She sat on the sidewalk, hoping for change.

She looked down at her threadbare mittens. She could see her pink fingers peeking out between the threads, as if trying desperately to greet the winter air.

She looked to the side, where her baby laid. He’d gone quiet an hour ago. Not a sniffle, a cry, nor a smile. His hands reached for the sky, as if trying to hug for his mother a final time.

She wiped her eyes and uselessly put him in her arms again.

She looked around her… and she saw nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing looked…. familiar to her.

The wind was a familiar enemy. Cold, bitter, and biting.

However, the warm people were gone.

The people… didn’t look like people.

They were cold. So cold. If she dared touch their skin, she feared she would get frostbite.

A couple walked by her. One carried a littler one in their arms. They looked at her and, as they always did, turned away. However it was different.

The baby, whose eyes seemed to shine fluorescent red, tilted it’s head slowly… mechanically. It’s eyes had no life. It’s eyes found her own child.

She held her boy closer to her chest.

She met its gaze until the baby looked away, it’s neck slowly adjusting for the movement. She could hear the bolts turning and machinery clicking.

The family walked away.

The woman looked down again at her arms. Her eyes felt wet.

She sat on the sidewalk, hoping for change.

She had always wondered how to collect the lives of those she created, to watch as her puppets’ lives unfolded in her hands. Every human life was laid out in front of her, but she enjoyed the ironic existence of those trapped in something they themselves invented. Columns of books on shelves that lived and breathed as those they housed. Every book, every life, had a different aura. A person’s life unraveled in those pages were written as every event unfolded, appearing in coherent sentences on the pages. They lived without being seen with Her eyes, spines shut and spirits pulsing, human lives flourished without the grace of celestial sight. With the scriptures of lives in her hands, She can live mortal yet immortal lifetimes, fingers tracing the letters bound to its owner. Forever expanding, forever growing in its wisdom and stories, the shelves never stop multiplying. Every death silences the colours that seep through the pages, hardens the cover of someone’s story. A birth lets her magic bind the bodice of the book, of the first thoughts of a baby sprawled on a new page, a new chapter. Cyan called Her name. It’s spine crackled like the chips of a new fire as Her finger touched his first thoughts. But this time, her fingers froze. Her eyes glazed over as her body suffocated in stone. Her pupils swayed from one side to another before eventually stopping in the middle of its rhythm.

What had She seen?

""Beep""

The light turned green, and the man at the front of the line walked through the machine which resembled a glorified airport security door, only thicker and made of metal.

“Beep”

He let out a huge sigh, knowing that he passed the test.

I looked around the room. Everyone was wearing their best clothes, acting fit and happy. Women wore fancy jewelry and were doing small stretches. Men wore tuxedos and gold rings, doing pushups on the concrete floor. Appearing “healthy” wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity if you wanted to survive.

Though the war was over, the damage remained. The nuclear winters made it impossible to grow crops on fields; bombings destroyed cities beyond recognition. Humanity was on the brink of extinction.

To counter this, the United Nations - or what remained of it - created the test: an examination of an individual's health, genetics, and intellectual prowess, determining their value to humanity. Survival of the fittest, monitored by the authorities and conducted annually to ensure citizens were able to ensure humanity's future.

If you passed the test, you survived. If not...

I shuddered. Best not to think about it.

The girl next in line entered the machine. The light flashed red.

""No! No! No!"" She shrieked, her face pale. ""This has to be a mistake! I can still - ""

I covered my ears, closed my eyes and looked away. Away from her anguished screams as the robot dragged her away and disposed of her. Placing her corpse with the stack of others who didn’t pass.

""Beep""

Kara’s eyes were glued to the hologram projected from her hands. No one really understands the pain that goes behind waiting to receive that special message, until you put the sender on do not disturb, to give you that tinge of excitement when you slide open the chat. Like everyone else, Kara had been spellbounded. Starting from twenty years ago, phones never leaving your hands became a reality, and sustainable relationships were literally embedded at the touch of your fingertips. There was no justification for Jack to not look at his phone. Every minute that passed by was the equivalent of subtle rejection. She tried to dial him, but his pre-recorded 3D mirage would stare back at her with a blank expression. Why was it so hard to just be in touch with him? As if Jack heard her silent complaint, a green notification suddenly emerged. text read: “I’m trying so hard, but you know how strict my parents are. If I can, let's go out next week.” Her heart sank, she looked up to the clouded sky, as if they were wishing her misfortune. Contemplating her response, she tried not to sound as disappointed as possible. “That’s okay, I understand, I’ll just wait until you can.” She tapped nervously against her palm, there was no consecutive response. Kara began to type again, then came to a halt, and pressed delete. It was incredibly hard to not show any sign of desperation, she didn’t want to place pressure on him, but why couldn’t he at least send a text back to comfort her? No matter how lively his 3D hologram looked, it still couldn’t replace the feeling of an authentic touch. Their distance was buried inside another 10G signal.

“Excuse me?”

I scanned his lapel pin. Tanner Gallagher. Male. Age 24.

Pushing my glasses up my nose, I entered his name into the screen. “Complaint or return? We offer full refunds.”

“Return. Awfully disappointing. Below average intelligence and pulmonary fibrosis! My wife and I have tried twice already.”

The third return of the day. “Greatest apologies. Our editors are usually the best! We will see to your problem immediately.”

The problem started crying. Carrying it to the laboratory, an orderly pressed it down on a tray. A scientist injected the silver liquid into its arm. It went limp, a couple strands of brown hair falling over its eyes. The scientist closed the door behind her.

A strong man lifted me. Ow, ribs! My glass of milk clattered against the floor.

“W-what’s happening?”

Mom sighed and smiled, shaking his hand. She didn’t look at me.

“Greatest apologies. Thank you for keeping it for four years. Our editors are usually the best! Now, we will see to the problem,” the man assured.

The lab was cold. A man in a white coat and a machine that was hooked to a tray.The little tray was uncomfortably hard beneath my back. The scream in my throat was frozen, the tears in my eyes were stuck in place. I wanted to jump off the table and run out the door but I couldn’t move an inch.

“Just myopia?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Hand her over to the rehabilitation residence. It’s good to go.”

Click, click as the clock ticked back.

Flurries of colours tugged him into a hurricane of laughter and hiccupy giggles. Shirleen, his youngest, clung to his leg like a climber to its foothold, fiercely snuggling her pudgy face into his worn-out denim jeans.

“Daddy! You come back!” Shirleen babbled with excitement, as if she hadn’t seen her rugged faced father for years. Her grime-sprinkled fingers tugged her father’s to the cake-topped table; tornados of sparkling pink dresses collided and pointed birthday hats bombed to the rusty floor.

Peering over the muzzled heads of savage toddlers, he clapped his hands. Others joined along: chubby palms met again and again, creating an asynchronous orchestra of joy - paired with a birthday song. Through the mess of pinks, purples, reds and yellows, a single soft, wavering light posed in the center and through the clammering of nonsense syllables and ringing laughter, a single drop caused the thundering boom of ear splitting black.

Silence sliced through the room. It was replaced by the drip, drip of the candle wax, and the splish, splash of a water atom as lungs disappeared and the roar of a mushroom-hat crashed and shredded the pearly walls, windows and tore through -

White.

Light, artificial, jarring white.

He stared at it. The sterile cabinets, the blue, hard plastic and the cold, metallic tubes stabbing his fingertips. The clock beeped, echoing through the hollow chamber. Just once more.

He closed his eyes - and saw black.

Click, click as the clock ticked back.