CHATTERBOX
Words By Melissa Paulsen, Art By Hailey Renee Brown
How do I tell Claudia I’m bored and want to leave the Extinction Museum? Em typed.
They could always pull up the images on CHATTERBOX to learn about this junk. And it’d be more enjoyable than knocking elbows with museum patrons to read dusty plaques.
Pixels blurred into words before Em lifted her finger from the phone.
Great question, Em—you’ll want to approach this carefully to not offend Claudia. Below are three suggestions you could try. I can also help you write…
The tap tap of museum patrons silently messaging each other through CHATTERBOX and the pattering of acid rain against the glass walls filled the cavernous space.
Em watched her little sister; Claudia’s freckled face reflected in the rim of a … Em read the sign. Car. Deadly mode of transportation responsible for 9,999,999—Em skimmed ahead—deaths prior to the Universal Transit System created by The Founders.
Em selected the “playful” tone CHATTERBOX suggested and hit send.
Claudia’s phone flashed and her smile curved into a frown. She adjusted her hideous red duck-billed “baseball hat” before angrily typing.
At the museum’s grand opening, Claudia had begged Em to spend her precious cyber-coins to buy the hat from the museum’s “thrift/gift” shop, and now she insisted on wearing it every time they visited.
Em’s phone vibrated. If you’re bored, here are three recommendations…
When Em looked up, Claudia was ducking beneath the velvet rope leading to a new exhibit: Communication of the 21st & 22nd Century: COMING SOON. Her hat hit the marble floor, but she marched on.
Great. The last thing they needed was a mark on their citizen reports for trespassing at this stupid museum.
Em rescued the dumb hat and raced after Claudia.
Only a few feet into the exhibit, darkness swallowed her. She passed blinking red lights and colossal screens, her footsteps echoing.
Ahead, a lamp shone with soft yellow light, revealing a vinyl booth, ensconced into a glass box with the placard: Coffee Shop.
“Em,” a voice croaked.
Em screamed. Claudia hadn’t spoken since she was a babbling infant. Hell, Em couldn’t remember what her own voice sounded like.
“It’s like from Mom and Dad’s picture,” Claudia said, her voice piercing to Em’s ears.
“Stop,” Em whispered. The word grated against her throat. She tasted the iron tang of blood.
“We can talk,” Claudia said, exasperated. “We’re alone.”
“They banned—”
Behind them, a robotic voice buzzed, “Props out of place. Returning now.”
Em sat across from Claudia in the squeaky coffee shop booth with empty ceramic mugs glued to the tabletop.
When a patron pressed the button, electricity blasted the girls’ backs like jacuzzi jets, their painful cue to demonstrate face-to-face communication.
Faces ogled them from the other side of the fingerprint smudged glass. Em never looked away, hoping, just once, to catch a glimmer of understanding.
I’m real.
She opened her mouth and spoke.