Anne stood, shoulders slumped, toes pointed inward, head tilted forward so her hair hung in front of her face like a veil. She hoped it provided cover for her dry eyes. The line for witnessing the art exhibit snaked all the way from the small, intimate “featured piece” space, through the large, open standard exhibit hall, to the front door. The tile squeaked as she moved forward obediently, getting closer to the feature room, careful not to step on the foot of the woman in front of her.
The glass vial jingled in her pocket. She sighed, reaching in and wrapping her fingers around it. Today will be different.
Eventually, she crossed the threshold into the feature room, and it felt moist with palpable grief. A warm musk hung in the air and she heard the telltale signs of successful witnessing: sniffs, moans, sobs, and a few wails. She peeked through her hair and saw a woman kneeling at the base of the exhibit, weeping with great passion and beauty, catching her tears in a vial, which appeared to be almost half full. Her vial glowed a modest, respectable hue of blue.
The same impotent jealousy swept over Anne, but she pushed it back, focusing on her steps as she approached the exhibit. The experiential art facilitator, a woman of fifty in a paisley dress, gently took the hand of the woman in front of Anne and walked her to the rail in front of the featured art piece. The woman promptly cleared her throat and let forth a warbling moan. Anne saw her reach into her purse and pull forth a very fashionable vial with the word “condoler” in many different languages, outlined in glitter. The woman gripped the rail in front of the exhibit with one hand and threw back her hair. Fat tears sprang from her eyes and she lifted the vial to catch each tear that ran down her cheek. She stared hard at the artwork, the moan bubbling long and low as the tears continued to flow.
Anne marveled at the ease with which the woman could produce verisimilitude. She must have truly been a condoler, like her vial said. Within a few moments, she’d managed to fill the entire vial. Authenticatia, the chemical coating the inside of the vial that confirmed the identity of the person and measured the purity of tears turned the liquid a deep, rich blue. Anne blinked and shook her head at the pure, undiluted purity of her verisimilitude. She’d never seen anyone with tears that potent before. She couldn’t imagine the value the woman held in her hand, created from nothing more than her own emotional response to the artwork. That would buy my class text files for a whole semester!
The art facilitator approached the woman gently, but there was no need to usher her to the outer witnessing space; the woman had generated a full vial of verisimilitude in such a short time that she simply walked to the exit as she placed the vial in her purse. Anne took a deep breath and stepped forward.
The facilitator gave her a warm, gentle smile and pulled the cord on the artwork for Anne to see. A haunting, impressionistic painting leered at Anne from its spot on the wall. A figure, vaguely ghostlike, appeared to be giving birth to a porcelain doll. The ghost had one hand curled toward a bulky shadow who stood in the distance with a posture of indifference. Many weeping, ghostlike figures also stood in the distance, cradling their own dolls.
Anne admired the piece, recognizing its artistry and creativity. An emotional response to the piece bubbled inside her, but it was subtle, gentle, like a distant echo of sound in the mountains. She pushed on the feeling, willing it into tears, but nothing came. The art facilitator looked at her, puzzled. Anne cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on the gentle feeling of sadness inside her, but as she tried to increase its intensity, it left her completely, replaced by anxiety and self-loathing. What is wrong with me? I must be some kind of monster!
The woman laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s time for the next person. Perhaps you could reflect more on what the piece means to you in the outer witnessing space? Sometimes it takes a moment to truly connect with your response to the piece.”
Anne nodded, depressed but dry-eyed. No matter how long she spent in the outer witnessing space, it would not produce verisimilitude. She slinked out through the back door, knowing it was hopeless.
#
“No tears at all?” Anne’s knowledge facilitator, Dr. Astral-Breeze asked, raising her arched eyebrow.
Anne shook her head, too ashamed to speak.
“But . . . the piece was moving, correct?” Dr. Astral-Breeze asked.
Anne nodded. Her gray sweater felt tight against her skin, and when she tried to meet the other woman’s gaze it felt like staring into the sun. She looked at the floor and pulled on the neck of her suddenly scratchy sweater.
Dr. Astral-Breeze took off her fuchsia glasses and rubbed her eyes. Anne looked up when the woman’s eyes were closed and watched the woman’s perfectly curved salt-and-pepper bob move rhythmically. The trapezoidal lenses blazed with intermittent flashes when they caught the yellow lamplight from the corner of the office. She placed her glasses back on her nose and sighed. “Anne, I want to give you credit for witnessing the piece, but how can I do that without the tears to prove your sincerity?”
Anne shrugged. She didn’t possess the ability to articulate what she experienced any more than she could produce tears on command. Her emotionally moderate responses seemed to puzzle and frustrate others. “I’m sorry, Facilitator Astral-Breeze.”
“Doctor,” Dr. Astral-Breeze corrected her.
Anne blushed. “Dr. Astral-Breeze. My apologies for my minutia harm.”
Dr. Astral-Breeze smiled. “I forgive you. It happens to the best of us when we are experiencing ordeals.”
Anne didn’t really feel like she was experiencing ordeals, but decided not to push it.
“Your writing is fantastic Anne, and you”—she clicked a few buttons and looked at her monitor—“you have the highest scores on exams in your entire program. Your research is novel and, frankly, peerless. But all of that is just learning facts, reason, problem-solving. To graduate you must demonstrate your moral fitness by producing verisimilitude.”
“I understand,” Anne whispered. She pulled at the uncomfortable sweater. Dr. Astral-Breeze drummed her nails on her desk. The clicking sounded like gunfire in Anne’s head.
“Okay. Look, I’m going to refer you to one of our campus feelings doulas. They’ve been able to coax young persons through emotional problems in the past. I’ll be honest, nothing quite this extreme, but I’m trying to help you salvage your academic career.”
Anne cleared her throat. She knew what she was about to ask was heresy. “If I know the material, could that be enough? I know a lot about art. I’m doing well in my physics, math, and history courses, too. I just . . . why does crying have to be so important? I do feel things, I just . . .” she trailed off, feeling that impenetrable inability to access the right words in her brain.
Dr. Astral-Breeze looked over her shoulder self-consciously, then whispered to her, “Do you know the exchange rate for a vial of high-grade verisimilitude? At the university, we have a responsibility to produce this currency. What would I say to leadership if we graduated a student who had never produced a single drop of verisimilitude?”
Anne hid behind her hair again.
Dr. Astral-Breeze started typing. “I’m putting in your referral to the feelings doulas right now and marking it urgent.”
“What happens if I can’t produce tears? Not during witnessing ordeals, or art exhibits, or guilt reflections?”
Dr Astral Breeze smiled at her. “I believe in you, Anne. You are a very bright woman with a bright future. I have full confidence you will get this issue resolved.”
The day of her first appointment with the feelings doula, Anne left her dorm in plenty of time to arrive at the office on time. She locked the door of her dorm and walked through the hall, toward the exit. Her slippered feet padded on the carpet, making a hushed, soothing sound, like kind words whispered to the handful of morning mourners.
One girl wore huge headphones, obviously listening to moving music, or perhaps a guided guilt reflection. A vial trembled in her hand, pressed against her cheek. At the end of the hall, a tall girl in a smock who lived on her floor and went by the name Tidal Movements spoke softly, sharing her ordeals, and a half dozen girls from the dorm witnessed with great weeping. Anne blinked in amazement as Tidal cried and didn’t even try to catch her tears. Such an audacious show of wealth always shocked Anne. She must be a true condoler to not even bother collecting her current verisimilitude.
A short girl in a voluminous flower-printed dress held her vial up to the light, and the blue was so dark very little light went through it. Her tears were very pure, undiluted verisimilitude. If she can feel sadness that deeply for another person’s story, why can’t I just feel enough to produce even a single tear? I must be some kind of monster. Anne felt so glum she almost turned around to go back to her room and skip the appointment altogether. But she willed herself to continue, refusing to let herself turn back.
As she passed the group, a girl in a floppy orange hat fell over wailing, almost landing on Anne. The girl in the flower dress picked up the fallen girl’s hat and fanned her with it as the other girls turned their attention to the young woman on the floor and began witnessing her spontaneous expression of an ordeal. Anne stepped around the group, trying to make herself very small.
She reached the feelings doula’s office across campus. A sign on the door said “Enter with a manifesting heart.” A short, wide candle burned from three different wicks. The pungent smell made Anne’s eyes water, but unfortunately those weren’t tears produced by witnessing. Even if she caught them in her vial, the authenticatia would show they were empty of verisimilitude. The smell threatened to overwhelm her.
The office contained woven tapestries on the walls and a long, grasslike green carpet. The doula sat on a large, colorful pillow. A dried seaweed rope held back her long hair and a large necklace of the entire solar system hung against her neck. Her turquoise pantaloons puffed out around her as she sat cross-legged on the pillow. “Please be seated,” she said in a dreamy voice, eyes closed serenely.
Anne sat awkwardly on a pillow opposite the doula, smoothing her dress. She waited for the feelings doula to say something, but the woman sat, unmoving.
“Um—” Anne said nervously.
“Shhhhhhhhh . . .” said the doula in a long, slow hissing sound. “Let your feelings position themselves for birth in the ethereal gravity of silence.”
“Alright,” Anne said obediently.
“Shhhh . . .”
Anne tried to let her feelings position themselves in the ethereal gravity of silence, but felt unsure of how to do so.
The feelings doula suddenly leaned forward and grasped her hands. Anne gasped in surprise. The doula’s hands were strong, but her touch was gentle.
“Feel the silence,” the doula said.
Anne swallowed hard. “Is that a question, or a, um, command?”
“Both,” she whispered.
The feelings doula lifted Anne’s hands in the space between them where they sat on the colorful pillows, then released them. Anne felt unclear on if she should leave her hands there or let them drop back to her lap. She slowly lowered them, and the feelings doula didn’t react, so she thought it must be okay.
“Move your head up and down while you tell me the saddest thing you have ever experienced,” she commanded.
Anne started moving her head up and down. “Like this?”
“Yes,” said the feelings doula without opening her eyes.
“Well . . .” Anne cleared her throat. “I guess when one of my moms died when I was fourteen—”
“Do you feel the feelings positioning themselves in your esophagus for birth? Your head nods are helping move them forward. You may feel fatigue from the intensity of the birthing process of your protracted feelings—”
Anne tried to tap into her feelings about when one of her moms, Sheila, died. A small bloom of sadness opened inside her as she saw Sheila throw her head back and laugh in her memory. She did not notice the head bobs impacting that feeling at all.
“Now click your tongue between each word! Do you feel the feelings crowning now? They are very close!”
“Uh, I click feel click sad click when click I click think click about click my click mom—” Anne bobbed her head and clicked, feeling very distracted from the small grain of sadness she had been feeling.
“Yes! I can see the feelings manifesting now! Can you feel the tears coming?” the doula shouted.
“I click don’t click know,” Anne said honestly.
The feelings doula suddenly grabbed the sides of her mouth and pulled her mouth wide. “The feelings are ready for birth! Nod and click with all your psychic might!”
Anne nodded so hard her neck ached and clicked her tongue until it felt numb. The feelings doula flapped the sides of Anne’s mouth, creating a sound like boots stepping in mud in between each of her clicks. The doula stared at her with wide, expectant eyes. “Let them go!”
Anne tried to maintain eye contact while she nodded. “I’m click trying!”
Frown wrinkles appeared across the feelings doula’s forehead, and her mouth arched into a frown. “They . . . well . . . they should be coming now.”
“I’m click sorry!” Anne said.
“Maybe don’t nod so hard. Click a little quieter.”
Anne scaled back the intensity of her nodding and clicks.
They sat with each other awkwardly for several moments, the feelings doula flapping the corners of Anne’s mouth back in forth, continuing the comical squishing noise while Anne clicked softly. The feelings doula slowly took her hands from Anne’s face. “Hmm . . . well. The feelings were crowning but your tears are stillborn.”
Anne swallowed hard. “Well, what does that mean? For me, I mean?”
The feelings doula sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for you. This is the most cutting-edge method we possess. If your tears remain stillborn, I’m not sure if your condition is treatable.”
Anne waiting for her to say more, but the doula sat silently.
“So, that’s it? I’m just like . . . not fixable?”
Tears welled in the feelings doula’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Anne. I don’t have anything further to offer.”
Envy and resentment seeped into Anne as she watched the woman cry. The tears came so easily for her; she didn’t even bother catching them in a vial. Was she so wealthy to just throw away her currency, too?
“How can you sit there and cry in front of me?” Anne asked angrily. “You create verisimilitude so easily and just . . . taunt me with it.”
The feelings doula shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m a condoler. I can’t prevent verisimilitude any easier than you can create it.”
Anne felt intense resentment and anger as she stared down at the carpet. She cleared her throat. “Well, I guess I’ll go.”
As she stood to walk away, the feelings doula caught her hands gently. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
The intensity of her anger dulled a bit, and Anne felt a sliver of pity for the woman. She probably had really wanted to help her. “It’s not your fault. No one can.”
Anne slinked back to her dorm, feeling dejected and anxious. What could she possibly do? If she couldn’t produce tears, she wasn’t going to graduate. She had no idea what crying had to do with physics, but everyone on campus just kept telling her how important it was. Dozens of groups of girls lounged on the quad, many of them witnessing the ordeals of others, creating verisimilitude and sharing ordeals themselves. A cacophony of grief sounds surrounded her. Warbling wails joined low moans and quiet sniffles. But all of them grieved for each other in the right way, and Anne felt truly alone.
She saw Tidal Movements from her dorm striding leisurely across the quad. The setting sun framed her head in a halo and Anne decided to take a risk in her desperation. She opened her mouth, but felt almost too intimidated to speak. Her vibrant, colorful makeup and towering height cut an impressive figure, and her verisimilitude abilities made her somewhat of a celebrity on campus.
“Urm, excuse me, Tidal Movement?” Anne asked meekly as she tried to meet the girl’s strides.
“Oh, hey Anne,” Tidal Movement said breezily. “What’s up?”
Anne felt both shocked and honored the girl knew her name. “Are you heading back to the dorm?”
“Yeah, want to walk together?” she said warmly.
“Sounds good,” Anne said. “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute, in, uh private.”
Tidal Movement looked a bit puzzled, but shrugged. “Sure, Anne.”
“I dunno, it just kinda comes to me,” Tidal Movements said as she leaned back in Anne’s desk chair. Anne sat on the edge of her bed in a rigid posture.
Anne cleared her throat. “I won’t graduate if I don’t. All my grades are great, but I’ll be found morally inferior if I can’t produce verisimilitude.”
Tidal Movements put her hands behind her lavender head of hair and leaned further back. “I’m sorry you can’t cry. I can’t even imagine that. But I can’t really teach you how. And even if I could, you wouldn’t have to pay me. I’d just show you, but I don’t know how to show you.”
Anne poked at one of her cuticles, not meeting Tidal Movements’s gaze. “Do you have any pointers? Things you use to, I don’t know, stimulate the process?”
Tidal Movements thought about it for a moment, her tongue clicking against her teeth. “Well, I usually start by thinking about my own ordeals. Everyone around here has to provide witnessing, so I am guessing someone has done that for you.”
“I don’t think I have ordeals.”
Tidal Movements looked at her seriously. “I bet you do and you don’t even realize it. Has anyone ever mixed up your name?”
Anne shrugged. “Well, yeah a few times.”
“That’s an ordeal! Has someone frowned at you when you were talking? Failed to laugh when you told a joke? Has a parent said you couldn’t do something?”
“Yes.”
“Those are all ordeals! Just think about those things. It starts me crying every time, and I can produce tons of verisimilitude.”
Anne shook her head. “I guess those just don’t seem like . . . big deals.”
Tidal Movements laughed. “Are you kidding? You internalize those things and they scar you for life! Every minutia harm leaves an imprint on your body. That’s where your verisimilitude comes from!”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Those things just kind of don’t stick with me.”
“I dunno,” Tidal Movements said with a shrug. “I’m just a natural condoler I guess.”
Anne thanked Tidal Movements for her time and walked her down the hall to her room. She felt dejected and hopeless, but even that couldn’t create the tears she needed. Tidal Movements gave her a hand a squeeze. “You’ll figure it out, Anne. You are a smart girl.”
The door to Tidal Movements’s room shut gently and the hall felt barren, like an abandoned building. Most other students were out studying, having supper, or hanging out with friends. Two doors in the hall stood open, one at the end of the hall and the other right across from Anne’s room. Anne remembered the girl across the hall went by Raven something. They were acquaintances, but not quite friends. On impulse, Anne poked her head through the threshold. “Um, Raven?”
Magenta light from a lava lamp painted the room with amorphous blobs of color. The warm room felt abnormally quiet.
“Raven?” Anne asked again. Shadows in the room glowed momentarily with the changing light, then returned to shadow again. Anne’s ears buzzed with the total silence. A bead of sweat ran down her back.
On the desk stood a tray of vials. Most of them were empty, but Anne saw three vials with authenticated tears in them.
How could someone be so wealthy as to just leave authenticated tears around like this? Doesn’t she know how much this is worth? How much other people wish they had even one of these vials?
Anne felt resentment well up inside her. Resentment and something else. Self-justification. She looked over her shoulder down the hall and saw no one. No footsteps echoed in either direction. She stepped toward the desk, swallowing against a dry lump in her throat, and reached out a shaking hand. Her fingers hesitated over a full, sealed vial, and then over the open half filled one beside it. She reached past them both and pinched an open vial only about a forth filled with tears. The specter of guilt hovered inside her, along with intense anxiety.
This one. The facilitators know I struggle to produce tears. The others would seem suspiciously full.
She looked at the label. “Retreat, Raven. DOB: 23/45/PME61.” A shiver ran through her as she put the stopper in the top and placed it in her pocket. A whisper of wind pushed her hair back as she slipped out of Raven’s room and into her own.
She took the vial from her pocket and stared at the blue liquid inside. The harsh fluorescent overhead lights of her dorm shined through the light blue authenticated tears. The faintness of the blue indicated only a modest amount of verisimilitude. It would look suspicious if she suddenly could produce dark blue authenticated tears after all her struggles, so she felt like she’d grabbed the right vial. She tipped the vial more and watched the tears slide along the glass. Hatred sprang up in her heart with startling sharpness and speed. It doesn’t matter how hard I work or how smart I am. The only thing that matters is this stupid emotional currency I can’t produce. I hate these tears. And I hate that they are making me cheat, and the way that makes me feel about myself.
The lights above her buzzed as she watched the lazy liquid slide along, the tears not having the slightest concern for what they had cost her in self-respect. You know what? Why should I feel guilt for cheating on a meaningless, stupid test that has nothing to do with my skills? She put the vial in a drawer of her desk and sat down on her bed, feeling strangely liberated, her guilt burned away in the conflagration of anger, resentment, and self-pity.
#
The three knowledge facilitators murmured to each other as they sat at the desk in the fifth-floor conference room where she would demonstrate her verisimilitude. Dr. Astral-Breeze gave her a nervous smile as she turned on the device she’d use for note-taking. Anne picked at a button on her blouse and rehearsed the steps of her deception in her mind. She felt the vial of tears tied to her wrist, tucked in the sleeve of her suit coat.
Changing the name on the vial had been easy. She’d always liked working at the verisimilitude exchange because it demanded precision and had clear methodology. Businesses would bring in hundreds of vials at a time from different customers who had paid for their meal or their new outfit in tears and add them to the tally of their accounts. The exchange would take in those spent vials, cleanse them of their authenticatia and laser the names off to prepare them for other customers. Customers with existing accounts would come in to request empty vials coated with their authenticatia, which the lab portion of the exchange would provide.
She’d had two dozen vials to work on a day ago and had just stealthily added Raven’s vial to the stack on her desk. Her name had disappeared under the intense light of the laser pen in Anne’s hand. The pen had hummed as she used the etching end to put her own name on the vial instead. She knew if she got caught, not only would she get kicked out of school, but she would also lose her job at the exchange.
Anne shivered at the reality of what she was about to do. Dr. Astral-Breeze waved her over, and Anne entered the conference room. She walked up to the long, rectangular table where the three facilitators sat and handed an empty vial with her name on it to the facilitator in the center. The facilitator confirmed the name on the vial matched the one on the device screen and let Dr. Astral-Breeze and the other facilitator do the same before handing the empty vial back to Anne. Dr. Astral-Breeze gave her a nod and Anne went to stand in the middle of the room.
“What ordeal will you be using to demonstrate your verisimilitude?” asked the facilitator seated in the center.
“I’ll be using the poem ‘The Suffering of the Estranged Body Under the Weight of Poisonous Kindness.’”
The facilitators murmured in approval.
Anne fingered the device on the lapel of her suit coat, and it connected with the speakers in the room. The rumbling alto of the poet began reading the opening verse of the poem.
Anne felt her pulse beating in her neck. She shook her hair and let it fall forward over her face, hoping it would look more like she was hiding her intense emotion than an attempt at deceit. The poet’s voice slowly gained intensity as she railed against the ordeals inflicted on her by the compliments she had endured. Anne furrowed her brow, pulled her lips down in a frown, and slowly brought her hands to her face. She heard a muttering from the facilitator’s table and saw Dr. Astral-Breeze sitting forward, a hopeful look on her face, willing her to demonstrate her verisimilitude. The eagerness on her facilitator’s face moved Anne’s heart. A pang of joy at her facilitator’s earnestness stirred inside her, accompanied by sadness for her deception. She wondered if she might actually cry from this completely unrelated experience and then wouldn’t be forced to cheat after all. Anne covered her face, willing herself to cry, but no tears came and the hardness and resentment about being forced to prove herself replaced the tender bud of sentimentality.
She pitched forward dramatically and fell to her knees. The linoleum felt cold on her forehead and the backs of her hands, which were still clutched to her face as she lay prostrate on the floor. Her positioning limited the facilitators’ view to the top of her head. A scraping of chair legs echoed in the room as they stood from their chairs. Their gazes weighed heavily on her as she deftly tucked the empty vial into the fabric loop in her coat sleeve while removing the authenticated tears she had relabeled. It went off without a hitch; in a second the cork was out and she began sitting up, making a low moaning sound. She pressed the edge of the vial under her eye as if catching her tears. The small amount of tears made for a convincing experience—it wasn’t enough to be suspicious, nor was it particularly dark blue, which would have suggested deep, condoler-level verisimilitude. It looked like a small amount of modestly authentic tears, which is what someone who struggled with verisimilitude might produce.
Real tears came from the eyes of Dr. Astral-Breeze. She pantomimed clapping and mouthed “I’m proud of you!”
This time guilt returned, accompanied by self-loathing, and it did not leave. Anne felt awful as she pretended to gather herself and put a cork in her vial. She walked up and handed the vial to the head facilitator, who looked up at her with approval. The poet droned on in the background, but Anne didn’t have the heart to turn it off. The lead facilitator confirmed the name and held the vial to the light, confirming its authenticated blue hue. She nodded to her and smiled. “Congratulations, Anne! You passed!”
The facilitators clapped and Dr. Astral-Breeze came from behind the table and gave her a hug. She felt the strange warmth of her facilitator’s moist tears on her neck. “You did it, Anne! I knew you could do it! I’m so happy for you!” she whispered.
Something inside Anne’s heart felt out of place, and her sadness felt like a squirmy, unwieldy burden eager to spill from her. She wrapped her arms around Dr. Astral-Breeze and placed her head on her shoulder. I feared them and then I resented them and then I hated them. The whole time, they really did want me to succeed. They do care about me. She pressed her face against her facilitator’s shoulder, feeling the unescapable guilt and self-hatred and wishing desperately to be free of it. Nothing else mattered in that moment. Not exams, or degrees, or careers.
“Doctor, I . . .” she started.
Dr. Astral-Breeze stroked her hair. “I know, I know. It feels so good when you finally let go and embrace your verisimilitude. It really connects you to humanity and to the universe—”
“No,” Anne whispered. “I’m—I’m sorry.” She took the empty vial from her sleeve and slowly raised it to Dr. Astral-Breeze.
#
“Hey boss, you got that crate?” called a woman across the warehouse.
“Which . . . one . . . ?” Anne asked through her gasps of exertion.
“The twenty-four pack. You know, the vials with the new rubber seals?”
“Check . . . the loading dock . . .” Anne said as she bent low, grabbed a crate, and placed it on the shelf. Her translucent collection suit crinkled as she moved.
Another woman walked up to her, also wearing a collection suit but holding a clipboard made intentionally of dense metal that made it heavy and burdensome to carry. She also wore the heavy boots that the lab had researched so meticulously to maximize effort and therefore output. “Well Anne, we did it.”
Anne moved another crate from one shelf to another. “Did what, Jane?”
Jane smiled and turned the clipboard toward her. “Your little harebrained business idea has blossomed into a full-fledged industry juggernaut. Sweat is now the top currency in the world. It surpassed the value of tears this morning!”
Anne raised her arm. She watched as the ridges funneled her sweat into vials attached along the edge of the suit. The collected sweat glistened, clear and transparent, in the glass tubes. Anne shook her head and smiled. “That’s wonderful, Jane. Now, let’s get back to work!”
Thanks for reading! Feel free to subscribe, share, comment or send me a message. I would like to shamelessly plug my books now. You can buy SCAB AMONG THE STARS, the first volume of my dark fantasy series here. Come on! It is literally a buck. A single dollar. If you want book two, ECHO FROM THE VOID, why, you can purchase it right here. Please leave positive reviews and ratings! I’ll see you in a month with another free story.