“Are you okay, Elara?” John’s voice came through her comms.

“Yes, I am. Why?” she replied sharply as if John had questioned her ability to perform the spacewalk.

“Nothing; I just noticed your heartbeat is elevated.”

“My heartbeat?” she retorted.

“Don’t worry, Elara. I always feel tense before a spacewalk. It’s natural to feel nervous.”

“I’m neither tense nor nervous,” Elara retorted.

“I mean excited,” John altered his statement.

“Yes, I’m excited,” Elara responded, then tethered herself to the chamber, released the outer door lever, and pushed the door open. She instantly felt intimidated by the vast blackness sparkling with distant, tiny stars. From her viewpoint, she could see the space station’s habitation module, their living section, and part of the solar arrays that provided the electricity to sustain the station’s life support system. The station appeared small and fragile, a speck of dust against the immense emptiness of space.

With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she leaped outside. The sensation was overwhelming and immensely satisfying. She skillfully manipulated the controls of her Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU), activating its tiny jetpacks, and spun around until she faced the Earth. Although she had seen the planet from the station’s portholes, viewing it from outside the station, floating about 400 kilometers above sea level, was mesmerizing. “My God, it’s so beautiful,” she exclaimed involuntarily.

“It’s a breathtaking view, isn’t it?” John said over the comms.

“Yes, it is,” she replied, filled with awe.

“This view of Earth never gets old. I wish the industrialists who are actively destroying our planet for a little extra profit could come here and see it from this perspective—to understand how fragile our beautiful planet truly is. Earth is our home, the only place we can live. Yet, for personal gain, we are actively harming it,” John said while monitoring Elara’s movements.

Elara replied, “I see your point, John.”

Elara was on duty and had a job, so she reluctantly turned her gaze away from the mesmerizing swirl of the emerald green and deep blue marble-like globe, navigating toward the solar arrays using her MMU’s controls. With John’s help, she quickly located the damaged solar panels and began her meticulous assessment. Although the space station was orbiting the Earth at a staggering speed of 28000 kilometers per hour, Elara felt as though she was utterly stationary, suspended in the silent void of space as she focused on the damaged solar panels below her.

Three individual solar panels, each measuring one square meter, were severely damaged, likely due to a collision with high-velocity space debris—probably discarded technological junk from previous human space ventures. Two additional panels showed signs of partial damage caused by debris as small as grains of sand. Despite their tiny size, the incredible speed of these particles, combined with the motion of the space station, allowed them to pierce the solar panels with the force and precision of bullets smashing a car’s windshield. To evaluate the extent of the damage, she initially concentrated on the panels with less damage, carefully assessing whether they could be salvaged or if all the panels needed complete replacement.

The monotony was interrupted by a peculiar sensation that made her mind flurry. Soft as a whisper, a gentle, barely perceptible breeze lightly brushed against her right arm, causing a slight shiver. “Impossible,” she dismissed it as mere imagination. She was encased in a pressurized suit 400 kilometers above the Earth’s surface, with no atmosphere capable of generating a breeze. The thought that her suit sleeve might be punctured and losing air filled her with concern. To reassure herself, Elara glanced at the digital readout on her wrist to check the oxygen level and the suit’s pressure. The readings were regular, and her spacesuit’s integrity appeared intact. She once more dismissed it as mere imagination and returned to her job. But the sensation intensified as if she had held her arm before a spinning fan. Her breath became shallow, echoing loudly in her helmet. She quickly checked the readout on her wrist again, which showed nothing unusual. “Is this monitoring device faulty?” The thought crossed her mind, triggering a wave of panic. If her spacesuit were leaking, she could lose pressure and die in a few minutes, if not seconds.

Before she could say anything, John came on the comms and asked, “Is everything okay, Elara? I noticed your high blood pressure and heart racing dangerously fast.”

“I can’t breathe!” she nearly shrieked.

“Why’s that? I don’t see any pressure drop. Your suit’s pressure is stable.”

“The life signs monitoring device must be faulty. I feel a constant breeze against the skin of my right arm,” Elara said in a voice filled with panic.

“Abort! Abort the mission, Elara,” John shouted over the comms. Although his monitor didn’t indicate any issues, it was better to be safe than sorry, so he asked Elara to abort the mission.

Overwhelmed by panic, Elara pushed herself away from the solar arrays and attempted to return to the airlock. However, with her impaired concentration, she lost control of her Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU), which made her spin around violently, intensifying her panic. “I can’t do this!” she yelled desperately.

“Elara, calm down. You can do this. You’ve trained for situations like this,” John replied.

“I’m losing air. I’m going to die,” she said, her voice barely intelligible.

“Elara, if you’re losing air, it’s not that serious; otherwise, you would have already died.”

Elara’s sobbing was audible through the comms; she was experiencing a panic attack.

“You can do this, Elara.”

But Elara wasn’t in the right mental state to hear him; panic clouded her judgment.

“Lieutenant, take a deep breath and regain control. This is an order,” John said with authority, understanding that soldiers in shock would respond better to commands than rational conversation. Their intensive military training aimed to condition soldiers to follow orders.

“Yes, sir,” Elara replied weakly.

“Lieutenant, listen to me carefully. Take control of your MMU and return to the airlock ASAP. This is an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. After several failed attempts, she regained control of her Manned Maneuvering Unit and slowly but steadily moved toward the space station hall and the airlock. Seeing the hall grow bigger through her helmet’s visor boosted her confidence. “I’m getting closer,” she said joyfully.

“Keep going, Lieutenant, you can make it,” John said authoritatively.

Elara involuntarily laughed as her hand touched the airlock handle. It was a great relief; she was saved.

“Lieutenant, slowly push the lever down and open the airlock’s outer door.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, pushing the lever down.

Standing in the airlock chamber boosted her confidence. She wasn’t going to die alone in Earth orbit. The hiss of air filling the room was the sweetest music to her ears, reassuring her of her safe return. When the inner door of the airlock opened, John, the station commander; Martina, the Italian astronaut and biologist; and Sergey, the Russian cosmonaut, were there to help her. Until then, the readout had shown no faults in her spacesuit. They quickly assisted her in removing the suit and carefully checked it. It appeared intact, but a pressure test would be needed later. Martina handed her a warm drink and said, “Please drink this; it will make you feel better.”

“Thank you,” Elara said, happily sucking the warm drink—hot chocolate—from the container’s nozzle.

When they helped her remove her undergarment, Martina discovered a spider in the right sleeve of her dress. “Where did this spider come from?” she asked.

“This is a space spider,” Sergey teased.

Martina quickly grabbed the spider and transferred it into a sealed glass container. “On the previous mission, the crew researched spiders’ ability to produce silk webs in zero gravity. This one likely escaped from their container.”

“So, all this drama is caused by this ugly spider?” Elara asked.

“It appears so,” John responded.

“It felt like a breeze brushing against my arm,” Elara said.

“The station should be bug-free, so you didn’t expect a spider to be in your suit, which is why your brain interpreted the sensation of the crawling spider on your skin as a breeze—like a breeze brushing against your skin,” Martina explained.

It’s 6 a.m. now. The storm has passed and the pre-dawn darkness looms heavily upon the wet earth. I bless a shred of fortune for the whispering hum of my ‘44 Toyota, and the stale electricity lingering in its battery. Just a collector’s item these days, one I nearly sold a year ago because of the questionable legality of driving it on the V-line dominated highways. The data on its dusty screen offers me 60 miles of travel. Just enough to reach my destination.

The road is desolate, and my mind absently travels to the desperate ploy that rendered me this earth-encumbered box in my passenger seat.

“Mr. President! Mr. President, a word please! Morton Thompson, United Press.”

Secret service shouldering me aside as I attempt to attract the president’s attention.

“I know about March 3rd! I know you’re planning to flee and the airbase you’re fleeing from.”

The president and his entire retinue freezing. A black suited bodyguard grabbing me from behind and putting a hand over my mouth, dragging me into an empty room and closing the windowless door. The president’s face fracturing with stunned panic.

“How do you know? Who told you this?”

My head nodding to the roll of papers stuffed into my pants pocket.

“This article is scheduled to automatically release to the American public tomorrow morning. Go ahead – read it. When the country learns of what you’re planning, every person with a firearm is going to head to that airbase. And when they can’t get on the shuttle, they’re going to make sure it’s destroyed. I can prevent this information from releasing. All I’m asking for is a seat.”

The memory haunts my heart. That my last act in the capacity of a profession I once thought meaningful was one of blackmail unsettles me. And this, to cast my lot in with the men and women I was prepared to cast to the dogs as traitors to humankind. But then I remember the void, and my fear unseats my guilt. I have tried, in these past two weeks, to stare into the dark abyss that must be death, and reconcile my mind to the thought of non-existence. I have stared into the interminable blackness, the unadulterated silence, the endless absence of consciousness. I have imagined eternities upon eternities unfolding and the very blanket of time beginning to tear, and through it all, the complete darkness of consciousness that is death. The idea is nauseating, and my mind rejects it like an upset stomach does food. And so I flee, at any cost or disgrace, from the darkness that pervades our atmosphere and speaks of the true darkness on its heels.

When I reach the gates of the remote airbase, my old vehicle whirring with exertion, I flash the badge they issued me and drive past the soldiers manning the gate. I park and trudge into a small command center a half mile from the launchpad. My two-feet-by-one-foot-by-one-foot trunk weighs heavily in my arms. Some eighty individuals linger inside, holding hushed conversations or staring silently at the floor. I see the president looking pointedly away from me. A woman near the door points me to a small bay where an electric buggy is idling, hitched to a cart laden with boxes identical to mine. I pile mine on top. I spend the next hour sitting in a plastic chair, wondering what I ought to do, say, and think in my last hour on earth, and reaching no conclusion.

The time has finally come. The immense rocket boosters and attached passenger shuttle is ready for takeoff, and we are ushered outside and towards the boarding tower by the engineers who, inexplicably, are willing to remain behind to guide our transport away from earth. 8 a.m., and the sun is well above the horizon. I wish the storm had not abated before my last view of the sky. Had it not, I could almost believe that this blackened atmosphere and ashen sky are the gloom of thunderclouds. Perhaps the rain would ameliorate the acrid taste of the charred air. We are climbing the tower and beginning to board. I weep for the ashes in my lungs – all that is left of D.C., Philadelphia, New York, and Los Angeles; of Orlando, and Cape Canaveral, and Huntsville. I weep for the millions of terrified unfortunates cast instantaneously into the abyss of death. I wish the rainclouds would return. Instead, the unfading cloud of detonated cities hangs poisonous and rainless upon the air. Where this cloud lingers, death will follow. It is smothering the sun and chilling the earth. They say it will bring the demise of all crops, and that remaining mankind will starve to death in a year.

We blast skyward towards the interstellar transport that is to take us to a new earth. We reach the transport and successfully transfer over from our shuttle. I find my seat and avoid looking out the window, down towards the smoking earth. Our ship begins its final journey, and I rise from my seat to join the queue waiting for the minuscule restroom. As I do, a stack of gray containers buckled to the wall catches my eye at the back of the passenger hold. I exit the line and walk to the homogeneous assembly of boxes. I scan the printed numbers until I find number seventy-two. What idiot brings a box of dirt into outer space? Yet I know why I did. This box contains earth, rain, and a seed of life. That seed is the offspring of an organism that lived with purpose, a purpose fulfilled in this seed. It is an organism that lived its mortal life with purpose and that will die without pain. Yet why do I pine for eternity while squandering the mortal life I have? Why is the seed of eternity planted in the heart of a mortal man?

Hurtling towards the newborn Terra Nova colony where my new life will begin, I wonder whether the sting of death will be duller in this new world. I wonder whether the future of non-existence, just as inevitable in the new world as the old, will ever reconcile with the irrational certainty in my heart that my consciousness must persist beyond death; that the being of my inner self must surely be eternal.

What motivates scammers to ask for money from strangers on social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram?

Scammers ask strangers for money on social networks, simply because they can. Apparently, there are many innocents wandering around in the cyber jungle who are willing to help their new, amazing friend and send them money for whatever reason. Even if the victim says no to the first request, the scammer will continue to ask. Why? Because it works.

This was the case of my ex-fiancé, Dr. David Johnson_Version2, in Yemen, who was a model of perseverance. Even though after his first attempt, I told him the truth (that he had unknowingly participated in a linguistic study), he did not believe me because David and I continued to correspond for seven months (a lifetime in ScamLand years).

Our fateful relationship included the following scams: (1) Box of gold; (2) Flight ticket; (3) Wifi Connection. You have to give David points for this because he started with the big-time scam and ended with the little stuff (maybe he was desperate?).

Surprisingly, even though my dearest love was a doctor in Yemen, he was NOT an orthopedic surgeon, He had invented an entirely new specialization.

• I am a doctor working in Yemen taking care of the injuries Army. (Dr. David Johnson, curing military injuries in Yemen)

He sent me pictures of his house, dog, car, yacht, etc., to let me know that he was a ‘catch’. The problem was that I never knew what he looked like because he had sent me two photos of himself that did not match. Perhaps he had had plastic surgery.

When I mentioned that they were photos of different men, he became furious and accused me of having poor eyesight. (Dear reader, in the interest of ophthalmological research, please let me know your opinion.)

• You can’t see well.. you should have told me ok.I think you have eyes problem that’s why. (Dr. David Johnson in Yemen, telling me that I cannot see.)

Fortunately, my lousy eyesight was not an obstacle to our love. Even though I was “matured” (over the hill), he still wanted to grow old with me. He even suggested that we run a hotel or restaurant together, while investing in real estate. I was his “golden fish”.

• I don’t see any reason to trow my net for fishing anymore when i have a golden fish under my net. (Dr. David Johnson, comparing me to a fish in Yemen)

Since his love for me was ‘desperating’ him, he even became poetic and began paraphrasing the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda.

• My queen, I love you without knowing how, when, and from where.I love you without any problem or pride. I am fully devoted to you. I love you because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no you or me, which is so intimate that your hand upon my chest feels like mine, that when I fall asleep, it’s your eyes that close. (Dr. David Johnson in Yemen, imitating Pablo Neruda)

Given that our mutual love was now assured, the very next day, David began the first scam (box of gold). That evening, I received a deranged email, which I cannot post here due to its length and unusual language. To summarize, he was forced to send me a consignment of gold so that it would be safe from his ex-wife. Although he had initially told me that he was a widower, his dead wife had suddenly resuscitated and become an evil zombie. The good news was that the gold would all be for me!

• I trust and believe in you that is why I’m sharing this secret with you. All I need is your understanding and trust,so that the agent can deliver the box to your doorstep. (Dr. David Johnson trusting me in Yemen)

He was sending me a consignment of riches beyond my wildest dreams. BUT, nothing is free in ScamLand.

• I think you will not pay much before you got the box. (Dr. David Johnson assuring me in Yemen)

My dearest love thus sent me the email, where I could get in touch with Mr. Desmond of “Global Delivery and Logistitcis Service”. (By the way, this quaint website, riddled with language errors, is still online.)

From Mr. Desmond, I learned that the ‘little fee’ was $3250, which amounts to a lot of Barbie Dolls for my granddaughters. As soon as I paid it, the gold would arrive at my door. When I asked my love how I would pay this amount, he was very reassuring.

• you can remove any money you spend on it before my coming over to you. And I hope you understand what I mean my love. (Dr. David Johnson, giving me money in Yemen)

I went to the website and looked up the company’s address on GoogleEarth. At that time, the company address happened to be the same as that of an abandoned ice skating rink on Canary Wharf in London. (As I have just seen, the current address is a vacant lot somewhere in Nevada.)

My fiancé gave me the tracking code (GNUSEDY2MF) and asked me to contact Mr. Desmond. Unfortunately, Mr. Desmond was unable to explain why the package was located in an empty field (as shown on Google Earth). Even more important, his message did not meet my demanding threshold level of English.

• Madam your request cannot provided and if you are willing to receive your fiancés package then it’s left for the both of you. (Mr. Desmond being incoherent, God only knows where)

I thus informed my dearest love that nefarious scammers were deceiving him.However, it was evident that he was at their mercy, as evidenced by the following message he sent me.

• My love you have to use this link. Tracking numbers is (GNUSEDY2MF). My love. Please can you calm down and listen to my instructions? My love you’re holding the agent to commence on the delivery, you seems to have negative impression and bad thought for me. Please remove all the negative from your mind and know that I’m the true man for you. (Dr. David Johnson in Yemen, encouraging me to be more positive).

I informed my fiancé that I was not going to send €3250 to a company representative that could not write correct English. His priceless reply was the folliowing:

• And you expect everyone to be English language (Dr. David Johnson in Yemen, criticizing my high linguistic standards)

And David was right. Perhaps that is what I expect. However, my dearest love was not deterred, and like Terminator, continued on to Scam no. 2. (To be continued in subsequent posts).

What are the culture shocks when you go to America?

Many, besides those already answered by fellow readers/writers, there are several additions that made us quite surprised:

• The crazy use of plastic bags. I always bring my own bag/shopping bag, but people look at me strangely when I show that I have my own bag. It often happens that one plastic bag is only filled with one item, it’s really not eco-friendly.

• The food portions are huge, so always bring a doggy bag when you go home. Just looking at the portions is already mind-blowing 🤮 can’t finish it.

• Soft drinks/sodas at restaurants are always served with a lot of ice, even if I order not cold, they still give me a few cubes of ice. For me personally, drinks in the US are too sweet and the portions are too big.

• Here’s an example of a size that can cause bloating. Just so you know, 1 Oz/Ounce = 30 ml

• On the highway, anyone can overtake from our right, trucks do not always have to be in the right lane. It often happens that super long trucks compete with each other on the interstate, seeing it really makes your heart race.

• It’s easy to get a driver’s license (in Florida). Just show your German driver’s license, take a 50-question theory test (10 can be wrong), no driving test required, pay $55, answer 5 health questions, take a photo on the spot. Two hours to complete, cheap + cheerful + fast. Compare this to getting a driver’s license in Germany which takes 4 months + all kinds of tests + costs thousands of €. Make it at the Tax Collector Office according to your domicile – and not at the DMV (Dept of Motor & Vehicle aka Samsat).

• Highways in big cities like LA or Miami are confusing and misleading, we often take wrong turns even with the help of google maps. Once we make a mistake, that’s it… we have to go around and make a long detour.

Greetings from afar.

I Regret Cheating on My Ex Husband, He Divorce Me