Phil's Remarkable Voyage

The little robot couldn't believe it. $20,000 for the best story, and it could all be his. Phil had never written a story before, nor could he even speak sounds other than "beep" and "boop," but that would not deter him. Just think how many Lego sets he could afford, how many things he could build. He hadn't entirely been sure how much that money that was, but Phil figured he was a whiz at counting his little studded toes and would therefore find it easy to calculate. A big number for such a tiny robot. There are usually only so many things a little robot could need, but in such a big and costly world it would afford him just about anything he wanted. He wanted one thing above all else: the parts to build a robot friend. Many of them.

Phil was determined to be a professional for his entry. He had saved up enough allowance to get himself a little black journal at the bookstore, one that he could comfortably scribe his story in at his 3 and a half inch height. For hours upon hours at the nearby coffee shop he wrote as many big words as he knew. Phil was a writing machine (literally), using a very small pencil sharpened many times over to jot down his imaginations, his world views, his experiences. The Moleskine journal was becoming packed with Phil's soul, a harmony of inspiration and dedication that would, at the very least, fortify a belief in himself that he could truly achieve anything. His little cup of coffee was refilled many times during the arduous creative process. A wonderful feeling elated his plastic heart as he sipped his caffeine and added to his entry, and it was something he would now forever know as confidence and self appreciation, a new sensation that overwhelmed him with every new word written. Frantically running across each page as he scribbled, filling in passage after passage, he finally stepped back to admire his work and assessed any changes he may need to make. There were none. It was perfect to him, and he was more proud of himself than he ever had been before.

"Beep" and "boop" was written. Over and over and over again, only in different configurations of combinations. "Beep beep boop." "Boop beep boop beep." To anyone not fluent in Phil this would seem a confusing mess, but to Phil? If he could cry, tears of pride would glisten from his googly ocular sensors. This journal was the vessel that contained the entire essence of Phil. He closed the journal and attempted to drag it behind him as he walked out of the coffee shop. It was surprisingly heavy for him, which was not good in a very big world like this. Hailing for Ubers was difficult enough, but now he had a whole book to take with him everywhere, and there was simply no way to carry it up into the car with him. He was too proud of himself in general to ask for assistance, though many people may surely have offered it. Phil tried to think of a good way to bring his journal home, where it could be translated by his creator and submitted for entry. Hmm, it HAD been raining that whole day, and home was simply down the street...

Phil was a creative little fellow, and a very adventurous soul. He made his way back into the coffee shop, finding as many different scraps as he could muster; a straw here, a cup lid there, many stirring sticks that had spilled from the counter onto the floor, some rubber bands he "borrowed" from an office worker sitting at the next table, and a fine recycled napkin. He piled them on top of the journal and got to work assembling his ride home. The sticks were nailed through the straw and had the journal's binding wrapped around them, securing it in place and creating a mast. The coffee cup lid made for a lovely crow's nest at the top. He stitched the napkin with the rubber bands and thread the rubber bands to the straw, assembling a marvelous sail. More stirring sticks were crafted into a rudder that he could steer the journal with, and if that failed his pencil could be used like an oar. Hour after hour passed, and the coffee shop was about to close. Only 5 minutes short of closing time, Phil crafted his story into something more than just a contest entry; this was now a magnificent ship, like a Moleskine galleon which carried his treasured aspirations and Phil himself.

He toiled with pulling his ship with him out the door. It was dark out now, but that was probably a good thing. Less cars on the road, less danger. Phil prepared for the voyage ahead by dragging the boat into the rain-kissed street, finding a sizable river along the side of the curb that went straight downhill towards where he lived. After donning his captain's hat made partly out of the napkin he used as his sail, Phil pushed the boat into the water, boarded the vessel and made ready that grand voyage that many brave adventurers boast of. He set a course for home and made great time careening down the road, as surprisingly quick a sloop as the SS. Beep Boop was. Phil had never driven a boat in his life, but before that day he had never written a life-changing contest entry either, and at this point he was confident in himself. The sail caught no air, though it was merely more of an aesthetic choice than a practical one. He used his pencil to row through the congested channels. The rudder did a fantastic job preventing the whole craft from dashing into the dry parts of the street. This looked to be a success through and through, though one thing looked out of place in what would otherwise be literal smooth sailing: Through the darkness, Phil could spot a drain.

Panicking, Phil attempted to steer hard left. He'd rather crash his ship on the dry pavement and risk getting run over than lose all his efforts to the sewers below. He pulled too hard in a panic, causing the rudder handle to snap off. Shrill robotic shrieks of terror emanated from Phil as he looked around for a new solution. He tried to jam the pencil into the water and attempted to slow everything down, but he held too hard and cracked off a bit of his tiny grabby hand, causing the pencil to drift down the rapids. As a last ditch effort, he jumped from the bow of the ship and did his best to slow the craft down before it could reach the drain. He grabbed the journal binder and tied it around his waist, causing the mast to fall off and get washed away. Jumping from the bow of the ship, Phil stuck his legs out and braced for the friction. The entire weight of the craft was behind him now, and he spread his arms outward to hold as much as he could while his little studded feet did their best to grind everything to a halt. He went for a few more feet before catching a crack with his foot, spinning everything backwards with him now holding the binding around his waist like a tug-of-war rope. Pulling with every bit of power he had in him, Phil yanked the string and arched his back. Just a mere 16 inches away was the roaring drain, and before it was a fully stopped story boat. He managed to swing the ship over onto a shallow part of the street, causing it to get beached. A robot had never known peril to such a degree until this day.

Trudging out of the street, dripping with dirty rain water, came Phil and his sloop. A lot of the pages had been drenched, his favorite pencil was gone, and he was nearly bankrupt of energy. Dragging his journal across the pavement, Phil made his way back home, which was now in view. He hopped the curb, struggling to pull the book up with him but managing just well enough to make it. After half an hour of tugging and toiling, the robot was overcome with fatigue. He fell flat on his face just outside the front door, collapsing in a state of utter exhaustion. As he lay on the front step he flipped over and looked into the cloudy night sky, hoping it would have all been worth it, but now doubting any of the pages survived. His feet were brittle and chipped from the friction, and his broken hand throbbed with ache. Defeated, drenched and destitute, he fell asleep and dreamed of all those robot friends he could have built, if only he would have won.

Phil awoke the next morning in his bed, dried off and warm. His creator Robert had brought him inside and tucked him in after much needed repair, and he was given new feet and a brand new hand. He stumbled out, still weary but fearful that maybe all his work had been lost and that Robert might have thought his journal was some washed up garbage. Oh no! Phil bolted out of his room and went looking for Robert, who at this moment was on his computer, reading through the Moleskine book and typing every "beep" and "boop" down on the screen. A massive sigh of relief came from Phil, which drew Robert's attention. He got out of his chair, picking up Phil and placing him on the desk next to him to watch as the tale was rewritten in full on the massive monitor. After some creative liberties and many, many translations later, Phil saw that it was all good and had his weary seal of approval. Phil hugged his maker tightly in joy, and all things were once again possible. Together they submitted the entry, and together they waited. Phil went to work counting his new toes, all four of them, until the day would arrive when his work would be judged.

Every passing day felt like it was made of glue. Phil had been checking his email time and time again for what felt like months, but truly it was only minutes ago. It was difficult to wait for approval, but he knew it had to be done in order to be a professional, which is what he felt like. At night he would dream of building friends, and during the day he would count his toes. It wasn't until the very moment he had not been paying attention until the ding of the email notifier went off. It was from the website. Phil had been told not to get his hopes too high by Robert in the event he lost, but that was not the case today. He did it! Phil danced to an orchestra that played in his head endlessly, his robot soul lifted as he thought of the astronomical wealth he had just won. Everything had lead up to this day, Phil's day, and nothing would ever compare again. After receiving his reward the few days after, the next step was clear: buy those pieces, assemble those friends. Hundreds of similar Phils and Philippas, all of them just as silly and wonderful as himself. The days passed and the ones ahead looked promising as he built and built and built. Brick after brick, plate after plate, toe after toe, until at last a massive population was conceived. As they all danced and beeped and booped with each other Phil felt a satisfaction sweep over him that couldn't be diffused.

Unfortunately for Robert, now he had hundreds of tiny mouths to feed.