Small. Brightly colored. Deadly to the touch.
My husband is building a spacecraft in our garage.
An actual spacecraft from RYMDFARTYG, IKEA’s troubled cousin. Seventeen flat-pack boxes. 847 steps. The neighbor’s dog won’t stop barking at it. Sometimes screws hover before settling.
Six months now.
“Does the spacecraft frighten you?” our therapist asked.
I thought about the mortgage we can’t pay, the rotting gutters, the dying water heater. How he measures twice, cuts once. Teaches himself orbital mechanics while I Google whether despair has a return policy.
“No,” I said. Meant it.
What bothers me is believing it might work. Love makes you complicit in impossible things. Makes you hold the spirit level steady while he bolts hull plating. Makes you memorize fuel mixtures for a planet you’ll never leave.
Last night he showed me the flight plan, his thumb silvered with graphite: hand-drawn constellations, my name already in the co-pilot slot. Two seats. Six months’ provisions. A route past the asteroid belt, looping home if we’re lucky.
“Will you come?” he asked.
Inside, this man who measures twice, cuts once, who built me an exit from particle board and faith.
I looked at the spacecraft. At the second seat. At Earth.
My answer was always yes.
DARRYL J. BENJAMIN — Darryl’s work has appeared in The Missouri Review BLAST and is forthcoming in Astrolabe. “The Art of Falling Water” was a finalist for The Missouri Review 2025 Editors’ Prize, and “Step 3: Insert Hope Mechanism” was longlisted for the SmokeLong Grand Micro Contest. He is also the author of Farm to Table: The Essential Guide to Sustainable Food Systems, published by Chelsea Green.
Art by ALAINA HAMMOND — Alaina is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Four of her flash fiction stories were nominated for the Pushcart Prize, all in 2025. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.