Recess whistles and basketball hoop rattles do nothing to hinder my carving of clairvoyant contraptions in the dirt. Using handfuls of gravel and playground mulch, I sculpt a weary patch of earth behind the monkey bars into organic shapes resembling analog clocks.
A shadow drifts over my handiwork. “What’s it do?”
Your bug-bite-swollen ankles stroll into view. My gaze trails upward, taking in your bandaged scrapes and gold star stickers. I’m surprised you aren’t busy hogging the swing set with your light-up-sneakers posse.
“It sees into the future.” I point to a jump rope splayed in the grass. “Sit on that line there.”
You sit crisscross in the weeds, watching me push stone buttons and turn twig dials. At first glance, you’re still folding knots into clover stems. Only when I scrunch my eyes shut and sift through a subsequent plane of existence does your fate unfold.
You’ll be the first to hit puberty. Your friends won’t act as loyal as they preach. You’ll seek wrong sources of comfort. You’ll drink yourself stupid and try to kiss me at prom. Four others, too. Your name will circulate through the hallways as whispers. Your “gap year” won’t have a definitive ending. You’ll travel the country and vlog your independence. Among thousands of followers, none of this support will come from your parents. You’ll hop into cars of strangers and wake in places you won’t know the names of. Nobody will know yours. You’ll barely know yourself.
The rest is hazy. What reels us back is your voice, soft and hoarse through gaps in your baby teeth.
“Did it work?”
I blink, registering the crescents of grime formed under my nails. My fingers twitch.
“No.”
With one swipe of the hand, I scrape the time machine into the grass.
Bethany Cutkomp is a writer of surreal and existential works from St. Louis, Missouri. Her writing appears in Stanchion, trampset, HAD, Ghost Parachute, The Hooghly Review, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.
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