Remote working, the job ad said, so I settle in the unmapped spaces and open my files. They’re written in berry juice on dried bark, written in sand, then blown to oblivion by wind that’s lost its way. As far as I understand, my only co-workers are an astronaut and a deep-sea diver, each wrapped in radio silence, and we receive our daily duties via instinct and intuition. The compass coils into itself like a startled turtle. Coordination cracks to spasm. Supplies arrive when I snatch brief sleep, and in my downtime, I build ships and write messages in bottles, bottling up my misgivings and grievances until my next meeting with the management. Will there be a meeting with the management? Not the remotest chance.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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