My knobs go on forever…

My January critique group homework

There’s a joke in my critique group that one person said the knobs in her car that control the heat and AC don’t have a stopping point. They just keep turning and turning. We’ve tossed around the phrase “My knobs go on forever…” for a few months, and it’s finally made it to our homework prompt.

For homework we set a 500-word limit, and I really try to hit that without going over. Less is okay, but not over. The original draft of this story was 547 words. It’s a fun challenge to tweak phrases, massage meaning, and streamline thoughts to narrow it down to that limit (excluding the title).

I can’t wait to see how everyone else will have completed the assignment tonight. I’m confident that at least one person will take this in a more libidinous direction.

What would you do with 500 words on “My knobs go on forever?”

---

Cinder

The heat death of the universe began on a blindingly bright Thursday in January when the projected high temperature for middle Wisconsin topped out at -5F, before windchill. Gwen’s breath formed swirling white clouds despite being more than 30 minutes into her commute. The Civic’s heater wasn’t doing dick to warm up the car, and she cursed whichever corporate dipshit decided everyone should be in the office three days a week.

“There’s nothing I’m doing in the office I can’t do from the comfort of my bed,” she said through chattering teeth.

The car in front of her moved three inches before stopping again. Gwen didn’t bother shifting her foot on the brake.

Out of frustration, she turned the knob on the heater again. She knew it was pointless, but the knobs went on forever, turning and turning endlessly, so it made her feel better to give it a twist. Idly, she reached down and spun it to the right again, staring daggers at the white station wagon in front of her.

“More like big salty box,” she muttered, at the license plate BGWHTBX.

Her aging sedan shuddered, and a spike of fear pierced her heart.

“No, no, no! Don’t die! I’m sorry! Just five more miles, please.”

The engine settled. Heart still hammering, it took Gwen a moment to notice she couldn’t see her breath anymore. In fact, she felt warmth blowing from the vent. She stripped off a thick glove and held the numb fingers of her left hand before the little plastic grille. Her eyes widened in amazement, and she reached down to turn the knob again. The air blowing from the vent went from warm to actually hot. It was a miracle!

Unnoticed by Gwen, and perhaps loosened by the heat now pumping into the car, the knob kept going, turning slowly at first before picking up speed. The heat pouring out of the vents climbed higher and higher, the plastic starting to sag.

“Phew,” Gwen breathed, unzipping her coat. Sweat plastered her shirt to her back, the straps of her bra becoming itchy and uncomfortable. “That’s enough of that.”

She reached for the knob with her still gloved hand, and the charcoal-colored plastic smushed and popped off. The molten polymers embedded themselves in the fibers of her glove and she ripped it off as it singed her finger tips.

A moment later, the engine burst, and Gwen’s car became a miniature sun in the middle of I90. The Big White Box’s driver caught the briefest flash in the rearview mirror before it expanded and engulfed their car. The all-consuming supernova spread faster by the second.

Distantly, 22 minutes away, Martians had a fleeting window in which to board their ships and seek safety elsewhere. They didn’t make it. One after another, civilizations fled, only to be caught in the unstoppable heatwave. As the fire eventually died and everything was gone, all that remained of the universe was a charred Honda emblem floating in the void.