowing teal, and give it a set of wings that hum instead of flap, kind of like some kind of crazy hummingbird. Also, it had four legs. Like it couldn’t decide between being a bird or a cat and went with “yes.”

Anyway, it hopped right up to a low-hanging fruit, shaped like a cluster of jiggly grey grapes. The strange fruits were fused into a sort of jelly orb that wobbled at the slightest breeze. The bird gave it a few pecks, chirped something that sounded like a kazoo being strangled, and started eating. There was no death, spasms, or imploding. It finished its snack and zipped away, happy as a freaky little clam.

So, I marked that fruit down as “probably safe.”

Then I saw the other fruit.

This one was about the size of a softball, deep purple with pulsing green veins and little thorny ridges around its base. It looked juicy, almost tempting. Until another of those alien birds landed nearby and gave it a nibble.

Well, that was a big mistake.

The moment its beak touched the skin, the fruit split open like a trap. It clamped onto the bird’s face with rows of thorny teeth and started secreting this milky, acidic goo. The poor thing squawked, flailed, and then collapsed. The fruit just... absorbed it. Sucked the bird in and sealed back up like it had never opened in the first place.

Needless to say, that one is on my do-not-eat list.

So here I am, sitting in this weird border line psycho jungle with a handful of mystery grapes that haven’t tried to eat me yet. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Welcome to survival, alternate dimension edition.

Overall, in comparison to Earth Prime, at least, that’s what I’m going to call it. Yeah, I know. Sounds a little megalomaniac to assume that every alternate dimension Earth starts from mine, but it’s my story, Thank you Very much. So, it’s Earth Prime and my Earth is the starting pancake. Who’s going to argue with me? The jungle?

Didn’t think so.

Now, surviving in this place? That’s a whole other mess entirely. I’ve been trekking through this overgrown nightmare with nothing but instinct, and a few scraps of common sense.

The first creature I ran into looked like a gorilla stapled to a centipede. It had twelve legs, glowing red eyes, and a temper that made it allergic to pretty much anything breathing. I only got away because it was too big to fit between two massive tree trunks and got stuck long enough for me to slip past. I looked back and saw its backside wriggling helplessly, wedged between the trunks as it tried to free itself. Reminded me a bit of my ex, Margot. I won’t deny I laughed. I’m sorry, Margot, well Sort of.

Another time, I stumbled into a clearing filled with what I thought were giant flowers. Beautiful, glowing, swaying gently in the wind. I moved closer, thinking maybe, just maybe, I could catch some rest in the soft grass beneath them.

Turns out, they weren’t flowers. They were mouths. With tentacle-petal tongues. They snapped shut the moment I stepped near. Missed me by inches. One actually tried to crawl after me. Yes, crawl. Like a hungry daisy with abandonment issues.

Eventually, I got smarter. I watched the local wildlife, followed the smaller creatures that weren’t actively being eaten. Some of them resembled rabbits, if rabbits were made of glassy chitin and could camouflage themselves by blending into the moss. I started tracking them, learned which plants they nibbled, and gave those a shot.

I found a kind of blue-stemmed fern with leaves that tasted like licorice and didn’t try to strangle me afterward. Jackpot. I also managed to catch one of those rabbit-bug hybrids using a makeshift snare. Roasted it over a fire made from dried vine husks and slammed a few rocks together to make a spark. Definitely harder than the books make it seem. It smelled like burnt tires but tasted halfway decent.

So here I am, still alive, un-eaten, and Earth Prime’s least-qualified explorer making his mark in a world.

But hey... I’ve had worse Tuesdays at the Puddle House.

Finally, I found the perfect spot. A clearing right next to a stream. Flowing water, room to move, and, at least as far as I could tell, without a topographic map or any knowledge of the weather patterns, outside of a flood zone. That’s as scientific as I can get without my old lab coat, which I’ll remind you does not help you be more of a scientist.

It took some time, but I found a stone that could be chipped into something resembling a knife. And by “knife,” I mean a glorified rock shard that doesn’t seem to be able to cut butter. I wish I could tell you I was smart enough to carry one with me but come on, do I look like the type of guy who is on a television show eating bugs? I’m the kind of guy who once owned a science kit, got really good at baking soda volcanoes, and somehow stumbled his way into being one of the leading scientists left on Earth. So no, I didn’t bring a knife. Don’t judge me. I’m trying.

Anyway, with my totally-not-useless blade in hand, I started the slow, soul-sucking process of cutting down tree limbs to make a shelter. With something as sharp as a plastic spork I’ll remind you. It was well into the night by the time I finished, which, yeah, not my finest hour. You’d think someone with my credentials could handle basic survival stuff with style and grace. Turns out, I can’t.

The shelter I built? It’s awful. Honestly, a strong breeze could bring it down. Thankfully strong breezes don’t seem to happen often here. But it's standing, Kinda. Okay, listen It counts.

Here’s the thing that keeps tugging at me though. I haven’t seen any signs of other humans. No footprints, no half-burned campfires, not even a broken Coke bottle. Nothing. Am I the only one here?

Because if I am… well, this might be the start of something new. A fresh world, untouched by human hands. A blank canvas, A perfect paradise. You know, incase we want to ruin it all over again.

At this point, I’d been here a couple of days. Long enough to evolve my sad little shelter from “third-world shack” to “hey look, Ma, I built a fort!” I was proud, okay? It had four walls. Well, three and a leaning one, and it only leaked in most places. Progress.

Of course, I’m still pretty sure a centi-rilla could knock it over, yeah, that’s a centipede and a gorilla had a horrifying lovechild, you know Margot? Yup, ok good we’re back on track. That thing could knock it flat with one annoyed backhand. But hey, let’s just collectively hope it doesn’t come to that. Please.

I finally sat down to clear my head and make a game plan. I needed direction. Focus. A mission. I needed a little piece of Earth Prime to keep me grounded, even if Earth Prime had kicked me through a dimensional wormhole and left me dead.

So, I started to plan.

Not just plan, mind you, but build. I began drawing up where the different buildings would go. A lab over here, maybe a hydroponic farm near the stream, some housing pods up the ridge, and of course, a spot for the coffee bar. Priorities.

I even began to build. Little foundations, markers, frames made from bent branches and vines. Nothing crazy, but enough to feel real. I told myself it was preparation. For their arrival, you know when they got here.

Who’s “they”? I don’t know. The rescue team? Maybe future settlers? My imaginary science friends who live in my head now?

Either way, I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was preparing for civilization. Or madness. Possibly both.

It’s been twenty years.

Two whole decades in this place. No one ever came to find me. And, somewhere around six months in, right about the time I tried to make coffee out of moss, I realized the truth: the math that brought me here? It was mine.

My equations, calculations, and cosmic screw-up. It was all mine. I had scribbled the numbers that cracked reality on my arm, which was obviously with me now and no one else knew how I came up with them. It would take them a miracle to recreate it. And Earth Prime was a bit short on miracles these days.

So here I am, stuck alone, in paradise.

That’s the real twist. This world? It’s not some hellscape. No sulfur pits or screaming skies. Just... beauty. Endless jungle, clean water, bizarre fruit that only sometimes tries to eat you if you pick the wrong ones. It’s perfect.

Perfectly empty.

I assume the worst. Maybe Earth Prime is gone. Wiped out. Or perhaps the experiment blew the whole planet to bits and I’m the only leftover flake drifting in the cosmic wind. Last man standing in a world not meant for men.

And you know what? Maybe that’s for the best.

I’ve told myself that over the years. Said it out loud. Wrote it down even, on tree bark. Hundreds of entries. Journals carved into nature like a madman’s manifesto. Not that anyone’s going to read it. Not unless some future alien archaeologist shows up and decides my ramblings are sacred text.

I went full Castaway, by the way. Yeah, That stage hit me hard. I found a beetle, he was a big sucker, had on him a shiny shell and looked like he knew things. I named him Jim. Don’t judge me, it was all I could think of. I talked to him every day. He got yelled at when the roof collapsed. I blamed him when the traps didn’t catch anything. That time When I got sick off that one mushroom. Blamed him for that too.

I hate you, Jim.

But then again... Jim’s the reason I’m here, isn’t he?

I laughed at myself.

It came out rough. Hollow…dry, like my laugh was a ball I threw without anyone around to catch it.

The memory hit me like a book cover to the face. The Silent Towns. I must’ve read it a hundred times growing up. That story always stuck with me. A man alone, thinking he’s the last, until a crazy woman shows up and makes him wish he was. At this point? I think I’d take it. Crazy and all. Hell, I'd even take someone who talked too much about cats. Maybe.

But there’s no one coming, not anymore.

Jim’s long gone now. Yeah, Jim, The Beetle, you know my emotional support therapy-bug. My scapegoat. My only companion. One night, some odd snake-otter-like thing slipped through the gaps in the outer wall. Nasty little hybrid. Cute, if you ignored the extra eyelids and the whole “eats your friends” thing. Took Jim in one gulp. He didn't even have the courtesy to burp. Just slithered off like it hadn’t devoured my last tether to sanity.

Now it’s just me.

I sit on the porch of my house, if you could call it that. Took me ten years to get it this good. Bamboo, mudstone, vines twisted just right. Not bad for a scientist who once set his own microwave on fire reheating spaghetti.

My feet are kicked up. The breeze smells like citrus and cinnamon. I'm sipping tea I make from these purple leaves that only bloom after it rains, mixed with some sweet melon-fruit that drips sap like syrup. Tastes like those strange cool-aid packs and strangely mustard. I know, it’s an odd combination. But after a while you get less picky.

I lift the cup to the sky. No stars yet. Just the slow swirl of color this planet does when it starts to sleep.

“Here’s to humankind,” I say aloud. Just in case the sky's listening. “When you write about me. Just remember. I didn’t sign up for this.”

I raise the cup a little higher.

“Better luck next time.”

And I drink.