Colombo, Sri Lanka

January 2, 2014

Things have been moving fast here.

What he’d told us is all proving to be right. I’d told Bohrs the bare details. I’ve always been able to trust him implicitly, but something still made me hold back. Perhaps it was the man’s words. I hadn’t shown him the vial, just described the signs, the general threat. I hadn’t mentioned M though. Bohrs trusts me implicitly too, I guess, and he knows my sources are good without having to ask.

And so he’d been on board. We had started house to house, hovel to hovel, collecting then analyzing the trace chemicals first on the structures, then on the people.

I had sensed it everywhere, or had that been another figment of my imagination?

The girl who had come up to me, so brazenly: had her brashness come from that, the disease that seemed to be spreading across her face, worming its way into her brain?

“That’s it. Look at her temples.” Bohrs had said, when she had finally turned to go, after spitting in the sand a few paces from me.

I hadn’t given her any money.

Bohrs had nodded and shaken his head.

“We’re in deep.”

I’d come here at his request. This was his cause after all.

Which had become mine.

“It’s the launching place,” the unidentifiable man had said, back in the Purple Mountains, back when he had handed us a thumb drive and vial of liquid. “Colombo.”

And so I had come.

“It makes sense.”

Bohrs and I are standing in an alley just big enough for the two of us, snaking backward from the beach into the more odious, labrynthine parts of the slum.

It seemed this ramshackle community, like the virus, was reaching its tentacles across the city, swelling until it might strangle the very heart of Colombo.

“Let’s go,” I say. “We’ve seen enough.”

He looks further down the alley, where the hovels seem to almost cave in on one another.

The whole world, caving in on itself.

Although that’s not the way it was supposed to work.

The terrible secret. The knowledge of it.

Weighty and unbearable.

“Will you come with me?”

A voice had just spoken from only a few feet away.

A dark-skinned man has just stepped out of a doorway, his face now illuminated in the white, cloud-bent light.

I take a step backward.

We aren’t supposed to be here.

“I think you want to come with me.”

The man flashes us something. Even worse: a badge.

My toes curl inward involuntarily. I want to run.

But I can’t.

Bohrs looks at the would-be-assassin, promptly lifts his gun to his forehead, and shoots, a deadened ping as the bullet escapes the silencer and the body crumples.

Nearby pigs start to squeal. A woman we hadn’t seen peering out a window begins to scream.

“Let’s go,” says Bohrs.

We turn back toward the widening part of the alley and run.

...

Delhi, India

January 2, 2014

Amit has known for a long time what he’s up against.

He flicks the last of his omelette on his fork, like mucus. Nana has undercooked it again.

He sighs and shakes his head, then wipes his hands with his linen napkin, and in one habitual motion, lets it fall to the table as he rises and turns. It is refuse, a deed done.

Back in the observation room hangs Neha.

He hadn’t meant to let it get this far. But in the end, she was just one body, just one soul. Compared to what they were about to gain, it was a small loss.

Amit’s phone rings as he is putting on his suit jacket.

“Master, she’s…gone.”

Amit pauses for a moment, listening to the sound of eggs being scraped off a plate into the trash.

He looks from his phone to his watch, silver and with a huge circular face. Analog. There was no other option, really.

“Alright.”

He is late. He purses his lips. “Take care of it.”

Then he snaps the phone closed, steps out to the door and into the waiting taxi.

Neha, he thinks.

First, she had denied it.

He had pushed her, just a little bit further, a little bit harder, the blows falling with a little more force.

Of course, it hadn’t been his practice to hit a woman, no, but this was important. And he was angry.

She had, in fact, gone to him. She had betrayed the cause., full well knowing what it would cost her, what it would cost them.

Now, blood again surges through his veins thinking of it.

Their betrayal, no, betrothal.

The day they had met, when he had sensed, almost immediately, the strange energy between them.

Perhaps they had known each other in another life.

And just hours ago, total betrayal.

She had been glossy-eyed and whimpering, shaking her head as the tears fell.

“I know nothing.”

A plea. A lie. Of course. For Neha knew everything.

She had been in contact with him.

And she had told him everything. And he must have told her something.

“She’s gone.”

Belal’s words popped again in his head like bullets, clipped and satisfying. They covered over the pain. Gone.

For the time being, Amit will have to continue eating his grandmother’s liquid omelets. There were worse fates.

Still, as the taxi turns out of his manicured neighborhood, his heart feels that terrible panic it had just moments after he had first met Neha, the awful desire to clutch onto a breathtaking mirage before it disappeared.

Gone.

And the ache is suddenly momentous.

...

Davos, Switzerland

January 2, 2014

Bente has made it to the summit without a hitch, despite the hitch that was two days prior, back home.

But the baby is fine and she’s not showing yet, and so she is here, the proposal on the screen in front of her, a small remote in her hand and her mouth a thin serious line across her face.

“We are infesting our planet,” she is saying.

Her stomach tightens involuntarily.

“All over the world, it is the same demographic that is perpetuating our population and climate crises. These are the very same people who are in turn suffering the most under adverse climate conditions. We must help.”

She clicks a button on the remote and a map of Sri Lanka lights up the screen. It is filled with darker and lighter green sections. She clicks again and the greens on the screen begin to move and morph, the darker patches getting smaller and lighter, and the lighter patches expanding.

“We imagine, once this program is put into place, that the populations in extreme poverty, marked by the darkest green, will shrink exponentially. Thousands if not millions of people will jump from one social class to the one above it, and as science has well-proven, they will finally begin to impact the climate positively: a tidal wave of change.”

She clicks the button and the screen goes dark. Bente looks around the room. She is accompanied by people who resemble the UN - stately and thoughtful, their skin colors a palate of all human possibilities.

“And how will we implement this?” asks a man with graying hair and leathery brown skin that looks as if it has lain for copious amounts of time out in the sun.

“Mr. Shakra,” says Bente. “That is where you come in.”

A few people shift in their chairs.

Mr. Shakra regards Bente for a long moment before opening his mouth. “And how exactly is that?”

Bente smiles. “Priming the pump, of course.”

Last night I wrote a simple love song,

A melody that made me feel all right.

A love song to a dream that had stolen my heart.

A melody had haunted me, now that we're apart.

It touched my soul then my heart.

I wrote it for a old lover

Even though the years had driven us apart.

The melody was as soft as the cool ocean breeze.

The words were only a memory,

From somewhere deep in my heart.

The music sprang from my being..,

The words took a life of their own,

Behind my tears, a melody was born.

I realized then what I had never known.

This was something more then just another love song.

It was something more then a melody of the night

It was a reflection of the emptiness I've known.

It was a reflection of the man I am now that I am alone.

The melody was so haunting, teardrops pulling at my soul...

Yes last night I wrote a love song and dedicated it to a dream.

In high school, the aim was simple: get to college. For someone like me, raised on sardines and eggs, it wasn't just a goal but a dream. Lucky for me, my school was free.

College was the real battle. Costly. Yet, we believed it would lift our family.

Fortune smiled again though. Tutors from top colleges volunteered to mentor. One day, the principal singled me out. He knew me, somehow. "You," he pointed, "be here next Saturday."

I showed up. I put in the work. A mentor took notice. She handed me a college application. "Fill this," she instructed. The form questioned about fees. I ticked "scholarship needed." The entrance fee worried me. "Don't," she advised.

A telegram came months later, nearly overlooked. It confirmed I passed. Full scholarship. I was elated.

That mentor, however, vanished. I couldn't express my gratitude. Her full name escaped me.

Years flew by. I graduated, landed a decent job, and now mentor others. I work full time as a manger and I lead a non-profit part-time in the design field.

I Read Obituaries

Why?

First, verification. Before the invent of social media, my grandmother told me an obituary was the best way to discreetly inquire as to whether someone who once passed into life had actually passed through life.

Second, to garner attention. Some people want others to make inquiries. Their need for attention covers the spectrum from covet to crave. The deceased, even in death, want people to know their life story. Perhaps this is ego. Perhaps something much more.

Third, to learn about someone known only casually. I would have wanted to know someone with an obituary stating they are survived by their 6 ex-wives, 22 children, 98 grandchildren, surviving 3 wars, 4 tours of duty, and a 40-year membership in a volunteer fire department.

Finally, as a sales tactic. An obituary lists the people who survived the deceased. It also describes the last residence of the deceased. Put 2 and 2 together. If I sold real estate, I know there will be a house for sale. If the deceased had many survivors, the estate (maybe even the survivors) will need a lawyer. Add tax planning, college savings, life insurance, home improvement, lawn care, vacations, etc. and the obituaries become the cornucopia of all new business leads.

Subtler than a billboard. Cheaper than a website. And all of the people listed, die in alphabetical order.

Simply amazing.

I'm sitting in the corner of Café Léon, a quaint spot that’s a stone's throw away from my apartment. The wooden floors creak underfoot. I'm supposed to be working on my novel, but the blank document on my laptop screen mocks me. Instead, I find myself lost in the steam swirling from my coffee cup, a tempest in a teacup, you could say.

Café Léon is my sanctuary, a place where I can disappear into the background and observe the world in its raw, unfiltered state. The barista, a young woman with tattoos crawling up her arms like ivy, knows my order by heart - a small cappuccino, no sugar, with a dash of cinnamon on top. It's the little things.

The café is buzzing with greater energy than normal today. The large table by the window is occupied by a bunch of college students, with their textbooks and laptops strewn around like pieces of a puzzle they're all trying to solve together. Lost in their own little world, a pair whispers softly to one another in the distant corner. Then there's me, the perennial bystander, taking everything in.

My phone vibrates, breaking the spell. It's a message from my editor, no doubt a gentle nudge about my looming deadline. My aim has been to write a book that encapsulates modern living, the interconnectivity of human experiences, and the beauty inherent in ordinary moments. But the truth is, I've been having trouble. Seeing life is one thing, but putting it into meaningful words is quite another.

I take a sip of my cappuccino and feel the comforting warmth from the cinnamon. I turn to look around and see that the source of inspiration I've been looking for is right in front of me. Every person at the café is a character with their own backstory, set of challenges, and victories, making it a microcosm of life itself.

With renewed purpose, I begin to type. In my piece, I portray the barista as a striving artist who finds comfort in the routine of brewing coffee. I write about the students, each carrying the weight of their dreams and fears. I write about the couple because, in a world that frequently appears dark, their love is a light of hope.

After several hours, the café begins to close. The barista wipes off the counter and smiles knowingly at me. "Inspiration struck?" she asks.

I return the smile and shut my laptop. "Something like that."

I exit Café Leon and the cold evening air welcomes me. The world appears slightly more appealing and less overwhelming. In my book, I've tried to portray a little bit of modern life, but more than anything, I've rediscovering the joy of writing. And that's more than enough for now.

Carr wandered across Thomson’s fields. The moon was bright enough to fully illuminate the scenery. It was so bright, in fact, that the stars were hardly visible, drowned out by the pale moonlight. He watched a few dark shapes flying across the sky. Bats. He’d spotted several bat houses around on trees across the ranch. He’d once thought it was dumb to attract bats but had then since realized that the bat houses were to keep bats out of the houses where humans lived. That, and to keep the insect population down.

He was attempting to induce his elusive sleep through a leisurely walk, but a shape crept across the field. He jumped behind a nearby tree to watch the human figure move in the direction of the house and the barns. It was difficult to make out, but the person was lean and wearing a baseball cap. Carr crept along the tree line, watching. There was something off about this person. They walked with shoulders back and seemed to avoid every pothole, pitfall, and obstacle in the field. Carr would have assumed they’d work here, but the build of this figure was very different from that of the other ranch hands. What could they need in the middle of the night?

He debated what to do for a minute when the figure disappeared into the barn. He knew where all the entrances, exits, locations of the tools, turns, and corners were. He’d have the upper hand if he chased this person in the barn. He’d also been in his fair share of tussles as a kid, and as an adult, though he hoped it didn’t come to that.

He crept into the barn and spotted the figure wandering with a flashlight. He caught sight of a long ponytail before she turned the corner. She definitely didn’t work at this ranch. She walked quietly enough, and she most likely would have gotten away with whatever she’d been about to do if he hadn’t been outside.

Carr grabbed a pitchfork off the wall. He didn’t think he’d use it, but it would definitely help with the menacing aspect. Knowing she was at a dead end he followed her and shouted, “Hey! What are you doing?” The woman spun around, shining the flashlight directly in his face. Though momentarily blinded, “I’m the one holding a pitchfork, you’re better off just telling me what you’re doing here.”

The girl threw on a light switch he hadn’t known was there. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he laughed. “Kashi? What the hell are you doing breaking into Mr. Thomson’s barn? There’s nothing to steal.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have more of a right to be here than you genius. Mr. Thomson is my dad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But you look— Well, you’re—”

“I’m what? Not white?” she laughed in good humor, obviously having received this reaction before. “Have you heard of something called adoption? My mom met my dad and had Felix.”

“Felix is your brother?” Carr asked, feeling stupid as soon as he asked the question. “Well, I mean…”

“Yeah, I get what you mean.” Kashi said, clicking the flashlight off. “No, my biological mom and I moved to the United States a few months after I was born. I think dad told me she was from Egypt. Then she met your Mr. Thompson here and they had Felix. We’re half siblings. My mother was killed in an accident right after Felix’s birth.” She turned towards a large old dresser behind her, looking through a drawer.

“Sorry Kashi, I didn’t realize—”

“No, don't be. I wasn’t even five years old. I don’t remember her. Honestly, I miss my stepmom much more. I do remember her.” Kashi pulled an envelope from the drawer and shoved it into her backpack.

“Can I ask what that is?” Carr asked, setting the pitchfork down as they turned to leave the barn.

“Nope.”

He blinked in surprise, but smirked. “I liked the Kashi I met at that dance better.” Maybe he could draw out that flirty personality once more.

“Well, that Kashi didn’t have as much to worry about.” She said, shooting down his hopes instantly. “This Kashi has work tomorrow in the morning and needs to get going.”

“Can I give you a lift home?” he offered.

She looked like she was ready to consider it but said, “I work for someone real close by. Besides, I like to go for long walks. It’s only a couple miles when I take a shortcut. Just do me a favor and don’t tell my dad I went by.”

“Why not?”

She stopped and turned around a look of half amusement and half indignation on her face. “What do you mean, ‘Why not?’ Because it’s not a hard request.”

“Yeah, but I feel like there’s more to this.” He goaded, trying to contain a smirk. Before she could protest, he continued. “Let’s make a deal, you give me your number, and my lips stay sealed.”

Her brow furrowed, but at the slight twitch by the corner of her lips he could tell that she was trying not to smile. “Fine. Number it is. Give me your phone.” After he obliged, she punched the number in and handed it back.

He hit the call button as soon as she returned his phone. To his pleasant surprise, her phone lit up in her pocket. He raised his eyebrow. “I thought you’d put in a number to the nearest pizza place or something.”

She laughed. “Whatever. Just don’t abuse it, alright?”

He smirked. “Sure thing, Kashi.” He watched her turn and walk back down through the field. Her number was an absolute score. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t asked for it at the dance and it was so lucky for him to finally run into her. Walking back to his quarters, he couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. Maybe now he’d finally get to sleep.

Is my life the price I must pay for a life of comfort? The typewriter sits where it always does, sending the same message. I would do anything to put that back in the garage, to get rid of it. Anything. But would I? The pull that the dusty typewriter had on me was strong. Those three words are even stronger. Anything you want. I could have all the money I need, I could pay for Ava's college tuition. If I typed. So I did.

I typed.

And typed.

But eventually the typewriter took my power. I had to write or it would do something. Something bad. I lost Ava's mother, my wife, due to thinking I was above a typewriter's control. I wasn't. That's how I found Genevieve dead when I came home that cold December night.

The typewriter has the power. I either write, or it rewrites a nightmare that I'll never wake up from. In the crisp daylight, it looks so innocent. Inanimate. If only that were the truth.

So I write. I write to save Ava. I write away the rest of my humanity. Anything to not let it get angry. People end up injured, or worse, because of me and this blasted typewriter. I don't let myself mourn the losses. As long as it's not Ava, I tell myself. The typewriter won't hurt my last person in this world I care about as long as I write. So I do.

There once was a man who lived in a small village nestled in the countryside, whose name was Joe. Joe was an average, ordinary man of average, ordinary build with an average, ordinary life. He lived in an average, ordinary house, had an average, ordinary job, and had an average, ordinary family. Nothing out of the ordinary ever seemed to happen to Joe, and he was quite content with that.

One day, Joe woke up to his usual alarm clock, which was set to play the most annoying, average, ordinary tune. He got out of bed and went about his usual morning routine. He made himself breakfast and a cup of coffee, which was, of course, average and ordinary. He then went to work at the local accounting firm, where he spent his days crunching numbers and filing paperwork.

At lunchtime, Joe went to his usual sandwich shop and just as he was about to order his usual turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, he felt a strange sensation in his stomach which seconds later, erupted into the shrills of a dying whale. It was then that he knew he had somehow missed a very important detail about this morning's breakfast, and he ended up spending the rest of his lunch break in the toilet.

At lunchtime, Joe went to his usual sandwich shop and just as he was about to order his usual turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, he felt a strange sensation in his stomach which seconds later, erupted into shrills of a dying whale. It was then that he knew he had somehow missed a very important detail about this morning's breakfast, and he ended up spending the rest of his lunch break in the bathroom.

ended up spending the rest of his lunch break in the bathroom.

ended up spending the rest of his lunch break in the bathroom.ended up spending the rest of his lunch break in the bathroom.

After work, Joe went to pick up his daughter from school. He was greeted with the usual chaos of kids running around and screaming. As he waited for his daughter to finish her after-school activities, he struck up a conversation with another parent. To his surprise, he discovered that they had gone to the same high school and had never crossed paths. They both laughed at the coincidence and went their separate ways.

Later that evening, Joe's wife made their usual dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. However, halfway through the meal, they realized they were out of parmesan cheese. Joe volunteered to run to the store to get some, but as he was driving, he got stuck behind a slow-moving tractor. He let out a frustrated sigh and thought to himself, "Just my luck."

As the night went on, Joe and his family watched their usual TV shows and went to bed at their usual time. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, and Joe drifted off to sleep, content with his average, ordinary day.

The next morning, Joe woke up to his usual alarm clock, made his usual cup of coffee and breakfast, and went about his usual morning routine. He couldn't help but think about how uneventful his life was, but he couldn't help but laugh at the hilariously average and ordinary events that had unfolded the day before. And that, to Joe, was the most extraordinary thing of all.

The lockdown had taken its toll on our family, and it seemed like nothing would ever be the same again. As we returned from quarantine, my mother and I were plunged into a world without my father, who had lost his battle with cancer while we were away. My mother, usually composed and strong, was now a shell of her former self as she struggled to plan what she called a "celebration" for my father's life. But as soon as we stepped foot into our home and saw that picture of him smiling above the condolences book, all pretenses fell apart. My mother crumbled in front of me, her cries echoing through the empty house where my father's absence was painfully evident. And in that moment, I couldn't help but feel the weight of our loss and how much my parents' love for each other would never be the same again.

Today’s story should come with a trigger warning, there.

I was in boarding school, 13 years old, when I got my first period. It was a crimson red smear on my white with purple flowers panty, I loved that panty. It all started with a draft like breeze from my head to my little toes, followed by a cold sweat. The cramps followed, which obviously, in my young mind meant, a stomachache. That’s when I left class for the washrooms and come upon womanhood. Luckily (depending on who you ask), I had had a run in with womanhood a year before, and knew how to handle myself, well, somewhat. I also had help from a young female dorm matron who showed me everything I'd need to know.

The previous year in a different school, a day school, (why I left is a tale for another day) a girl got her period. This is not a good story, in fact, it is meant to enrage you. Honestly, my parents had never talked to me on the topic despite full knowledge that I was now a teenager, even as my acne made its grand entrance that year. I did resent this about my mother especially, but then realized she didn't know better. I don’t know about your country, but in mine, commercials showed, and still show, blue ink spilled on a pad. As a child, with my mom stashing her pads in unseen corners of her bedroom, I barely knew how one actually looked like, or even that she got them. At school, in sex ed class, we barely talked about sexuality and things that had actual immediacy. I mean yes, HIV/AIDS was a pandemic at the time, but so was the possibility of budding little women having their first periods. They did however make every girl in our class buy a pack, wrap it in newspaper (well, the shops wrapped it for you as if to avoid embarrassing you) and keep it hidden in our lockers, like a dirty little secret. We never even got to open them until we needed them.

Let’s call her Joan. When Joan got her period, she stained her uniform. She could not tell she was having her period, the usual tells were unfamiliar to her. The first person who noticed her stained dress was from our year, a girl. Having been ingrained in her the art of period shaming, instead of helping her out, she blatantly shouted mid laughter, ‘look guys, Joan is bleeding!’ all the while pointing at the stain. You have to understand, we had all been taught directly or indirectly, that having your period was shameful, something you should hide from others. So, when she did it, the other kids joined in, boys and girls, laughing and shouting her name. I know you expect that I was better, an anomaly in this childish hysteria, well, you’re wrong. I stood there petrified, scared to even get close to her. I kept imagining that I was probably next now that girls in my year were catching it. If I got too close, it’d be me in her shoes, so I opted out, ‘no thanks, empathy’.

It was only after she was sobbing and shaking from embarrassment that some older girls come and covered her up and led her to a private area. She spent the rest of the day with a sweater covering her stained dress. The school did not send her home. Later, we came to the realization that it had indeed spread, a couple of other girls in our class had already had their first period. This unfolded in an emergency girls’ meeting the next day, called by the school’s female teachers, which was meant to keep us ‘alert’. And although they addressed the shaming, nothing much as done to help the victim or deter such behavior in the near future, and only the girls got an earful.

When I get my period, I remembered Joan’s first and my heart sunk. I had all these questions that have only grown with time. How is she experiencing her period? Does she still remember how embarrassing her first time was? Does she like her sexuality given its ‘limitations’? Does she resent those who mocked and shamed her more than those who stood by shocked and helpless, maybe even selfishly? If she has kids, has she taught them to embrace every aspect of their sexuality? Has she passed on trauma and ignorance based on how she was raised? Has she taken a path of educating and nurturing? Or has she forgotten?

I know I haven’t.