A Grammarian Returns from the Future

by Richie Narvaez

PANTING, she steps out of the chronal chamber.
''It's horrible,'' she screams. ''In the future,
there are no hyphens. Everyone talks as if he or she
were a rap star. The President of the United States
is an idiot, and you can't feel the Sun.

''How far ahead did you send me?'' she asks,
almost afaint, her reedy fingers trembling.
I don't have the heart to tell her.
It's the tech guy who speaks up, laughing:
''Three months.''

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