Mark McKee is from the American south. In his spare time he collects nervous breakdowns. His work has appeared in theNewerYork, Literary Orphans, and others. You can find him at goodreads.com/markmckeejr.
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.