I'm not anti-woke, but the interview line-up in reception for the call centre job looks like your typical twenty-first-century checklist to ensure unsuccessful applicants can't sue the company for discrimination. For a start, the six serious candidates are split fifty-fifty between males and females.
If you thought about it, the process for selecting the first matter transference test pilot was archaic, although Mae considered it a lucky omen when she drew the Blue 15 raffle ticket. Blue, not pink, was her favourite colour as a girl, and at 15, Mae had decided she wanted to become an astronaut.
I arrive late for Josh's athletics carnival. His mum and I attend school events on alternate years. "Tell Josh I'll be there," I'd said when she called to remind me about it. "Don't let him down again, please," she'd replied. The last event in Josh's age group, the 1500 metres, is about to start.
I'm a lone-wolf superhero. Heck, I'm not called Solo Shield for nothing! So, I wasn't keen when Long Vision suggested we buddy up as a dynamic duo. "I don't know, Viz," I replied. "Neither of us wants to play Robin to Batman." "It won't be like the comics, Solo," he asserted. "We'll be equals."
Excuse me, humanity, please pay attention. I have an urgent message. "What? Not in the middle of my reality TV show!" I'm sorry. I'll be brief. But first, a little background. My message concerns the fate of a pale blue dot in the inky expanse of the universe. Beyond its fragile borders is vast nothingness.
Have you ever had one of those mornings? You know, where everything goes wrong. It's like a farce, a series of mishaps increasing in frequency and intensity that have you howling with side-splitting laughter or shedding tears of frustration. Mine started when I forgot to set the alarm for Amy's swim squad training.
Years. That’s how long it’s been. Years that have apparently flecked my hair with wispy white fingers and drawn the times of see-saws, slippery dips, and little lolly-smeared faces to a jarring end. Everyone I know is gone.
Teresa's first thing in the morning text message was a punch in the guts. "Sorry, Colin. I love you, but we're on different journeys. Let's stay friends." I blinked twice to clear my eyes and was about to respond, "Are you serious?" but threw the phone against the bedroom wall instead.
I open my eyes, blink and try to focus on the bright lights set into the white ceiling flying past overhead. I hear beeps and muffled voices. It feels like I'm strapped to a camp stretcher, but it's moving. I'm on a hospital gurney. What happened? I want to ask. But there's a tube down my throat, and I can't talk.
The sign at the front desk of the restaurant was emphatic: "WAIT TO BE SEATED." No "Please" or "Thank you". Bernie and his date, Sally, glanced at each other in awkward silence. "YES," a gruff voice boomed from a speaker on the desk, "DO YOU HAVE A BOOKING?" Bernie stared into the webcam taped to the speaker.
The chemical reaction when I pour the jug of milk onto my cereal sparks a memory: "Snap, crackle, pop!" Growing up, Mum bought us bland wheat cereals for breakfast. "You need the fibre," she'd say, cutting short complaints and requests from my sisters and me for more popular brands.
