SFF Winning Entries

Here are the top three entries in our recent Sci-Fi/Fantasy short story competition, as judged by author Andrew Bannister, on the theme of ‘Eye’.

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Third place

Creed’s Law by Jack Tevreden

At the very beginning of the twenty-first century, Doctor Chris Creed of the University of Portsmouth completed two parallel comparative studies unrelated to his subject area and undertaken purely to prove a personal point to the Dean of his faculty. In the first study, he demonstrated through historic timetables that whilst his teaching and tutorial load had remained more or less static over the course of
his ten-year employ, his time spent on bureaucratic duties had more than doubled. In the second study, using two issues of the University telephone directory printed a decade apart, he was able to show that the administrative division within the organisation had expanded at almost the same rate as his paper-based workload, thus concluding that the role of the administrator is not to complete administration, but to create it.
For the Dean’s part, he blustered somewhat about confirmation bias and statistical noise, and consigned the study to a remote section of the University library, but in the next round of cost-cutting exercises instigated the cessation of printed internal telephone directories.

I. Everything, Everybody, Everyone at the Fourth Underministry
“This is preposterous and entirely not my fault,” I exclaimed to the interrogators, “we have all read about lives being turned upside down by love and romance and rudderless adventurers coming in from the edge of Paradise, disrupting our clockwork – so to speak – but surely, I thought, that was the stuff of fiction! Fantasy, even. You must understand I did not believe, let alone desire, that my own certainties be thrown into disarray by some free-thinking wild thing from the frontiers.” I stopped there, realising I was in danger of strengthening the case against me.
At this point there was a rotation in the interrogation team down there in the basement interview rooms of the Fourth Underministry. A smartly dressed gentleman of the QAA, the agency conducting the investigation, stepped quietly into the room.
“Eye,” saluted the new man, to the officer about to be relieved. “Eye,” she said in return with a nod, collecting papers together and standing up.
“Eye,” she said to the officer who had remained seated and would continue the inquiry into my apparent dereliction of duty, which is what they seemed to be getting at. “Eye,” he said, to her, and then again, “Eye,” to the new arrival.
“Eye,” said the incoming interrogator, taking his place at the desk, to his new partner, and then again, “Eye,” to me.
“Eye,” I replied, with the ceremonial greeting of the Fourth Underministry – a shortened form of the ministry’s exaltation ‘Everything, Everybody, Everyone’: a reminder that here at the centre of Paradise, we of the Fourth are dedicated to the smooth administration of the great prosperity of our age; that your wellbeing, safety and contentedness depends upon us, and our efficient management of all the trivialities of life on your behalf. I cannot deny that my personal salutation was inflected with a little resentment.
“So,” said the new man, without introducing himself, “about this Donna Maw…”
He opened a new paper file that he had brought with him, and proceeded to follow a line of inquiry that seemed to call into question my working standards since I had taken up with the frontierswoman. As I told the gentlemen of the QAA, it had been neither my design nor my desire to ‘take up’ with the frontierswoman Donna Maw, and whilst things had become somewhat chaotic at home since she had taken up with me, I would deny that I had brought the distractions of involuntary romance to my desk at the Fourth Underministry.

II. Dr. Creed, Administrator-Rex, The Paradise of A Billion Suns
“It would give me no greater relief than if you should remove my… cohabitor, as you put it, and send her straight back to the edge,” I suggested to the interrogators of the QAA, invoking the Good Doctor for good measure, “Creed knows I’ve wished as much myself – on several occasions!” It was entirely true that Donna Maw had moved into my modest apartment recently, but I could not emphasise enough that this was not by invitation; at least, that is to say, in the formal sense whereby the proper notifications to the Accommodations Authority were made, or even discussed. It was, at best, an informal arrangement, temporary, and even something of a misunderstanding.
“What a mess!” I said.
At this point there was a rotation in the interrogation team as two new investigators came quietly into the interview room.
“Eye,” said the first, a young man, surely too young for this sort of work, to the two who were seated opposite me.
“Eye,” and “Eye,” they saluted, in return.
“Eye,” said the second, an older woman, very serious looking, rather stern I should say, to the two who were now gathering up their papers and notes.
“Eye”, “Eye,” they saluted, in return.
“Eye,” said the older woman, nodding mildly to me, and I responded in kind though I hardly felt of a temper to show such customary formality in the face of this… onslaught, was it? I did not know. When my supervisor had told me that morning I would be sitting in on a performance review I had only the slightest inkling of what was to come – here at the Fourth Underministry we have a reputation for immaculate filing in service of Doctor Creed’s light-years wide Adminocracy and I was proud of my Personal Diligence Rating. The shadow of course was Donna Maw, her tales of adventure at the edge, where the flow-chart manuals of Paradise unravel on barbarian planets or stretch infinitely over the event horizon of uncivil societies; the shadow was Donna Maw, inviting herself into my life and dazzling me with her irregularities.
“Doctor Creed says ‘A tidy desk bears testimony to correctitude in systemic thinking’,” said the young man, taking a seat opposite without so much as an ‘eye’ for me; “and I suppose, though it is not for me to paraphrase the Good Doctor, one might extend that theory to ‘tidy recreational pursuits’, hmm?”
As I told the gentleman of the QAA, not for the first time, I should see any evidence of laxity in the workspace if I were being called to defend my labours; since I was quite sure the admittedly dazzling irregularity of my recreational pursuits – perfectly temporary, I might add – had not impacted negatively on my filing and forwarding for the Fourth Underministry.

III. Qui Administrat Administratores?
“In any case I am quite sure I haven’t done anything illegal,” I explained to the stern-looking woman and the too-young man of the QAA, “since Provision b.98 of the Accommodation Regulations allows for a 21-day cooling off period before cohabitations must be registered; certainly I was in the middle of cooling off.” I knew I should also disclose that when Donna refused to return unscanned provisions from Quartermasters, not only did I reproach her sternly but sent an itemised list to the shop manager with a sincere apology.
At this point there was a rotation in the interrogation team and the too-young man was to be replaced by a much older man, who looked tired and ready for some annual leave. His heavy lidded eyes were dark and his countenance weary, though I should not say he was especially unhappy-looking. He carried another file of papers. “Eye,” said the new man to the young officer, raising a laconic eyebrow in salute.
The young man popped to his feet enthusiastically, with a heart-felt “Eye!”
The stern woman and the tired man exchanged salutations as familiar colleagues of a comfortably well-worn working partnership – “Eye,” and “Eye.”
As he left, the young man gave me a penetrating look. “Eye,” he said, and to my mind, a little scornfully. He was gone before I could respond.
“Eye,” said the tired man to me with a very slight smile, and in return, also tired, I reciprocated; “Eye.”
‘Who administrates the administrators?’, qui administrat administratores, is not the official sobriquet of the QAA, though it has been passed down with a bureaucrat’s humour since the time of the original Doctor Creed himself, the organic human professor. The Good Doctor is believed to have coined the phrase before founding the Quality Assurance Administration to make sure no paperwork was ever misfiled nor any officer of Paradise negligent in their commission. Or at least not negligent in submitting timely reports on their commission.
“Setting aside your relationship with the frontierswoman for the moment,” said the tired interrogator, not unkindly, “might we look at other pursuits you have taken during your downtime – specifically, your investigations into tax evasion, a common… phenomenon, shall we say, of the less developed societies out along the perimeter of our Paradise.”
As I told the old fellow of the QAA, and not for the last time, it was merely in the interest of professional development – the thought had been forming in my mind that to understand the grasping motivation of barbarian races might help us develop a bureau that should annex them all the more efficiently and with less coercion. Though I did not care to provoke the QAA further, one might add ‘reducing the shenanigans accrued by putting these wild frontier operators – the likes of Donna Maw for example – in charge of integrations and absorptions’.

IV. He Reads Taxation & Evasion In Societies of Scarcity
“It’s just a hobby! No more than an academic pursuit,” I told my interrogators. At this point there was a break in the interview as a third officer arrived with a promise of refreshment.
“Tea?” he asked the stern woman, and “tea?” to the tired-looking fellow.
“Tea,” and “Tea, yes” they affirmed.
“Tea?” he asked me.
“Tea, please,” I said. It was thirsty work defending my diligence record and my mouth was dry.

V. Donna Maw Comes In From The Edge of Paradise
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, emboldened by the stimulating tea, “but I really do have a lot of work to do today and I cannot see the purpose of your delaying me any further. So I like to read historic tax returns in barbarian cultures? I have never once made a late filing at work, and as for Donna Maw, well – ”
At this point there was a rotation in the interrogation team and Donna Maw – yes! that Donna Maw! – came into the room, a file in one hand, tea in the other.
“Eye,” she said.
I was quite unable to respond in the proper manner. “D… Donna?” was the best I could manage.
Excitable handsome Donna Maw: in from the edge of Paradise – an adventurer who had come to me here at the administrative centre of our empire where irregularity of the least sort is frowned upon; who had turned my life upside down so briefly and suddenly with her impulsive brash demeanor, forced me to think about life without routine. And here she was, in the basement of the Fourth Underministry, in a suit, with an identity card on a lanyard around her lovely neck, with a file under her arm, with a smile – that delightful smile – with questions for me. Donna Maw, an officer of the QAA.
“I’m not an officer of the QAA,” she clarified, “I’m a recruiter for the edge. How are you holding up, darling?”
As I told my maddeningly wonderful Donna Maw, and not for the first time, I was entirely at a loss to understand what was happening between us.

VI. An Opening At The Third Underministry
“I can’t possibly go to the edge,” I protested to the officers of the QAA, and Donna Maw; “my apartment… my studies… and, and… what about my goldfish?”
Hearing myself and perhaps feeling a little emasculated by my own orderliness, I added, “I know that I have become a trope for the unwilling dullard reluctantly embroiled in a glorious quest to the back of beyond, but I simply shan’t go!”
At this point there was a rotation in the purpose of the meeting as an avatar of Doctor Creed entered the room, a sleek pearlescent humanoid chassis of androgynous features.
“Eye,” said Creed’s machine in dulcet and hardly robotic tones, to the officers of the QAA, to Donna Maw and to me.
“Eye,” and “Eye,” and so on and so forth. We were all standing to various degrees of attention, from a stiff martial attention of the QAA officers to my own uncomfortably nervous posture of the administrative underling. Donna, I saw, had about her the natural disdain of frontier types in the face of supreme authority – a pointedly casual acknowledgement of notional and wholly conditional hierarchies.
The Good Doctor, Doctor Creed, is of course ubiquitous across the Paradise of A Billion Suns – as are his administrative systems. The bureaucratic classes are devoted to the service of the Administrator-Rex and his staunch belief that happiness is a well-dotted Eye and a tidily crossed Tea. Oversight upon Oversight Committees ensure that the administrators are properly and efficiently administered, and always Doctor Creed is near at hand to assist with timely problem-solving via the humanoid machines of his great networked consciousness. With a flow chart for every eventuality comes forth an avatar of the administrator supreme.
“We are not sending you to the edge, Administrator J___,” said Creed’s machine reassuringly, “forgive us this perplexing rigmarole, but we were keen to vet you before offering you a position – a considerable promotion I should say – to the Third Underministry. There has been an opening, and we want stable types, predictable and reliable; you have passed with flying colours, and despite Commander Maw’s determined efforts to lead you into temptation, you remain steadfast. Just the sort of bureaucrat we want in the Third. You won’t even have to leave the planet, and your goldfish should be quite unaffected.”
As I told my assessors, and for the last time, I had been most put upon by this ‘perplexing rigmarole’ and remained perfectly opposed to the idea of changing my ways and my work, be it as an adventurer on the edge of Paradise or for the Third Underministry here at my home in the centre of everything, where they provide the administrative support for the adventurers on the edge of Paradise. I declined the promotion and admittedly, I did so with an overly-sharp tone which I would later regret when I had cooled down. Nevertheless, I was fixed to remain at my post with the Fourth Underministry.
“Well,” said Creed’s machine, “this is most unexpected. Most irregular.”

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Second Place

Under a Father’s Watchful Eye by Edward Barnfield

They don’t allow drones on school grounds, so they wait in a swarm until last period, buzzing beyond the gate. Wilson is usually pretty good at finding me and circling to my shoulders.

Wednesdays are for retail, so I have to go to the mall whether I want to or not. It’s fine today, because I have my fortnightly session with Dad, and I can see him in the food court and still get my credits. Wilson texts me the joke-of-the-day as I walk, as well as an update on the latest memes. Nothing special.

There’s this vast zig-zag queue at the mall, people squeezing through scanners while their drones whirr into red-ringed boxes that confirm whether they’re authorised or not. I always get nervous when it’s Wilson’s turn, scared that an alarm will sound, and they’ll take him away from me forever. Once we’re inside, he hovers level with my eyeline and even though I know he’s only tracking which shops I look at, it feels as reassuring as a loyal pet.

We take a detour down fashion alley, purely for the thrill. Wilson sends out a signal and my face is transposed onto every display I pass, my avatar arrayed in the latest couture. After a while I double back and smile as the shop doorways call me by my name.

Dad is easy to spot. He’s at the only table that doesn’t have a device above it, a gap in the cloud cover. There are only two types of people who don’t have personal drones – the ultra-successful and the socially irrelevant. Easy enough to assign his demographic.

“Hey, Princess. You’re looking so good,” he says, moving towards me then pausing, holding as if he’s awaiting further instruction. Then he looks at Wilson, snips, “Did you have to bring that thing?”

Every other table has a spiral of drones, of course, recording eating habits and sharing upsell opportunities. Only Dad, refusenik, perennial scold, goes unobserved. Even the homeless have them these days, I want to tell him. The council assigns them to rough sleepers, provides free wi-fi in return for tracking their movements. My biological father could pass for one of the unhoused right now, of course, with his faded too-small t-shirt and three-day beard.

“Part of the contract,” I say, sliding into the plastic seat and dumping my school bag between us. “Don’t worry, Wilson doesn’t have his audio capabilities on.”

Of course, that sets off a rant about invasion of privacy this, and dissolution of the private sphere that. Dad isn’t built for this era.

“Don’t you worry that someone will steal your data? Take your footage and do something with it?” he says, not understanding that that is the whole point of the exercise.

I let him ramble for a bit. It doesn’t bother me, his aversion to Wilson. If anything, it brings me closer to my drone, my daytime companion and personal market researcher. I was selected from a list of 2,000 girls for this programme, they told me. The rest of my class gets buzzed once a week, but I get a daily schedule. The companies see something in me.

Because you have to stand out. That’s the only real measure of success in the attention economy. Social profiles are the single most important factor in university interviews, job applications, according to Ms. Carter, the career advisor. My dad is the only one who doesn’t get it.

I want to check my pocket screen, see if Wilson has sent any updates, but I know that will make the lecture longer and worse. Dad likes to remind me that he comes from a time before devices at every mealtime, when people sat and talked with each other. It’s one of his favourite monologues.

Everyone else in the mall has a screen to shield them. The sixth-grade girls at the big table, picking through salads and scrolling through fashions; the married couple by the bins, where the wife is silently stabbing buttons on her pad while the husband visibly frets.

Seems like there’s only one other person in the food court who came here for conversation. A woman opposite is telling her friend something too sad for eye contact. She keeps looking over at the soft play area, blinking. Her friend is nodding solicitously, but I can see she’s trying to catch what’s happening on the screen in her handbag. Above us all, the drones clicking and capturing.

“How’s your mother?”

He finally switches over to his other soliloquy. Half our conversations break down when we reach this point, when he decides to replay old fights and share his perspective.

“She’s fine,” I say. “Can I get a drink?”

Dad tries not to buy food in the mall, brings sandwiches and dares the security guards to challenge him. Still, he knows Mum will check Wilson’s log and see if I went thirsty. I watch him struggle for a few seconds before he nods and hands me the cash.

When I’m in the queue for cranberry spheres it occurs to me that Dad’s two main arguments contradict each other. He hates the drones, but if he’d had one back then, he’d have all the evidence he needed. He could play back the footage from the marriage, show me how badly he was wronged. Downloadable family therapy.

There’s a commotion over by the holographic fountain when a woman comes in trailing a flock of personal drones. Heads turn, hands pause over hamburgers, as everyone tries to work out who she is. She’s tall with this big mass of black hair and a silent movie face, wide eyes. Hard to tell from this distance, but I think she’s a genuine dronefluencer, one of those celebrities whose movements are tracked and live-casted every minute of the day.  

One of the girls in the year above me, Mandy, tried to be a dronefluencer. She started with about five models, and then they multiplied exponentially. People remixed her movements into little dance performances. I hated her so much.

She had to drop out of school when the boys hacked her stream, superimposed her face onto deepfake pornography. It seems strange to be upset about such obvious fiction, but she took it to heart, apparently. My dad loves to remind me of her case as a cautionary tale, our own local moral panic. 

When I get back, he seems angrier than before, and I can’t tell if it’s the wait or the sight of the drone woman that’s set him off.

“Is that what you want?” he says, pointing at the melee. “Want to be followed all day, have your business smeared all over the internet?”

“Nobody says ‘internet’ anymore, Dad” I mutter, but he’s not listening, too busy crossing the streams of his favourite conversations.

“Your mother is not fulfilling her duty of care by letting you do this,” he says. “I’m speaking to a new lawyer. You’re too young to understand what it’s doing to you; how much you’ll regret this when you’re older.”

That’s Dad’s big fantasy, of course, the great log-off, when the world closes its computers and disentangles all the networks. He used to go to camps before I was born and sit in the woods with strangers. It was a fantasy then – the only disconnect he managed was with my mother – but seems almost obscenely impossible now. I can’t imagine a day without Wilson. I wouldn’t want to.

“You girls, so happy for any bit of praise. So willing to put everything out there for everyone. You don’t know what you’re giving up.”  

He’s quiet for a moment. I slurp my cranberry sphere, feel the ice at the back of my throat.

Finally, Dad breaks the silence and slides a hand across the plastic tabletop. “I’m going to have to move away for a while, Princess. Work. I will try to get back to see you before Christmas.” He seems intensely sad.

I want to tell him not to worry, that most of my closest friends are in different continents and it doesn’t matter. We track each other’s movements, swap real-time video, chat whenever the mood takes us. It’s like we’re neighbours.

Only, Dad doesn’t have a drone. Doesn’t even have a connected device. People like that move like ghosts, forgotten the moment they leave the room.

“It will be OK,” I say, and don’t reach for his hand.

Home is empty when I get there. Mum is out with Father 3.0. Wilson settles in the nest by my bed and powers down.

I sit on the covers for a while, then review the footage from the day. (Instant download is one of the benefits of this model.) I speed through the food court section, stop at odd moments to assess my body language. I catch myself in the lie about audio capabilities, freeze the frame on Dad’s defeated face.

“Princess,” he says.

There’s something easier about family in review mode. You can rewind and superimpose your memories of happier times on almost any scenario. That’s why people prefer screens to reality. 

Maybe in the future I’ll edit all my Dad meetings into one long stream, run loops every time he says he loves me and promises to do better. I could add video effects, make our eyes sparkle with pixels. That’s always an option.

You see, that’s the joy of living in this moment. Everything is content.

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First Place

Rate Me by Lexus Ndiwe

The air’s synthetic strawberry smell floods the streets. Its punchy aroma bombards my nostrils, and seeps into the back of my throat, causing me to choke on my own breath. The scent is as artificial as the faces I pull when I screw my husband. I should feel lucky to have married up, but something about this all feels off. When it is done, I watch him as he slips into the land of dreams. Has my state of mind ever been so carefree? In the full length mirror I stare at my naked flesh. It retains a flawlessness that organic skin cannot naturally possess. Sometimes I fear that the clear silicon enhancements will ooze out from my pores, and I will melt like a snowman. I am about to step away when I notice a thin scratch on my stomach. Shit! After fumbling for my phone, I turn on the GradeApp.

          “Grade, rate me!”

          *Initiating scans.*

          *Please wait. Your results are loading now.*

          Come on! Come on!

          *You are currently ranked: B.*

          I run into the bathroom and rummage around in the medicine cabinet. Where is it? Weight pills… Clear skin corrector… Found it!

          The needle laps up the sparkly blue liquid. In a trained motion, I pinch my stomach and inject myself. Last night, I fell asleep on the bathroom floor cradling the empty vial in my arms.

          Back outside, I marvel in the fact that the world can look so bright. All around me are animated neon signs, begging passers-by to click on the holographic advertisements. Embedded in-between the multi-coloured skyscrapers are the marks of nature: green twisting grass and fluorescent flowers. Until marrying my husband, if you asked me to describe a tree, I would tell you that it looks like a black squid, with its splayed tentacles anchored into the ground. The giant advertising screens, which pollute the top of every building here, create a permanent daylight. The neighbourhoods that I had known growing up were devoid of colour. I am on my way to work. The lady on the screens screams, ‘do me up’, as I pass. Her face is surrounded by surgical tools, while her body is probed with hands. The screen flashes. She is transformed into a grade A, the most beautiful class. She throws an animated letter C away, and in the next shot she is strutting down the street. I quickly check over my appearance. With a tad hesitation, I hold the device in front of my face, and press ‘scan’.

          *You are currently ranked: A.*

           When visiting my hometown, passers-by ogle at me. Every time I am looked at in this manner, I feel like a cut of prime beef being eyed before purchase. Is that not the same look my husband used to give me? When I arrive at the entrance of my workplace, the door scans my palm, and I gain entry.

          At the front desk, I am greeted by two perfectly made-up receptionists. The first receptionist’s beard is dyed in an array of pastel colours, and their Adam’s apple is enlarged. The other’s chest is so well endowed that it looks heavier then both of their heads put together.

          “Good morning, Madam. The Manager requests your presence in his office. Go up to the highest floor,” they say in unison.

          Even the lifts are pristine. As it travels upwards, I quickly undo a few gold buttons. After touching up my make-up, I reach my destination. Despite being married to this life for a year, I am still not used to the extravagance of this world. Reality always seems to exceed my expectations. So this is what wealth feels like? I am escorted to the Manager’s desk, and it is only when we are left alone that they speak.

          “Welcome to the company. Everything must feel a bit over-whelming, but you should settle in quickly,” says the Manager.

          “Thank you. I am really excited to be here,” I reply.

          Thank goodness for my husband’s connections.

          A person at the door interrupts our conversation. There is something different about his presentation.

          “What is your grade,” the Manager asks the Man.

          Without shame, the Man replies, “E.”

          I hold back my reflex to grimace.

          “E! So we are aiding such low grade scum! Ha! What a charitable company we are.”

          I do not dare to clear my throat. How long have I been deluding myself in this fantasy world?

           “E, come here and kneel before me.”

           Will he not even ask for his name?  At once, the Man complies with the Manager’s command.

           “If you want to get paid, then you will do exactly what I say. Who else would hire someone of your kind?”

          My sparkly manicured nails dig into my thighs. How many times had I heard that line?

          A strange sound erupts from the Manager’s oversized mouth. A ball of coughed up spit escapes, hitting the Man’s face. He does not react. I hold back my urge to gag.

          “Are you alright, love?” asks the Manager.

           “Yes, thank you. Just a bit of first-time nerves,” I reassure him.

          “I understand. You can go now. My wonderful assistant will show you where your new desk will be.”

         I thank the Manager again, and while turning away, they smile. Suddenly the mood changes.

           “E, hurry up and relax me.”

          I can feel the sick gathering in my stomach. Before I leave the room, I hear the slow undoing of a zipper. He is taunted when the Manager spews out that ‘this is all he is good for’.

          I rush into the nearest bathroom. The toilet bowl’s spotless metal reflects a distorted image. I hurl on to it. Who am I again? Even minds have attics with dusty boxes, full of things you no longer wish to see. Shame, the only evidence. I know that the Man could have once been me. My hands shake as I pull out my phone.

         “Grade, rate me!”

          *You are currently ranked: C.*

          C! I dig around in my bag for a shot. Damn it! In a side compartment, I find a tube of pills and stuff a few into my mouth. Alright, that should do it. I smooth out my hair and take a deep breath.

*

I have never seen so many pearl white teeth. With their canine smiles, my co-workers remind me of a school of sharks ready to devour each other. While being led to my desk, I realise that my sight has deceived me. I cannot believe what I am seeing. It is not chairs that my co-workers are sitting on but humans. People with grades D and below, branded on their foreheads, are being used as desks. Computers are hooked into their backs, as my co-workers tap away unfazed. My desk is the same. My co-worker ushers me towards a human-chair, and I am forced to sit down. I try my best to hide my discomfort.

          During breaks their faces are turned into ashtrays, and their mouths bins. I look around, but no one says a word. The walls are glued to the windows by people squeezing in-between the spaces. What is this madness? Am I going insane? I feel myself slipping away. In the bathroom, I stuff myself with more pills.

          “Grade, rate me! Please!”

*

“We are so impressed with your performance today,” says one of my co-workers.

          “Thank you,” I reply with a small smile.

          I am getting into the lift when the Man from the Manager’s office enters. He quickly closes the doors. I try my best to avoid him.

          “How was your first day?” he asks.

          I continue to ignore him.

          “How long since you had the change?”

          I look at him alarmed.

          “What are you talking about?” I ask.

           “Why deny it? It is clear that you have had an upgrade.”

          “It is none of your concern.”

           “Do you not miss your real self?”

          “I am still me.”

          “Just be honest with yourself.”

*

That night, as my husband sleeps, I sneak into the bathroom.

          “Grade, rate me!”

          The device does not respond.

           “Hello? Grade, it is me! Rate me!”

          *Access denied. Use of another user’s device is prohibited.*

           “Grade, it is me!”

          *Access denied.*

           In the mirror, I see my reflected eyes. Blown-up, they fill half my face. Shaved away, my chin is overly pointy. Am considered beautiful now? I remember when I first met my husband. He told me how beautiful I could look post-surgery. Within a few months we were married, and I had the change. All I could think of was the opportunities awaiting.

           “Grade, rate me!”

          *Access denied. The device has been locked for security reasons.*

          I can no longer recognise the person staring back at me. If you asked if it was ‘worth it’, could I say ‘yes’ with confidence? I start out by bumping my forehead against the glass. Before I know it, my face is filled with shards.

          “Grade, am I pretty now?”

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