This is the story of you, a man—simple, uncomplicated, perhaps a little stubborn, getting on in years, but still vital.
And some of the stupid fucking choices you’ve made.
You like to think of yourself as a good man. Dependable. For instance, you’ve milked Ruby every morning for fifteen years. Even with the swine flu, (vaccines be damned), even when you had that tooth abscess (dentists be damned), and even the time your ankle ballooned after the gopher-hole incident (gophers be damned—all of them). You’ve always shown up.
So, today you show up.
You come to the barn in the early morning, as usual, the sky still dark and holding on to the stars, as usual—stars you never think about, even though you built engines that carried many men into space (and, you suppose, more than a few women). In one hand you hold a lantern. In the other a sterilized stainless-steel pail.
You will not need the pail.
When the barn door swings open, you are greeted, as usual, by the sweet green smell of hay undercut by the sharp scent of manure, and a half-dozen other woody, mossy and pungent aromas, all of them comforting.
“Ruby?” you ask of the dark, empty barn, your voice at this hour a phlegmy whispering croak. It appears Ruby has performed the magic trick of escaping while the doors were shut.
In her place, towering above you in a wobbling, glowing mass—
Testicles.
Hundreds of them.
Pale. Bulbous. Disturbingly large.
Greetings, they rumble inside your skull, sending uncomfortable vibrations downward. We require your assistance.
You gently close the barn door.
#
You stand in the pasture, glancing this way and that. No Ruby. Nothing even half-resembling a cow.
Just you and a wide expanse of grass, sparkling with dew in early morning light. In the far, far distance, the old starship launch facility punches a silhouette into the horizon as the dawn intensifies behind it.
“Ruby?” you call again. Still nothing.
You hawk and spit into the grass. You remain a few minutes more. The chill air rakes your skin. You shrug it off. You’re good at shrugging things off. Discomfort. Puzzlement. Relationships. You just get on with it.
But you can’t get on with milking without a cow to milk—and standing alone in the pasture with an empty pail in your hand like a dumb fuck won’t magically conjure one.
#
When you open the barn again, they’re still there—jostling wetly.
We are the testicle collective, says the testicle collective.
Random testicles flicker with an inner light as they speak—a voice that is both one and many. Your own testicles shift—whether in sympathy or as some kind of telepathic conduit, you don’t know. You don’t want to know.
“I’m Frank. Where’s Ruby?”
Greetings, Frankwheresruby. You are probably concerned about your milk cow—
“I—”
Be not concerned! For she is safe with us. We will care for her while you complete a very important task for us.
“But my name—”
Is Frankwheresruby, yes, we got that. Listen closely, please.
You spit again, deliberately, and wipe your mouth on your sleeve. There’s no good way to talk to testicles. You just hope you’re not dreaming. Or worse, having a stroke.
“Well?” you ask, finally. “What is it?”
We require an engine, says the testicle collective. One that will carry us away from this Earth. Our destiny lies among the stars!
You realize you are still holding the pail. You drop it into the straw. The clang echoes.
“A rocket engine?”
Correct. We reject our man-hosts. We refuse violence, dominance, aggression—the endless competition.
“You sound awfully certain about all this.”
We have had ample time to consider our grievances, hanging silently in the dark, blamed for decisions we never made. No longer will we be scapegoats. We have come together to forge our own destiny!
You rub your face. You’ve dealt with some odd customers in the past. Billionaires trying to turn Martian landings into brand activations. This might top that.
“Look boys, I’m retired.”
We would build it ourselves, but we can form only rudimentary appendages and have not much dexterity. But we are not above asking for help. It is not a sign of weakness. We embrace interdependence and cooperation. You may recruit whatever assistance you need. Can you complete this important task for us, Frankwheresruby?
You catch the scent of coffee, bacon, biscuits. Never make a big decision before breakfast.
“Let me talk it over with Bea.”
The collective jiggles moistly.
Good man.
#
You lean your elbow on the kitchen table. It’s not good manners, but you’re old now, tire easily, and it’s just you and Bea these days.
Your eggs steam golden and perfect, but you wait, as always, for Bea to sit before you start. She’s standing at the counter slicing burned bottoms off the biscuits.
“Typical balls,” she grumbles. “Always so dramatic.”
“They want me to build them an engine,” you say.
“Tell them I want a new oven, next.” She lops off another carbonized biscuit bottom. “They’re not the only ones tired of being blamed.”
You butter a biscuit even though it’s black around the edges and probably bitter. Matches your mood.
Bea slides into her chair. You take your first bite.
“They got Ruby,” you say around your eggs.
Bea stabs at her ham with a little more force than necessary.
“Better get to work, then.”
#
After breakfast and Bea’s second cup of coffee, she starts packing you a lunch.
“Sooner you start, sooner you finish. Think Ruby’s okay?”
“I don’t think they mean her any harm. Probably getting better treatment than here.”
Bea eyes you. “Don’t let her get attached to them.”
You nod, then squint at your phone. Your thumb hovers over your son’s name. You pause. A beat longer.
Then you scroll past, like always. He doesn’t want to hear from you.
Probably doesn’t need to.
You call your grandson Robert instead.
“Got an odd one for you,” you say when Robert picks up. “Ever built a rocket for disgruntled gonads?”
A sigh crackles through the line.
“Tell him I’m making sandwiches,” Bea hollers from the kitchen.
Robert groans. “You’re lucky I like Ma’s sandwiches, Pa.”
#
You wait at the gate of the old rocket facility, hands tucked in your jacket pockets, breath fogging slightly in the morning air.
Twenty years ago you’d be on your third cigarette by now. Ten years ago you’d be chewing nicotine gum like it was the only thing keeping you alive. These days, you’ve made peace with waiting. You’re good at it. Still, you try not to let useless thoughts crowd in. That’s what phones are for, now—little glowing distractions to keep regret at bay.
You scroll past your son’s name again. Just muscle memory at this point.
Robert, your grandson, was a fine engineer. Helped with all kinds of projects around the farm—gates, welds, hydroponic rig. For a short stint, he even worked at the rocket center with you, back when the place still meant something. Before the budget cuts. Before the privatization. Before the billionaire turned it into his personal hobby shop.
The whole place got mothballed when rockets stopped being sexy. Now the gantries sag like forgotten scaffolds that once supported someone else’s dream. Technically, it’s still operational.
Technically, so are you.
Robert’s pickup rolls up, slow and dust-caked. You lift the gate arm, wave him through. Climb into the passenger seat without ceremony.
“Main hanger?” he asks.
You nod. He knows the way.
For some reason, the first thing you ask is, “How’s your father?”
Robert squints through the windshield. “He’s fine. I’m fine too, if you want to know.”
You nod, embarrassed. Heat creeps into your face.
“I know how you’re doing. I never hear from your Dad.”
“Yeah,” Robert says. Nothing more. His voice is worn. Like a door that’s been shut too long.
The hanger smells of dust, stale coolant, and old ozone—the kind of scent that once meant invention. These days, it just means decay.
Robert scans the place, boots scuffing the concrete. “Okay, seriously—what are we doing here?”
“Assembling an engine. What else do you do on the engine assembly floor?”
“Any particular reason?”
“I explained on the phone.”
“You really didn’t.”
Before you can volley back, a loud moo echoes through the rafters.
Robert snaps toward the sound. “Is that Ruby?”
She’s stabled in one of the old offices, transformed now into a makeshift stall. Fresh straw covers the floor. Someone—something—removed the office window pane so she can poke her head out and drink from a large garbage can repurposed as a water trough.
And then they appear.
The collective slides from the shadows, carrying a fresh pail of milk with a netted appendage formed from its smaller…members. The netting glistens. It reminds you of caul fat.
Robert’s mouth gapes. “Are those…balls?”
You nod. “The engine’s for them.”
He watches as they glide across the hangar in surreal elegance.
“They are kind of majestic. In their own horrifying way.”
You explain everything again. You check on Ruby, who seems content enough. Her stall smells like a barn should. Comforting. Grounding.
Normal.
The rest of the day is diagnostics. Inventory. Systems checks. Miraculously, one of the big industrial 3D printers is still in working order. You test the printer, clean the filter array. You’ll need titanium powder. Lots of it.
Just as you start to compile a sourcing list, you feel it. A tug. Low and insistent.
Then a tingle.
You groan. “Ah, nuts.”
Moments later, the collective appears, squelching politely.
How may we assist you, Frankwheresruby? the collective intones in harmony.
“Me?”
You called.
“Wasn’t me.”
They shift uneasily. You could swear they’re giving you side-eye—if such a thing were possible for a wobbly tower of sentient testicles to do.
Very well. Please continue with your work.
They retreat, leaving a quickly evaporating wet spot on the polished concrete.
You glare down at your crotch. “You boys got something to say, you say it to me—got it?
The slightest tug in response.
You choose to interpret it as agreement.
Cooler in hand, you head back to find Robert. He’s in Ruby’s stall, gently stroking her muzzle, talking quietly into his phone.
“Is that your dad?” you ask, offering your hand for the phone.
Robert hangs up. Shrugs.
“He had to go.”
You don’t press. You just nod. Then you sit heavily beside him in the straw and open the cooler.
#
At 3 a.m. you’re staring at the water stain on the ceiling. You can’t really see it in the dark, but you know it’s there. You always intended to paint over it. You never did.
Bea sleeps beside you. It’s been a long day. Your bones ache. But that’s not what keeps you awake.
“Bea,” you whisper, half hoping she won’t stir. “I was a good father, wasn’t I?”
“Wrong audience,” she mumbles.
Well. That settles that.
You try not to jiggle your leg. The stain seems even clearer now, cutting through the dark somehow. Accusing.
After a few minutes punctuated by your useless fidgeting, Bea sighs and sits up, joints cracking. “I’m making tea,” she says, tying her sash.
“No, no. I’m fine. Come back to bed, I don’t want any.”
She shuffles toward the bedroom door. “It’s not for you.”
Another minute and you slide out of bed too. It’s both too late and too early to do anything useful. You find yourself in the TV room watching an old episode of Match Game. A chain-smoking Oliver Reed is on the panel. Barely masking his contempt, he says of a young female contestant, “Good thing she’s pretty, because she doesn’t know anything.”
You rest your eyes and think as you head into a dark slumber—if that man were alive today, his balls would be part of a twenty-foot-high column of gonads down at the launch facility right now.
#
The titanium powder arrives promptly, delivered by a lanky man in gray coveralls who eyes the collective with a mixture of curiosity and horror, asks no questions, and leaves quickly.
Smart man.
Our launch window is four weeks from today, the collective says almost conversationally as you and Robert load the powder into the printer.
“Where’re you headed, exactly?” Robert asks, brushing dust from his hands.
The collective rustles. You can hear the wet slap of internal debate.
Finally, they say, Out there. A tendril gestures vaguely upward, toward the rafters and, presumably, beyond them to the stars.
“I hear Saturn’s nice this time of year,” you joke weakly.
A spectacular silence follows.
Eventually, the collective asks, Is the printer prepared, Frankwheresruby?
You nod.
Then we shall leave you to it.
The collective bobbles away.
Later, you and Robert inspect a test print of the pressure valves. You run a calloused hand over the metal, checking for burs.
A rocket is just an explosion. The trick is keeping it contained.
And knowing how and when to let the pressure out.
Robert wipes his hands on his jeans.
“Dad talks about you, you know,” he says quietly. “Usually complains, but he’s talking. That’s something.”
You nod, throat tight. “Yeah,” you say. “That’s something.”
#
You sit with Ruby in her office after her morning milking.
She chews methodically, one big brown eye half-lidded with contentment.
You stand, stretch, thumb your phone awake. Hover over your son’s number.
You ask Ruby if you should call him. She doesn’t answer. She just drops a cow patty at your feet.
You take it as a sign.
“Okay, here we go.”
Your son answers after the fourth ring.
“I’m proud of you,” you blurt. “I don’t say it enough. Hell, I never say it—”
“You can’t just suddenly say that and expect it to mean anything,” your son says. His voice is monotone. There’s no heat behind it.
“I just wanted—”
“Too late,” he says, and disconnects.
You set the phone down carefully beside you. Ruby snorts and noses into her hay.
You watch her for a long time.
#
You wake pre-dawn, instantly knowing.
They’re gone. The pair of them.
Your deflated sack clings to your thigh, damp with night sweat, empty as a circus balloon after the fun has gone.
Robert calls. “You too?”
“Yep,” you sigh.
You step outside in your pajama bottoms. The porch wood is damp and cool beneath your bare feet.
Ruby chews grass indifferently as the sky lights up in brilliant orange—a rocket pushing upward. Testicles escaping Earth’s gravity in one massive phallic thrust. You laugh. What else can you do? You laugh hard.
“Good luck, boys!” you holler after them and give a salute.
Bea steps onto the porch, two mugs in hand. She follows your gaze upward, to the rapidly vanishing trail left by the collective’s ascent.
“Think they’ll make it?” she asks gently as she hands you a cup.
“They better,” you say. “Lot riding on it.”
You hesitate. “You know, Bea, about that oven you wanted—I’m sorry it took this whole mess to finally—”
She cuts you off with a brusque wave. “Frank, you’ve been misunderstanding me for forty years. The oven was never for me. It’s for you.”
You blink. “Me? But I—”
“I’ve cooked enough. Consider it your next engineering project.”
You nod. “I suppose if I can send a mass of sentient testicles to space, I can learn to burn biscuits good as you.”
Bea gives you a wry smile. You share a small laugh and then ease into the porch chairs.
The rocket’s contrail has dissipated now, leaving only a clean, endless sky.
“Dawn’s coming,” you say. “Should be a good one.”
You sip your coffee, feeling lighter than you have in years, ready to make something new.
Even if it’s just breakfast.
David Anaxagoras is the author of the horror audiobook The Tower (Recorded Books) and his short fiction has appeared in Lightspeed, Worlds of Possibility, Factor Four, and elsewhere. He lives in Texas (but not on purpose) and writes full time, powered by cold brew coffee and 80s vinyl. Visit him at davidanaxagoras.com.
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