I Guess I'll Send Myself a Fruit Basket

by Sonja Nitschke


The old scientist wired the machine to go to the past only. “But I
want to get my hover car,” I said.

His jaw gaped. “Why? The future isn't written yet!” He jabbed his
finger against my sternum. “Thou art god! Only you write the future!”

I leaned close. “I'm not a goddamn rocket scientist.”