Not to Be Opened

"What would you put in a time capsule?" they asked her. "Not to be opened for a hundred years?"  

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People pressed forward, all wanting the first glimpse of the silver cylinder, as big as a post box, as the multi-limbed servitor robot lifted it out of the hole.

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She looked up at her third-grade teacher. "What should I put in?"

"Something you think the world needs to know about how we lived," said Mrs. Wilkinson.

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The servitor carried it through the crowd, holding it high so as many could see as possible. Camera drones floated silently, commentators narrating over the dozens of live feeds. Depositing the cannister in front of the mayor, the servitor waited for the order to open the sealed cannister.

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She thought of all the things she loved. Her mother and brother, dancing, the games she played on her computer, her best friend Mattie, roses.... A smile grew on her face.

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With the mayor's solemn nod, the servitor opened the time capsule and the drones peered in to give their viewers the first look. The mayor's serene look turned to horror. Gasps and screams rippled through the crowd.

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The future would really appreciate her brother, she decided.

It's Laundry Day

Jordan was folding her laundry when Death walked in. "Hey," said Death. "Uh, hey." Jordan put down her tank top. "Are you.... Am I about to die?"

"What? Oh, heck no." Death waved away her fear. "It's laundry day."

"And you... use my building's laundry?"

"I use whatever's convenient," Death said. Its mouth didn't move when it spoke.

"So, you were just in the neighborhood..."

"In the building, actually." Jordan froze, and Death noticed. "Mrs. Waylan in 4B."

"Oh God, Mrs. Waylan!"

"You were friends?"

"Um..." Jordan moued. "Not really."

"Yeah, she really didn't want to go. Tried to beg but just vomited. Whatever she ate, it really disagreed with her." Death looked down at its robe. "And I want to get it out before it stains. You still using the washer?" Jordan gestured it to go ahead. Death wriggled out of the robe, a skeleton stuffing a mass of black cloth into a washing machine.

Jordan filled her laundry basket and slowly walked from the basement. "Wait," Death said. She froze. "You got any spare quarters?"

"Here." Jordan reached out with her laundry card. "Just leave it, under, uh, wherever." She left as fast as she could without running.

Wake Up There

Harold woke up and reflexively felt for his battle pajamas. Soft and warm on the inside, bulletproof on the outside, they were securely on him. He was safe. For now, anyway. Harold's bed felt uncomfortable, and he saw that he'd woken up on a park bench. If someone would go to sleep there, he could wake up there, but he preferred those lucky mornings when he woke up in an unused hotel room. A scrabble on concrete surprised him, and in a fluid motion he rolled off the bench into a kneeling position and drew his pistol from the concealed holster in his pajamas. Some kind of mutt looked back at him. It snuffled on the ground and then loped off, uninterested in competing with this stranger.

Harold holstered. Everything around him looked like a city, but without any people. Pulling down a couple flaps changed the coloring on his pajamas and gave him a utility worker's appearance, but there was no one to convince. He walked for an hour before he found an open store. He had just enough Standard Chinese to learn he was someplace called Kangbashi.

Luckily, the clerk took dollars. Harold hoped he'd sleep again soon.

A Bit More Complicated

She noticed him sit across the table and reflexively smiled, then looked back to Arick next to her. He kept speaking, but she heard none of it. "Um, how's the food?" He cut into the middle of Arick's sentence, who quieted and looked at him. She closed her eyes and breathed deep.

"It's fine, Jerry," she said. She turned back to Arick, hoping Jerry would take the hint.

"Haven't seen you in a while." His eyes locked on hers, denying anyone else her attention.

"We're not together anymore, Jerry." She and Arick looked at each other helplessly.

"I remember," Jerry said. "I thought it was because you were gay." His unrelenting stare made her acutely aware of Arick beside her, his hand on hers.

"It was a bit more complicated—"

"Obviously," he said. "Or you wouldn't be here. With him."

Her eyes tightened. "Why are you being an asshole about this?"

"Because you lied to me! I thought that you needed—"

"No." Her tone stopped him dead. "Now I don't care. I'm not accountable to you. My sexuality isn't up for debate, and I never—" She shook her head. "I owe you nothing." They left him agape, watching them leave.

Jackie and the Cherry Picker

Jackie struggled under the weight of the wide-screen TV, working her way down to the pawn shop as her mother had commanded. The TV made it hard to see where she was going, so she wasn't surprised to be surprised by a man in a sharp suit. "That's a nice TV," the man said. "I could make you an offer."

Jackie set the wide-screen down, grateful for an excuse for a break. She scratched her head. "Mom said to take it to the pawn shop."

"Why pawn it for cash when you could trade it for something that could bring you real fortune?" He showed Jackie around the corner to a small cherry picker. "The tank is topped off. She's all ready to make you money washing windows, fixing street lights, whatever. Far more than you could get pawning it."

Eyes swimming with visions of riding the cherry picker up into wealth, Jackie shook on it and drove the cherry picker home. her mother was furious. It wasn't worth the dents it made in the dirt, she said, and she parked it out back and made Jackie skip out on the supper they couldn't afford.

The next morning, Jackie snuck out before her mother was awake and went for a ride in the basket, raising it as high as it could go. Only when she looked down and saw her mother's dilapidated roof far below did she realize she had gone higher than should've been possible.

Continuing up, the basket lifted her to the top of a skyscraper where she stepped off onto the balcony. "The CEO will be back any minute," cried the secretary. "Quick, hide in the executive washroom!" Jackie followed the secretary, but not before seeing a cadillac health plan resting on the CEO's desk.

"Dee, die, doh, dor," roared the voice of an older white man. "I smell the clothes of someone poor!" Jackie held the washroom door open a crack and saw a hundred-thousand-dollar suit burst in, wrapped around a wrinkly old man. "Is there a poor person here?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the secretary.

"Hmph. Fine. Take a letter." Hours later, after the work day had ended, Jackie slipped out and returned to the cherry picker, grabbing the cadillac health plan on her way. When her mother saw her coming down, she thrust the plan into her arms before she could yell. That night they had general check-ups for the first time in years.

The next morning, Jackie's mother sent her back up the cherry picker to see what else she could get. When she reached the balcony, Jackie saw the CEO meeting with three top executives. During a moment of high mercantile fervor, the secretary snuck her back into the washroom.

"Dee, die, doh, dor," boomed the CEO, "I smell the clothes of someone poor!" The top executives all nodded and agreed. "Is there a poor person here?"

"Oh, no, sir," said the secretary, taking notes.

Hours later, when the top executives had finished saying yes to the CEO and left, Jackie snuck back into the office and went through the CEO's desk while the man was loitering at his wet bar. She almost despaired at finding anything useful until she spotted a card labeled, "Politicians." Rushing away before the CEO turned, she slammed the lever on the cherry picker. The basket wobbled, but lowered her to the ground.

When her mother saw what she'd brought, they used their new politicians to vote for social assistance programs for the entire city.

Jackie eagerly went up in the basket the next morning. As soon as she stepped off the cherry picker, the CEO left his office and Jackie went in. "You don't have time," hissed the secretary. "He'll be back any second."

"Dee, die, doh, dor," boomed the CEO, "I see the face of someone poor!" He stepped back into the office. "Two someones, actually. You're fired," he said to the secretary. "Security will see you out. As for you, the police will be here shortly."

Jackie was quick. Grabbing the first valuable thing she saw, shining and gold, she ran for the cherry picker. The CEO ran after her. Both leapt into the basket, which wobbled dangerously, and they wrestled over the controls. The CEO tried to cut Jackie with a severance package, but missed because Jackie wasn't his employee. The razor-sharp edge hit the crane, sending the basket, CEO, and Jackie all plummeting to earth.

The CEO laughed and fell in comfort, not knowing that Jackie had, in her haste, grabbed the CEO's golden parachute. The safety net billowed open, giving the CEO a scant second to realize his fate before liquifying his assets on the pavement. Jackie, on the other hand, landed gently with hundreds of millions of dollars and generous stock options.

In the chaos that followed, no one at the company had time to pursue Jackie or her mother, so busy were they scrambling for the top position. They even forgot to fire the secretary.

Jackie now owns a fleet of cherry pickers and a national window-washing chain. She primarily employs minorities in part-time positions that allow her to avoid paying benefits.

The Enemy of Beauty

The early morning fog drifted lazily between the trees. Tetyana paused for a photo as she bicycled to work. "What a beautiful fog," she said. Wind breathed through the mists, which swirled as though preening. As she biked on, the mist filled the streets behind her. She cycled faster, but in the time it took her to lock up her bike at work, fog had filled the parking lot. It spun and whorled as though hidden creatures danced just inside the mist's concealing embrace.

Tetyana hastened into the hospital, and the mist followed. Others gasped as it crept along behind her. But whenever she looked, the fog danced as though caught in a breeze.

Despite her haste and closed doors, she couldn't lose the fog. It found her in the changing room, in her office, and as she made her rounds. When it followed her into surgery, she snapped at it.

"Vanity is the enemy of beauty," she said. "When you demand attention, I cannot see your beauty. If you stop following me, I promise to visit you each morning and watch you dance. Okay?"

The fog was unnaturally still, then receded. Each morning thereafter, the fog danced for her.

Allergic to French

"Oh, no, I couldn't see Hamilton," Lana said. "I'd just have a reaction." "Yeah, I hear it's pretty intense," said Caleb.

"Not that. I'm allergic to French. Couldn't even go near that other French musical."

"Les—"

"Don't say it!"

"You can't really be allergic to a language."

"Tell that to the hives that break out whenever I hear it."

"I mean, it's just impossible. There's nothing to trigger a histamine response."

"Don't know what to tell you." Lana shrugged.

"It's gotta be psychosomatic. Have you seen a therapist?"

"Who sees a therapist over allergies?"

"People with fake allergies?" Caleb got a nasty look for that. "Okay, what about all the French cognates in  English?"

"No effect. I figure I've built up immunity."

"That's not... wait. Have you ever tried taking anti-histamines then listening to French?"

"No?"

"I'm sure it'll work." He handed her a couple from his supply. "Fifteen minutes, and we'll test you on some French."

"I thought you didn't believe I was allergic." She looked suspicious.

"Hey, either I'm wrong and this helps, or I'm right and this does nothing." She rolled her eyes but took the pills. Fifteen minutes later he interrupted her with "excusez-moi."

She sneezed.