I peeled down her acid-washed jeans and unbuckled mine and we coupled on the floor in a narcissistic teenage frenzy, surrounded by images that not only immortalized her at the height of her nubile beauty but also attested to my own manly artistic genius, something that, if I played my cards right, would land me a future. I concentrated on the future, a red, fleshy blob pupating in the dark fluid like something in a mad scientist’s incubator. I saw strange organs throbbing beneath its translucent shell. Saw the future bust from its chrysalis in scattering blazes of diamond light, winged and glistening, already flitting out the window, darting off toward the horizon before I could get a good look at it.

–from The New and Improved Romie Futch by Julia Elliott