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Futures 

Mark McKee

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I stole my brother’s future and put it in my pocket. My brother reached, snagged the edge. My pocket began to rip. “Look what you did,” I said. My brother tugged harder. My future, once his, spilled out onto the linoleum floor and ran like a raw egg. I saw my children, once his, turn into iridescent yokes. My wife, once his, raged in two dimensions, her illuminated hair melding with a spiral in the linoleum. With the edge of my sneaker I nudged the ruins toward my brother. “Here,” I said. “It’s all yours.” And then I ran to the playroom to find my sister.