Gemotions

The lawyer, Mr. Harding, surveyed the scene: his backyard. He’d always prided himself on the manicured lawn. Now, a gaping hole, surrounded by discarded earth, marred the perfection. And, of course, the time capsule itself.

He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. The workmen, they had been *so* insistent. "Just a small project, sir," they'd said. Apparently, small meant unearthing the remnants of some bygone era. He didn't have time for this nonsense.

He found a childhood drawing of a stick figure and a crayon-colored house. He tossed it in the trash without so much as a glance. He had more pressing matters to attend to than reflecting on juvenile art projects.