The Wanderers

by Meg Howrey

For example, nothing in Helen’s data suggests that she would choose a yellow shirt.

Madoka has decided to be modest about her role because a crazy person who is Global Chief Sales Operative for a company that is the world leader in robotic caregivers might believe she is the head of an army of robotic nurses who are going to slaughter humankind, and if that crazy person was trying to seem normal, she might throw people off by saying, “I work in sales.”

Yoshi will not just be pretending that he is going to Mars, he will be pretending to be the most perfect person to go to Mars, and maybe he is, almost without question, he is, but that doesn’t mean he won’t have to pretend to be what he really is, because aren’t we all pretending to be who we really are? Madoka would like, very sincerely, to ask someone this question.

Awareness of imminent possible death is not without beneficial properties. Risk of annihilation can be a key ingredient, like baking soda. A teaspoon or so is sufficient to make all the other components rise up in glory, but without it? No cake.

“That Noise Is Almost Certainly Indicative of a Greater Problem” would be the title of the epic poem of the past twenty days.

“I feel under pressure to perform well!” Sergei shouts. “But Yoshi says that this mission is giving him opportunities to make meaningful contributions!” “I feel like my workload is manageable!” Helen shouts over a fresh burst of cacophony most unpleasant.

Mireille’s fantasy life is prone to these catastrophic reversals.

the Apollo astronauts reported that the moon smells like burnt gunpowder, which I guess is a thing every American knows the smell of.

Their landing site had been chosen for safety, not for exciting photo ops. It was the Martian equivalent of aliens coming to Earth and landing in a dusty field in Oklahoma.

(The astronauts have developed a way of letting one another know when an anecdote has been repeated too often. They say: “I love it when you tell that story.”)

Helen is filled with an animal urge to feel her daughter’s skin again, and for her daughter to touch her as if she is a thing that is known, as if she is a body that is loved.

I have been so long simulating the man I wish to be that I now believe myself to be this man. I think it’s real.