I'm No Psychic

1403 words

Rated PG: violence

Prompt: Write a near-future thriller where a piece of everyday technology has turned against your character--and only your character.

Author's note: this story is for my parent, who gave me the idea

“...and over here, we have the history of Edward Louie, creator of the first fortune-cookie machine. In the late 1960s, he was tired of folding thousands of cookies each day…”

I ignore the guide my family is listening closely to. Today was my mother’s turn to choose a place to go. Our portable fortune cookie folder had piqued her interest, so she thought a trip to the museum would be fun. We can buy custom fortunes here, for a dollar per 10 pack.

I was happy to come, but not because of the history. I stare through the window at the factory where the fortune cookies are being made. I watch the round pancake-like dough flow down a conveyor belt. It slides down another route, where a hole is waiting. The dough slips in the hole, and falls down a small metal tube.

When it comes out, it is no longer flat. It’s curved and a darker beige colour. The strange shape could hug your neck if it was big enough. If you look closely, you might notice something white poking out of a gap. It's very stale, too, jostling and shaking as it joins more cookies just like it, on its way to be wrapped.

Perfect. Not a flaw in the system.

“Hey, we’re going to the gift shop!” Father calls. 

I turn around.

“I am coming!” I respond.

I get one last glimpse of the cookie before it’s choked by plastic wrapping. Mother made the right call. To think she would have chosen an ice cream theme park. 

I follow my family to the gift shop. I wonder if they have scale models of their machines.

[]

My mother looks at the fortunes we chose.

“They’ll certainly add a twist to our cookies.”

Fortunes are always good, unrealistic. They give you blind compliments, not fortunes. Fortunes shouldn’t be a boost in confidence. They should be a random prediction of your future. My family agrees wholeheartedly on this.

Our fortunes, good and bad, are in a bag my mother is carrying. The slips of paper are lined up neatly. The cashier knew what they were doing, because they’re packed very tightly and haven’t become chaotic yet. 

My mother smiles at my father.

“Okay, you have to admit, I did a great job today.”

“Yes, and the children haven't collapsed from a sugar crash. I consider that a win.”

The only reason I’m not passed out on the couch from stuffing my face is because I wasn’t allowed.

“If you eat here, you won’t get to have some cookies at home.” Father reminded me.

“Fine, but I get that statue of the fortune cookie making machine.”

I’m holding it right now. I run my fingers over the metal, and the miniature plastic cookies glued to a fake assembly line. I know it’s delicate, but running my fingers over things makes me feel calm. I should get a fidget toy.

The household gathers as my mother inserts the slips of paper into the fortune cookie machine. It’s a new model. You pull out a small drawer, and push groups of paper into it. Once it’s full, you push it back in, and a light turns green, to indicate that it’s full.

The machine is already full of patties ready to be shaped. I do the honours, turning the knob for how many cookies are to be made, and press the button to start the cooking process. It shouldn’t take longer than 5 minutes.

Those 5 minutes feel very long. They stretch and contract, all the time the baking smell making me lick my lips. There’s also the shuffling, as paper movies from the bottom of the machine to the top. That’s the most exciting part. The air is thick with impatience as we stand around the machine.

Ding. Five perfect cookies go down the metal slide and land on the plate we positioned there. I turn the machine off, and move it a bit to the side. Everyone grabs their cookie, even though they’re still a bit hot. That’s not the important part.

Father is first. He snaps the cookie in half with practiced perfection. It’s not the most perfect skill, but it’s fun to show people at parties, I’ve learned.

“Your high school sweetheart may be stalking you.”

He looks at his children.

“Very creative. I didn’t date anybody in high school, so I think I’m safe.”

“It was meant for mother.”

Father frowns at us.

“Thank you guys. Really. This is your side of the family, you know.”

Mother smiles. “I think it’s perfect.”

Father mutters something to her, but he’s grinning.

“Okay, you next.” He points to me. 

I look at the fortune cookie. It’s so light and perfect. The pristine curves are so recognizable to me. I make a perfect break right down the middle. I eagerly pull apart the halves to see what abomination I was given. It’s…

Nothing. The fortune cookie is completely empty inside. I stare at it, and shake the pieces. Maybe it somehow hid from view. No, there’s nothing. It is just a hollow shell.

“The machine forgot to put a piece of paper in mine.” 

My mother furrows her brow. “Oh. Maybe it’s just an error. Let’s check our cookies. Maybe they’re empty too.”

But no, they’re not. The others have good or bad fortunes written on the same, boring, white rectangles. Everyone else laughs as they open theirs. I grip the cookie inside my fist. It shouldn’t bother me, but something inside me is very mad. It’s a machine. It shouldn’t have errors.

After everyone is long asleep, I tiptoe outside my room. I have to see what’s happening. I have to know for myself what’s going on. It bothers me to not have any idea what happened. Maybe I am overreacting. But I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t, so I don’t let it bother me.

I pull the machine from where it lives in the cupboard above the microwave. We got the dark blue model. I use the grips indented into the metal surface to lower it onto the counter. I plug the black wire into the outlet. It beeps to life.

Just one. That’s all I need to make to go to bed. But I am not in control of myself. I crank the knob up to three. I make sure everything is still working. I press the button, and production begins. My hand finds the drawer where the plates are kept, and pulls a small, plastic one out form when we were small. 

They slide down elegantly. I turn off the machine but don’t unplug it. Something keeps telling me there’s no time. Now. Open the cookies now, it hisses

So I do. I forget precision. I tear the cookies apart, spreading crumbs everywhere. I scream as I see the insides. No fortunes. Nothing. I open the fortune tray. They’re all still there. I slap the side of the machine in annoyance. Why won’t it do what i want?

The slap shakes me, and makes me tumble backwards. I hit my head on the island. I grip the back of my skull to try to rub the pain out of it. It doesn’t really work.

The fortune cookie maker is now bright. The light indicating when the cookies are done is blinding me. When the light touches the three fortunes cookies, they rise off the plate.

I watch in horror as the crumbs rise too. The cracks disappear. The bits thrown aside carelessly join the resurrection process. The cookies spin as the slivers combine, becoming whole once more. They turn at me.

They fly through the air so quickly I don’t register it until it hits my eye. I grab my face and groan in pain. I lean over, giving a cookie an opportunity to slice the back of my neck. Another one cuts my ear. They move so quickly I can’t swat at them.

Like paper cuts. Thin, easily healable. But aggravating. I try to hit them, but they dodge and strike. My cheeks become bloody. My lips are red. My arms and elbows need to be haled above my head. 

As soon as my elbow is above me, the cookies don’t waste any time. They merge again, and make a blade so sharp it would probably cut rock. Instead of finding boulders, though, it aims for my heart.