When we were seven years old, Dave bought a levitation charm from the candy store on our street. I was a nickel short, so I got a sour gobstopper instead. He hovered a few inches off the sidewalk and I rolled the gobstopper around in my mouth as we walked in the afternoon sun.
This would be the part of the movie where I say, “I love you,” and it wouldn’t matter that we’re soaked through from the rain because your eyes are telling me that you love me too, that you’ve loved me since the moment we first met and you’ve only been waiting for me to work through my flaws and see what was right in front of me all along.
Located north of the Arctic Circle, where the frozen tundra meets the ice-capped ocean, Wassamotta lies in a white wasteland, a desolate place of packed snow, where winter lasts nine months of the year. Human habitation is out of the question. On the darkest days, the sun lurks below the horizon, and all you see is a gleam.
Deanna, expectant mother, looked up at her doctor. Her eyes were wide and her mouth slack-jawed.
Dr. Pearle explained: “We use statistical modeling to create the most accurate simulation of your child’s neuronal development from conception to age twenty-three. That’s roughly when synaptic pruning is completed. It allows us to make predictions about your child’s cognitive profile. Do you have any questions before we proceed?”
Vermonica F., current darling of Madison Elementary, twirls her cold and greasy hair between pudgy, gray fingers. “Beauty is a construct,” she says. But because she’s a mad scientist’s reanimated laboratory creature, her words sound like “Booyays curnstrurn.”