Short Stories

Things are documents of their time. Things can be reinterpreted in the present. Things can acquire a new meaning in the future, but the future can only be built on the remains of the past.   When I was eight years old, our class placed things into an airtight container, a time capsule, my teacher called it. We buried it within our school grounds. I contributed some drawings and my favourite eraser. The idea that people would come across our time capsule one day, perhaps hundreds of years into the future, impressed me deeply.  Soon after, our school closed to accommodate a nursing home. It was built directly over the time capsule burial site. As far as I'm aware, the time capsule remains buried on the hill slope where I used to play kiss chasey.  My siblings and I had to transfer to another school.  Growing up, I would read to my sister and brother from the Harver Junior World Encyclopedia Set from 1971. We would flip through the pages and venture to exotic places. When it was time

She balanced herself on the bridge railing that connected the car park to the shopping mall. Her long skirt billowed out around her. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon. Alison and I walked towards her, towards the bridge. What was she doing? A balding man approached us. Don’t get too close. I think she’s going to jump. Oh. Fuck. He edged his way forward. I didn’t hear what he said to her. She looked down. She looked in our direction. She was young; she was our age.  Don’t. Please don’t. I couldn’t read her expression. She appeared calm. Her dark hair was blowing around her face. I thought, for a moment, she was a performer. I closed my eyes then she disappeared. The balding man’s face turned scarlet red. No. No. He asked us if we were OK. I heard someone scream in the distance. Don’t look. Don’t. She was lying in the fetal position, fast asleep in the middle of the street. I don’t know if she survived the fall. Tears pricked my eyes. Alison’s mouth was hanging open. I gripped her han