“I am not ready.”
“Ready is indistinct . . . irrelevant,” came the reply. “As I made the universe and all things in it, I made you.”
“But what will I do?”
“What you must.”
“But how will I find my path?”
“Let your instincts guide you.”
“Will I remember you?”
“I am you. I will always be with you if only you seek me.”
One moment I was enveloped in an indelible cocoon of such great depth...volatile, frenzied, beautiful controlled chaos. The swirling, voluminous reactions of the source elements conspired to give birth to a new era of us. I am not fully formed, like Mira - never to be a Sun.
I am expelled. An object passes – shiny and foreign and inauthentic. It does not belong here. The chemical stink left in its wake merges with me and I morph into something . . . different.

Fatima stifled a yawn. Resting her chin against her palm, she stared out the window at a dull gray November sky crowded with alternating racing and sputtering hovercraft. A narrow miss startled her, but not enough to bring her out of her reverie.

Her second try at human physiology 201 wasn't progressing much better than the first. I'll drop out before I suffer through another semester of indignation from this witch. But her bravado waned with the sobering realization that not passing had the most unfortunate side effect of not graduating. No, not passing isn't an option.

With the grace and swiftness of an an arthritic centurion, Professor Eulea lumbered to within inches of Fatima. The early models of synthetics were far from perfect. The idea of racial neutrality had crept into the design, resulting in skin color that was like the gray of concrete than anything resembling a human. The voice, had a metallic lilt, about as appealing as raking fingers across an old chalkboard.

“Fatima,” she said. “Are you paying attention? No, Of course not. I asked you a question. Which lobe in the cerebral cortex is responsible for the degenerative effects on white blood cells caused by sleep deprivation?”

Fatima's eyes widened, darted side to side like little brown marbles in an ancient pinball machine. Dammit, is it the parietal?

When I started in this business, I was the young hotshot. Dazzling, innovative, edgy—those had been the words used to describe me. I was a freelancer and I'd hit pay dirt with Nefaria. Everybody wanted me; Marvel, DC, Dark Horse. But did I go with one of the big boys? Nah, I sided with the new kid on the block. Wonder Tales snagged me with their laid back atmosphere and the promise of free doughnuts every morning. The boss, sporting a long ponytail and frayed blue jeans sealed it with the tempting offer of partial ownership. “When things take off,” he'd said.

That was a measly two years ago. Today, my boss Wood said Nefaria was yesterday's news. I'm a few years shy of thirty and here I sat on the verge of becoming a has-been.

Nefaria had turned into a cash cow; that he couldn't deny. But he thought it was time for me to come up with something new. “No comic runs forever,” he said, crumbs tumbling from his constantly full mouth. The man's stomach was a bottomless pit, but somehow, he still weighed a buck fifty. “Ya need to start thinking about your next big hit. Keep Marvel and the other boys reeling.”

“Another one,” I called to Tony behind the bar. I threw back scotch, one after another, hoping the answer, this damnable next great idea would suddenly surface. I was like a deep sea diver, low on oxygen, but convinced he'd uncover a hidden treasure with just one more dive.

The mirror behind the bar reflected what little light there was in the shoe-box of a watering hole. Through the haze, I saw her--the dark haired broad in the corner. Beautiful one she was: long legged, eyes an inky black and what looked like an ample bosom hidden discreetly under the high necked blouse.