The backhoe hit something solid. The road workers grumbled to a stop and stared at the great metallic wings among the fossilized shells.

Terrified by what I’d built, I drowned my robot in the creek behind the house. At night, he returned. Said I never gave him lungs.

Just north of the border, traffic came to a stop. She practiced her smile, took his hand off her leg and put it back in the glovebox.

“Fox!” the boy called with little interest. He missed the days before budget cuts and downsizing when he had been the boy who cried wolf.

No way this thing should be able to fly. I mean who makes their own helicopters? I glance down at the ground and wish I’d learned to land.

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These are originally posted on Twitter (@jdbrush). I’m trying to do one per day this month.