be possible to exist once the universe had expired? And, as Zha had so frustratingly pointed out, what would be the point? Damn him.
I became somatic once more and reposed onto the shifting plasma surface of a white dwarf on the outer edge of the known universe, warming myself with the dying star’s heat. The crackling and hissing of its radiation in extremis tickled my auditory senses. Why was I still clinging to this existence? Was I really so afraid of death? It was unclear how long I sat there contemplating my stubbornness and fear, but at some point Zha arrived, as I’d known he would. He didn’t say or think a word, and instead just rested next to me, still infinitely patient despite everything I’d ever said and done to him. Calm and resignation settled over me like a blanket as the white dwarf’s energy cooled.
“I’m ready,” I told him, and his response was not condescension or arrogance, but relief. He took my hand and vocalized the mantras he’d so long ago devoted himself to learning and tried to teach me. The ancient words flowed around us as a palpable living river, and I repeated them in sync with Zha’s utterances. All around us the stars winked out, but the chanted syllables took their place, filling every occupiable space in the now-cold universe with Om , our white dwarf the last to burn out, but deplete itself it did, bleeding its energy into us, into the words, lending us strength, and as its temperature reached absolute zero and its atoms ceased movement, a doorway of blissful orange light opened in my mind.
Zha turned to me, his smile both beautiful and beatific, his essence the very apotheosis of empathy and love, and held out his hand. I took it and followed him through.
How To Make Chalk
You need chalk.
Everyone needs chalk.
There’s never enough chalk.
It astounded you that first day, walking into the classroom, your first teaching gig out of graduate school, fresh with idealism and optimism, nervous at instructing a group of students not that much younger than you, who looked so confident and cocksure, who challenged you with their eyes, who dared you to challenge them , it astounded you that one of the simple tools of teaching was in such rare supply. You told them all your name, little bits about yourself, the most popular parts of the bio you regularly send to journal editors, and you reached toward the metal shelf below the chalkboard in order to display the vital facts white on black, full name, email address, office hours, phone number, but the shelf contained only a yellowish dust, the castoffs of some lucky predecessor.
You thought that maybe you could wet your finger and dip it into the dust, but after coating every finger on your right hand, because you didn’t want to repeat a digit, because that would mean licking off the dust already there, you had only gotten through the first three letters of your first name. You spelled out the remainder aurally, but none of your students wrote it down. They said they would remember, but you knew they wouldn’t.
Later that day, you complained to your division head, that this simply wouldn’t do, you must have chalk to do your job. But he just shook his head and laughed miserably, and talked about the financial situation of the college, and how there was not even enough money in the budget for basic supplies, that the school newspaper had to be disbanded, that the three broken computers in the journalism editing suite could not be fixed, that the library had to sell their entire selection of literature, that the faculty had to endure pay cut after pay cut, that he wasn’t sure if there would even be a college by the end of the semester.
And so, after careful consideration, you drove to the supply store that evening. You patiently explained to the manager what you wanted, and that, yes, you realized how rare and scarce and precious the item was, that you knew about the shortage, about the terrorist tactics of skin whitening,
I became somatic once more and reposed onto the shifting plasma surface of a white dwarf on the outer edge of the known universe, warming myself with the dying star’s heat. The crackling and hissing of its radiation in extremis tickled my auditory senses. Why was I still clinging to this existence? Was I really so afraid of death? It was unclear how long I sat there contemplating my stubbornness and fear, but at some point Zha arrived, as I’d known he would. He didn’t say or think a word, and instead just rested next to me, still infinitely patient despite everything I’d ever said and done to him. Calm and resignation settled over me like a blanket as the white dwarf’s energy cooled.
“I’m ready,” I told him, and his response was not condescension or arrogance, but relief. He took my hand and vocalized the mantras he’d so long ago devoted himself to learning and tried to teach me. The ancient words flowed around us as a palpable living river, and I repeated them in sync with Zha’s utterances. All around us the stars winked out, but the chanted syllables took their place, filling every occupiable space in the now-cold universe with Om , our white dwarf the last to burn out, but deplete itself it did, bleeding its energy into us, into the words, lending us strength, and as its temperature reached absolute zero and its atoms ceased movement, a doorway of blissful orange light opened in my mind.
Zha turned to me, his smile both beautiful and beatific, his essence the very apotheosis of empathy and love, and held out his hand. I took it and followed him through.
How To Make Chalk
You need chalk.
Everyone needs chalk.
There’s never enough chalk.
It astounded you that first day, walking into the classroom, your first teaching gig out of graduate school, fresh with idealism and optimism, nervous at instructing a group of students not that much younger than you, who looked so confident and cocksure, who challenged you with their eyes, who dared you to challenge them , it astounded you that one of the simple tools of teaching was in such rare supply. You told them all your name, little bits about yourself, the most popular parts of the bio you regularly send to journal editors, and you reached toward the metal shelf below the chalkboard in order to display the vital facts white on black, full name, email address, office hours, phone number, but the shelf contained only a yellowish dust, the castoffs of some lucky predecessor.
You thought that maybe you could wet your finger and dip it into the dust, but after coating every finger on your right hand, because you didn’t want to repeat a digit, because that would mean licking off the dust already there, you had only gotten through the first three letters of your first name. You spelled out the remainder aurally, but none of your students wrote it down. They said they would remember, but you knew they wouldn’t.
Later that day, you complained to your division head, that this simply wouldn’t do, you must have chalk to do your job. But he just shook his head and laughed miserably, and talked about the financial situation of the college, and how there was not even enough money in the budget for basic supplies, that the school newspaper had to be disbanded, that the three broken computers in the journalism editing suite could not be fixed, that the library had to sell their entire selection of literature, that the faculty had to endure pay cut after pay cut, that he wasn’t sure if there would even be a college by the end of the semester.
And so, after careful consideration, you drove to the supply store that evening. You patiently explained to the manager what you wanted, and that, yes, you realized how rare and scarce and precious the item was, that you knew about the shortage, about the terrorist tactics of skin whitening,
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