He had a haggard face, straight short hair, stocky build, not tall but he loomed a little over his pint of dark beer. He had usurped our usual table for a few weeks now, every Thursday night in the same dark wool sweater and quiet air. He never had company.

I watched him from my new window seat whenever I could not participate in my friends' conversation. Perhaps he was newly deposited here from some distant, cod-less shore. Perhaps he was released from a newly created ghost town, lost to a dwindling forest. Perhaps there was still crude oil staining his fingers. He wore a wedding band, silver, on his right hand.

Some weeks I wished it were not so uncertain to receive a warm reception from him, so that I might at least reclaim our table. But I like my window seat, so I didn't mind, really.

On Wednesdays, while the sun still shines golden in the afternoon hours, I go to the common room in the mathematics building. It is the only place near my residence with windows large enough to let the sunlight slant in across the room, and it is by far the best place to watch the sun set. It's usually not too hard to avoid the locals, though I usually find myself sneaking down the corridors anyway. On one such evening, I found the common room occupied by two people, one whom I recognized as my calculus professor from several years ago. The other I guessed was a student.

"You'll want the Griffiths for sure," said the professor to the student. "But I'm sure Valerie wouldn't mind you sitting in her lecture, if you let her know beforehand."

The student thanked him, and shuffled away. I winced at the scuffing of runners against wood, and this wince gave my presence away.

He smiled at me. "Good sunsets here, you know," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, don't let me distract you from your ritual. I'll only be here for a few minutes longer." He shuffled his papers, took a sip from his mug, and poked at his laptop. Whatever he was drinking smelled of heavy spice and ginger. It lingered for a little while after he had swept up his things and left, the air sweet and rough in my throat until the sky was velvet blue.

The next day I was timidly peering through the only tea shop I knew, which was on a street full of interesting little shops and pubs and places to eat. I saw that man come into the shop, firmly jangling the door chime, pacing down the shelves, stopping with his hands in his pockets in front of a selection of herbal teas. I spied a determinatedly Christmassy corner of the shop, and followed my nose there. I was delighting in a stash of spiced teas when he said, "Excuse me."

"Agh," I said.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Could you be so good as to pass me a box of chai?"

I would have liked to speak with him, but there was nothing to say, so I passed him a box and he thanked me and left.

That night, and for a few weeks thereafter, a woman sat at that table in the pub. She had a sharp face softened by long curls, which were all up in a messy bun, and she sipped at a dark beer while tapping on a tablet. I haven't seen that man again.

One day she was pottering about on the west shore when a great roar enveloped her senses, low and chest rattling, then cold and harsh through her lungs, then a piercing ethereal scream that whispered away. She opened her eyes. She was kneeling. She looked up.

A star was ascending over the western ocean, so brilliantly white that it flashed blue and green on its edges.

The Magistrate was anchored at the southern pier; she would never run so fast in the rest of her life as she did that day, yet the shore seemed to lengthen and the seaweed seemed to stretch out and the trees clawed back at her arms and shirt and hair. The air in her chest felt rough and sharp as she pounded down the pier. The ropes were slimy, crusted to the mooring, and felt as heavy as a planet.

She leapt into the ship and set off. She didn't dare to look up until she was out of the harbour and into the western ocean.

The sky was clear. On her left, the sun shone bright and fierce.

She went back into the cabin, counted her supplies (a week's worth, thanks to Benedict), leafed through Christopher's maps, found Agnes' binoculars. There was mold creeping along the back wall but the cooler was sound. She hefted the spare life jacket, examined it, put it on. There was room to spread a map along the floor, and a red pastel lodged between the desk and the windowsill. She thought for a bit, and made a few marks and arrows on the map. One mark was on the mainland. The sunlight was pale gold across the bow when she went outside again. A fresh breeze chilled her a little, and she looked contemplative.

A white light leapt out of the horizon, riding a tail of velvet blue. It slowed, glittering like the first star of night, and faded from sight.

She looked back to the island. There were no seagulls.

She went into the cabin and started the motor.

And then I dreamt I was something
with dry soft skin, ridged spine, knots under my shoulders,
my brain stumbles as I haul myself out of the water with arms too short.
A second time, while salt burns against my wings, I burst out.
I see, in the sky, sketched in white on blue porcelain
Jupiter.
I cry out. My voice warbles.

On the umpteenth night of her quest across the land of Topologica, she came unto the wastes of the Crystal Lattice. The light of her Blackbody Lamp shone steadily onto the undulating landscape. She took a step onto the roughly regular surface, and watched in veiled curiosity as her footstep rippled outward underneath the surface.

"Alright," she said into the warm dry air. "I can model the vibrations like a system of simple harmonic oscillators."

Heart pounding, she jumped onto the Lattice, and sighed with relief when nothing untoward happened. Off in the distance, the particles of the Lattice wiggled back and forth in the dimming lamplight.

"The vibrations can be quantized..?" she ventured. The Lattice continued to flicker where the light hit. She was silent, and then she burst out.

"All right, all right, I went to a talk on the history of superconductors and I didn't really understand it but these quantized vibrations work like bosons, like the light from my lamp if you wanted to count photons but photons are electromagnetic waves not vibrations of particles in a lattice in a fictional wasteland. Now, O Riddler, may I leave?" And she rolled her die...


[So our prof assigns a topic to read a few days in advance and describe briefly in few technical paragraphs or a creative medium of our choice. Creative pieces are usually marked much easier. Marks are deducted for excessive math vs English description. These can usually be pulled off in a couple hours at most. Comment: "Fun! Amazing you pulled this off @ the beginning of class! 10/10" Ironic considering that I've done all these previews half an hour before, if not during or after the class its due...]