I stand estranged from the other women, watching them bounce toddlers on their hips, eyes glued on the salesmen through lashes coated in mascara. They wear the “modern woman” stereotype well: Hair swept up in fifty-dollar coiffures, gowned in revealing silk dresses, and teetering perfectly on their prim, sky high stilettos. And of course, they utilized the Crib as a primary alternative to true parenting and childcare. Oblivious to their own evil, their glaring eyes projecting scorn for those outside of their standards, they are unable to comprehend the horror I feel. The injustice to their children is maddening. Those mothers never felt the Crib. They were never held in the unrelenting grasp of time. They were never subjected to the atrocities of suspended animation. It wasn’t what you would call a common practice when we were kids. But they feel no guilt doing the same to their infants. Their poor babies. Soon to be captured in the enclosure of time. I look down at my own child, Katrina, young, innocent, and unaware of the society disintegrating around her. Never could I place her in the care of a glass cage. I still can’t understand how the shopkeeper finds this ethical. Salesmen. They know nothing. The money distorts their view on life, and turns their heart black as coal. Everyone’s born a good person. But they certainly change pretty fast if they live with Clarissa Taylor. Clarissa again. Blinding him with her words, words taken out of thin air and twisted to her advantage. Her main skill is her mouth. She can take the most revolting topic, and after a conversation with Clarissa Taylor, it seems so delicious you’d eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Her words erase reality, her silver hair’s hypnotic, and her maternal instinct is simply nonexistent. No wonder Albert gets swept up into it all. Can anyone see past her facade? Magically convincing, persuasive Clarissa, her intellect that of ten people combined. Never a mistake in her entire life, she’s said so herself. Never to be caught with a hair out of place, her manicure never chipped, always picture-perfect Clarissa. She gives the impression of being an angel, the heroine meant to save the world. Albert plays the part, his green eyes cheerful, professional, and burning into you all in one. Purposefully messy, brown hair, the grin fit for the front of a tabloid magazine, his arm resting casually on her shoulder. He didn’t know what he was in for. He had no idea, still has none. Next thing he knew he would be seventy-five and still managing the Al Jr.’s “terrible twos.”
With a flick of Albert Taylor’s finger on the silver fastening, the sleeping bird is revived. It flies out of the metal encased glass box in a mess of ruffling white feathers. Soars around the room, alighting on the glass of another cage. The bird doesn’t even know what it’s standing on. The object killing it again and again, and yet bringing it back to life. It’s miniature talons grasp the glass, and it perches upon the Crib, the box of horror.


“Dazzling, isn’t she, Mrs. Jenkins?” brags Albert proudly. “Golden finch—we call her Tinkerbell. My grandfather first Cribbed her almost a hundred years ago. A hundred years ago! Almost a century! Her beauty hasn’t faded a bit, and she’s still feisty as ever. Could you even imagine life before the Crib? In my wildest dreams I couldn’t even conceive the idea. It must have been horrid. This finch would have been dead twenty times over. But no, the beauty has been preserved for you to lay eyes upon, and the action just starting right where her life last left off. You see, it works just like a pause button, let’s say, or an on and off switch. Anything placed in this box here, once I flip this little clasp, frozen in time. Undo the clasp, resumes action wherever the life left off. Truly an amazing technology, really is. This single glass cube alone it can make it possible for you to see Tinkerbell here in the prime of her youth, and not stuffed either! Gorgeous, don’t you think, Mrs. Jenkins?”
“Yes… positively exquisite,” I say, “Those feathers are just perfect.” Two people talking beside the antique wooden chest in the back of the musty store have caught my eye. My husband, Sam, unaware of everything. A nice man, really. But I tend to get the impression he doesn’t care what happens to our daughter. He has no opinion, no thought of his own. And, of course, next to him, the ever present Clarissa, lurking in the shadows where you don’t expect her.
He has no idea how wrong this is. And yet he chatters on, oblivious to the pain he is subjecting the bird to. Suspended in time, helpless, inanimate...
Albert twitters on, his round, smiling face shining with excitement.
“Quite a innovative advancement. The entire suspended animation thing, you know? We really didn’t want to Crib Albert Junior at first, I completely understand how you feel, Mrs. Jenkins. But really, it was such a relief to take a break, the terrible twos and all, and believe me, every time we take him out, he’s none the worse for the wear. Al Junior’s still his energetic, mischievous little self. Just look at Tinkerbell here, healthy as a nestling, pretty as ever, her beauty unfading. Didn’t feel a thing.”

As he rattles on, I let my attention wander to the back corner, his words floating over me, my mind not comprehending any of it. There, in the back corner, lit up by the exit sign, is Mrs. Taylor, chatting with Sam, her elegant hand gesturing wildly yet with an almost royal air. She is balanced perfectly on the arm of the flower-printed couch, her deep blue eyes shining with pleasure and her silver hair falling all over his dress shirt. Her happiness is sickening. The energy she puts into persuading people. For her, it’s effortless. But the effect works, she seems to be successful. Sam’s eyes betray contentment and ease in the moment, and I know he’s believing what she says, buying every sentence. What right does she have with my husband? Brainwashing him with her words. Creating his thoughts as if he was a blank canvas and she the painter.

Albert is lost in his chatter, as always, oblivious to the scene in the back of his shop.
“Oh, Mrs. Jenkins, you have to see Peter Pan. Beautiful bird. My lady clients have always loved this little one. They’ve spoiled him beyond comparison.”
Albert gestures at another miniature glass Crib. Inside stands a brightly colored rainbow finch of generous proportions, posed unnaturally, almost as if he’s about to take off. Once again, Albert flicks the silver clasp and it releases its prisoner. Prince Charming unfolds his colorful wings without missing a beat. He speeds, almost clumsily, towards his companion, now settled happily on a bronze sculpture, sending many other Cribs tumbling to the flower printed plush carpet along the way.

While Albert hurries across his rundown shop to clean up the mess, my mind returns to Sam. My husband, who used to care as much as I do about our reputation in this town. I’ve always stood by my own opinions, disregarding what other people thought. He used to tell me to stand beside what I believed in. But now, who knows? People have pushed me aside, shoving my beliefs away without yet another thought. And with a turn of his head, Sam does too. It’s like he doesn’t know who I am. Has my own family turned against me?

And then Clarissa Taylor, with her city-girl name and pure silver hair fashionably at odds with her young girl’s figure... The Silver-haired Sinner, such a perfect name for her and her false elegance and charm, like the evil queen in some cheap romance novel. Manipulating others’ thoughts, feeding them her beliefs. And Sam swallows it down whole. Buys every single word. He doesn’t see the other side, of her, the cynical Clarissa. She feels no compassion, no empathy. Locking the baby in a metal gridded box. Innocent child. It has the mother it has through no fault of its own.

“And there we go. All done, and good as new.” Albert Taylor has finally swept up the bits of glass and found new homes for the residents of the now demolished Cribs. “I do apologize about the wait, Mrs. Jenkins. Some days these birds have a mind of their own. You just simply can’t control them.” Of course you can’t. You can’t even control your own son. Locking him away to deal with a tantrum another time. Poor, poor child. You can’t control yourself, can’t control Cribbing the baby.

“Of course, birds aren’t my real product. They simply showcase the beauty of the Cribs: Life suspended in time, flawlessly preserved until you decide to reanimate it with just a touch of your finger on this little fastening.” I shiver involuntarily in my blue sweater. My hair swings in front of my face, and I feel my face draining of color. More like temporary death. Cribbing is just a bloodless, temporary method of murder invented by evil scientists looking to bring misery to young children. They’ll get what they deserve. When they’re supposed to be living the high life of retirement and there’s a kindergartener messing around with blocks in the living room.

Albert goes on. “I suppose that you’re looking for a Crib for little Katrina? Finally getting with the times, Mrs. Jenkins?” Of course, always the salesman, he gestures at the polished mountain of shining full-sized Cribs.



“Really, I’m actually not sure about this whole Crib thing. It’s Sam who wants to Crib baby Katrina.” And throw her life away.

“Sam! Come over here for a second!” calls Albert toward our spouses. Sam hurriedly comes over to my side, surprised. Clarissa follows closely behind him.

“What’s going on? Trying to convince my wife to Crib Katrina like every other modern mother? She’s a stubborn one. Obstinate at heart.”



“Oh, Cribs are a necessity, my dear, a downright necessity,” adds Clarissa with that perfectly cold movie star smile of hers. “In the beginning, we would only Crib Junior for short periods of time, maybe delaying a temper tantrum for a day or two. But, now, we’ve discovered how positively amazing it feels to take a break from parenting. Really, baby Katrina’s eleven days old already and no Crib! I don’t know how you survive, my dear. Really, no one will judge you. We were all there once, I know how it feels. Take a break. No guilt, nothing on your conscience, does no harm. They don’t feel a thing! I leave Junior in for months!”

Of course she does. Her patronizing voice gives it all away. People like Lenora have absolutely no maternal instinct. No compassion for helpless, vulnerable babies.

“But now we have so many elderly families with infants because they Crib their children so often. It’s just wrong! Then the poor couples can’t care for their own children,” I say with a pointed glare in right into Clarissa’s blue eyes.



“Well, I don’t think that mothers who Crib their children are elderly. Please, Caroline, you’re being stereotypical,” pipes Sam, glancing at Clarissa with a reassuring smile.

In that moment, watching Sam’s grey eyes stare entranced at the Crib, simple glass covered with strips of metal, his brown hair tossed casually over his shoulder, I realize that there’s no hope for him. He doesn’t have the self control to keep himself from Cribbing Katrina. He’s been brainwashed by Clarissa. There’s no going back. He’s taken her side, and we both know it. It’ll be the talk of the town, the point of humiliation for all of us. Going back against your word. Your reputation a glass vase dropped thirty stories down and shattered upon rocks at the bottom of the ocean. I need to end this situation. I need to act now. I let out a long breath, and make my final decision.



“Fine, then. Albert, I’m convinced. I think we’ll take out one of the cheaper models. Let’s do the thirty day money back guarantee, then. Give us the cheapest you have.”



“Oh, that’s just great, Mrs. Jenkins! You certainly won’t regret your decision. And I’ll add the two birds into the deal. I noticed how much you seemed to love Tinkerbell and Peter Pan.”
I left the shop carrying the Crib, and glancing now and then at Sam’s triumphant smile. We settled into our black minivan, and I glance at Katrina in the back seat. Still sleeping. Sam drove, and I held my hand on Katrina’s car seat.
“What’s on your mind?” Sam asks.
“Nothing,” I respond.
“I’m really glad we got that Crib for Katrina, aren’t you?” says Sam.
So much for an attempt to start conversation. I don’t respond.

“It just isn’t proper parenting without it. I’m glad you’re coming around,” he adds.
I look out the window, ignoring him.
We approach the house, and I let myself in. I put Katrina in her high chair, so Sam couldn’t put her in the Crib without me knowing. I was going to protect my baby, and this was one kid who wouldn’t be touched by those horrid glass Cribs.
I made dinner, an oven bake pizza and corn defrosted out of a plastic bag. Once I had made up my mind, my plan went through smoothly. I barely had to think as I dissolved a sleeping pill into Sam’s evening tea. I felt as if the motions were almost robotic.
“I’m thinking I’ll head off to bed on the earlier side,” he says with a yawn. He clears his plate, and pats Katrina on the head.



“Goodnight, dear. I’ll tuck the baby in.” Now all I have to do is wait, wait for the moment where it will be safe.



I walk over to the smaller Cribs, still in the entryway, and place them on the bookshelf. I open the thick velvet curtains, and open the window, breathing in the night air. I carefully open each of the silver fastenings. Immediately, Tinkerbell and Peter Pan fly outside, finally free to live out their natural lifespan without disruption from modern technology. I stop and watch them get smaller and smaller, now only tiny dots in my vision. They disappear over the rooftops, out to fly around the city.
A loud snore comes from the master bedroom. I think it’s time.
I tiptoe in the opposite direction into Katrina’s room, careful not to disturb my sleeping daughter. The Crib lies unused against the wall, still in its cardboard box. I use a pocket knife to slice through the duct tape binding the edges. Silently, I slide it out through the hallway and into our bedroom.
Sam makes a loud thump! against the glass as I shove his body in. I suddenly feel overwhelmed—he’s not heavy, but there’s a sudden feeling of regret, almost sadness, as I realize that this is the final time I’ll ever see Sam. Katrina will never know her father.
It’s a tight fit. Once Sam is stuffed into the Crib, I draw in a deep breath. I shut the lid quickly before I change my mind. This is it. This is the end. There’s no going back now. I close the fastening, and instantaneously Sam freezes. His chest stops rising mid-breath.
I reseal the cardboard box and add an extra layer of duct tape. Half of my mind still believes he can escape, although I know this to be impossible. I carefully address the cardboard box to the National Society for History and slowly write instructions with a Sharpie:


THIS IS A TIME CAPSULE SEALED IN 2101
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2500