The Last Journal Entry of Carroway Miko

I was alone for New Year’s Eve this year. But then, that was my fault, so I could hardly blame anyone else.

Who was it, again, who opened the plant sample that the cosmonauts sent back through the matter transporter from Vesuvius IV? Who was it who didn’t read the warning, because it was still my first day of the internship and I hadn’t read the manual yet? And who failed to engage the face wash station protocol that might’ve stopped the infection? Me, myself, and I. That’s the only people I have to blame.

But that fact didn’t make the sounds coming from downstairs any less difficult to bear. The squeaky noise of champagne corks being loosened, followed by the celebratory pop! of their opening. The music, the talking, the footsteps. The occasional whispers that I could feel more than hear, at least some of which were about me. My cross pollination turned every one of the dead lilies decorating the tabletops into an earpiece for me. Like those metal pipes in the playgrounds back on Earth you could whisper secrets into. I never tried to whisper back anymore; the rest of the team found it “disconcerting” when the plants tried to engage in conversation. So I just listened.

My former boss, now having advanced to Station VP, still did his best to keep me in the crew’s memory. The dead woman who still walked around upstairs. Antoinette Cosway and I might’ve gotten along like a house on fire, if we were only 400 years closer in age. I knew his little offering was coming, but it never did help with the pain. The solitude was unending.

I heard the conversations in the station’s gathering space quiet, and the sharp tink! of fork against champagne glass. There was a flaw in the crystal, I could tell just from the dampening of the sound and the hesitancy as people weren’t sure what they heard. Heads must’ve turned, fingers gestured toward Thomas, as they slowly realized they were in for one of his speeches. 

“Folks. As we celebrate tonight, I want to remind you all that there’s a cost to our revelry. Not just the cost of the bottles we’re popping, or of the caviar we’re dipping our toast in. Every advancement this station has made, every step forward we create for mankind, comes with a risk. A human risk that each one of us bears whenever we work. Each word in the safety manual was written with blood. And in this, our eleventh hour, we must honor those who came before us. On this night, we honor Carroway Miko. An interning botanist from the University of Mars’ Tharsis Campus. To her, we offer this next toast, as she continues to linger with us all in this station, permanently tethered here after her tragic encounter with a specimen of Vesuvarius amidae. We raise our glasses to you, Carrie. Here, here.”

The students raised their glasses, some clinking with one another, and resounded his toast, but only hesitantly. The lilies among them conveyed their true feelings to me: “Why is Professor Milton talking about some ghost? Does he really believe in that stuff?”

I could only blame myself for what happened to me. But could I really blame myself for what happened next?

At 11PM, they toasted me. But by 11:55, Thomas Milton had wandered to his bedroom, a little too inebriated with champagne. A half hour past midnight, a few students found a way to bypass the lock to the 3rd floor, which housed only two disused offices, and my greenhouse. A plastic sheet barrier had been set up over the entryway, with a one-way airlock. They could offer things to me, but I could never attempt to offer anything back.

They came armed with a ouija board, and glasses of champagne. I saw one particularly svelte young blonde, who I assumed was Thomas’ assistant, holding the same flawed crystal glass he’d used to make the toast. It’s hard to anger a plant, but that did.

“We are calling to the ghost of Carroway Miko. If you are here, please make yourself known.” The young man had both hands placed on the planchet of the board, kneeling before it. His fascination with the occult worried me, but I supposed it was worth showing him who I was. I yawned.

Every plant cell in the station inhaled to its fullest potential, then exhaled just as fully. The dead lilies in the living room sounded like someone blowing their nose. The cactus in Thomas’ room sighed like a sad old man. In the hallway outside my greenroom, it sounded like an orchestra tuning itself. The planchet moved only as much as the young man in front of me flinched.

“Holy canolli!” cried the blonde.

“One of us has to go out there,” said the drunkest among them, a short young man with pink hair.

“Says you!” said the person with the ouija board, who’d quickly traced the word “GOODBYE” on the thing before slamming it shut. Good manners, at least, although entirely in the wrong direction.

“I’m not going out there!” cried the blonde. “There’s… pollen!”

She was right about that. But all I needed was her glass.

I attempted to sing for them. Like a talking violin, I tried to voice my desire: “Chaaaaaaammmmmmpaiiiiiignnnnnnnn.”

No one spoke. I repeated myself, louder this time. I knew Thomas was running from his room to my doorway now, as the cactus in his room reported to me. But he wouldn’t get here in time.

The blonde got the hint before anyone else did. As her cup was still three quarters full, she offered it to me through the airlock. She pressed the exchange button, and sent the flawed crystal to my side.

I sang again, a specific high pitched note. The glass vibrated, and then exploded, an exploit in the crystalline structure. The shards pieced the plastic barrier. I escaped outward. Free at last.

“You’re pasty,” Carissa remarks, slate blue eyes scanning my arms. “You look like Elmer’s glue.” 

I bite down hard to create a cage around the rude comebacks filling my mouth. Carissa is a burning match that self-diffuses when ignored. 

“You haven’t been outside in two months,” she continues, flat-toned. "You're going to turn into Hayden." Carissa has never been good at expressing emotion. I can never tell if it’s her concerned older-sister intuition or her belittling bully personality speaking. 

“Hayden has a disorder. I don't.” 

She flops onto the opposite end of the sofa, snatches the remote, and clicks on the TV. A reporter from New Hampshire rambles into his mic in the middle of the red-tinted haze that has enveloped the whole western hemisphere. 

“The bane of my well-being and joy,” I mutter, eyeing the scarlet tint of New Hampshire’s air. I flip through the tissue-thin page of my ARTnews magazine. 

“Gurlllll,” Carissa whines. "You’re so dramatic. I’m going to Whole Foods. You should come.” She often masks her genuine desire to enjoy my company with apathetic commands. 

“Nah,” I say. “You literally went grocery shopping on Monday.” 

Carissa tosses her wavy, straw-colored hair over her shoulder. “I need more kale and grape juice. You drank all of mine. And the cashier on Wednesdays is husband material.” 

I dog-ear an article about Van Gogh. “Have fun.” 

Carissa stares. “You need sun. Vitamin D.”

So she is concerned. I open my mouth to give yet another shot at explaining, at pretending I’m irrationally scared of being affected, but she has it covered for me. 

“‘I can’t go out there, there’s pollen,” she impersonates me with a Hollywood accent that I truthfully wish I had. It’s impressive how quickly she can switch from concerned to bullying. “Jane, staying in will kill you just as much as going out.” 

It won’t. I haven’t told Carissa that I am one of the few sensitive people who are affected by the chemical. She would lay off me in a heartbeat if she knew, but I prefer this obnoxious Carissa over the hyper-anxious mother that would appear if I told her. Frustration is better for her than stress. 

When Carissa doesn’t get a reaction, she grabs her keys and walks out the door. A current of pollenated air drifts through the living room. I plug my nose, close my eyes, but a hint of the chemical gets in my ears. Colors flicker behind my eyelids, and a breath of dizziness dances through. I hear violin strings, and after half a minute, everything goes normal again. Healthy civilians shouldn’t have to live like they’re schizophrenic. 

I hate the scientists who weren’t sensible enough to contain their disgusting rogue chemical. For how mythically brilliant they are, it’s infuriating how they were moronic enough not to take sensible precautions. They’re arrogant. They promised civilian safety when they had no control over their untested fertilizer that genetically mutates every plant it touches. 

Now, cherry blossoms puff out toxins like a chronic smoker. Now, I put up with Carissa’s poking. Now, people are suing the FAO, and America is the Country who Poisoned Earth. 

I switch the TV to Netflix and put on a Vermeer documentary. 

Someone screams outside. My lungs fall still, eyes flash wide. I scramble to the window. Our neighbor, Hayden, stands in the middle of the street. He’s brandishing a kitchen knife, pointing it as if it’s being pressed to someone’s throat. He’s alone. 

Hayden. 

Of course. I thought he never left because he has anthropophobia. Clinical fear of people. He doesn’t have it at all, though. I watch as he falls to the ground and screams again. Then he starts shaking. Not the nervous kind, but violently, unnaturally quaking. 

Pollen hits my eyes instantly when I fly outside. I make it to where Hayden’s convulsing on the pavement, but it takes twice as long. I need to avoid six-foot deep potholes that appear every yard. Violins start singing in my ears again. I grab Hayden and try to pull him up. His eyes are bloodshot and feral. The knife points at me. 

“It’s Jane!” I yell. “It’s me!” I don’t know what the chemical is making him see, but he doesn’t see me. He sees maybe a monster. A criminal. An alien. I need to get him inside. I need to get myself inside. Hayden swipes at me with the blade, splitting the skin over my collarbone. I wail and kick his hand. The knife clatters to the ground. I can’t help him if he’s fighting. Vivid colors flash everywhere, pink and green and yellow. I grab the knife and slam the butt of it into Hayden’s head. He crumples, and I hoist him around my shoulders. We make it to his porch. I freeze. Vermeer is standing at Hayden’s door, playing a violin. I squeeze my eyes shut. They burn like fire for a moment, all I see is red, then when I open them, Vermeer is gone. 

I thrust unconscious Hayden through his door and slam it shut. 

I start shaking on the floor next to him. My body’s possessed by the toxins. Humor hits me like a freight train, and I start cackling. This is so funny. The toxins cause more than hallucinations. The news never said that. Maybe Hayden and I will be the first reported cases. Maybe the feds will freaking do something about it. 

Carissa is going to flip out. 

I watch the ceiling as I shake. Vermeer appears over me with a cigar hanging from his thin lips. 

“Gurlllll,” he whines. “I'm going to Whole Foods. You should come.” He puffs a cloud of bloodred smoke at me. 

I wake up in a hospital bed. 

Carissa leaps out of her chair and rushes over. Her eyes are pink. I’ve never seen her cry before. There isn’t a drop of apathy in her voice when she whispers, “You should have told me, Jane.”

Where the Air Is Risk and Light Is Worth It

“I can’t go out there, there’s pollen.”

Mara said it like a fact, like gravity or winter—something that didn’t care whether you argued with it. The front door stood open just wide enough to let in the scent of blossoms and fresh-cut grass, and even that small invitation made her throat tighten. She stayed planted in the doorway, fingers curled around the frame, as if stepping outside might tip something fragile inside her.

Beyond the screen, sunlight spilled across the porch in warm, golden sheets. The breeze teased the wind chimes just enough to make them sing. It looked like a perfect day.

It lied.

“Just for a minute,” Eli called, already halfway down the steps. “Mom said you’ve been cooped up all week.”

“I’m fine in here,” Mara replied. Even she could hear how thin it sounded. Fine didn’t usually come with sealed windows, an air purifier humming in the corner, and inhalers lined up like tiny sentries on the kitchen counter.

Eli hesitated, then shrugged and headed into the yard. He kicked at a drifting cloud of yellow dust that sparkled in the sunlight. To him, it was nothing.

To her, it was everything.

“You’re missing it!” he called back, grinning.

Mara almost smiled. He meant well. He always did. But he didn’t understand what it felt like when your own body turned something ordinary into a threat.

“I can’t go out there, there’s pollen,” she said again, quieter this time.

She eased the door mostly shut, leaving just a sliver of light. The house wrapped around her—safe, controlled, predictable. Behind her, the steady hum of filtered air reminded her she could breathe here without thinking about it.

Out there, breathing had conditions.

It hadn’t always been like this. She used to run barefoot through that same grass, chasing dandelion seeds and laughing when they scattered. Spring had meant freedom then.

Now it felt like a season that arrived just to remind her what she couldn’t have.

A knock sounded at the door—lighter than Eli’s earlier calls.

“Mara?” Jason’s voice came through, warm but edged with something hopeful. “You ready?”

She closed her eyes briefly. She had promised. Before the pollen count spiked. Before the fear settled back in.

She cracked the door open an inch.

Immediately, she felt it—that faint tickle in the back of her throat, like a warning whisper.

She shut it again.

“I can’t go out there, there’s pollen.”

Jason exhaled softly on the other side. “There’s always pollen.”

“Yes,” she said, pressing her forehead against the door, “and I’m always allergic to it.”

Silence stretched for a moment, thin and careful.

“You’ve been inside for three weeks,” he said, quieter now. “You can’t keep hiding from the world.”

Mara’s chest tightened—not from the pollen this time, but from the truth buried in his words.

“I’m not hiding,” she said. “I’m surviving.”

The memory came whether she wanted it to or not—the last time she’d ignored the warning signs. The way her lungs had refused to cooperate. The panic. The sirens. The oxygen mask pressed too tight against her face.

Surviving had a cost. So did not surviving.

“You remember last time,” she said.

“I do,” Jason answered. “But you were caught off guard. You didn’t have your meds. This time’s different.”

Mara glanced at the small table beside the door. Her bag sat there, inhaler tucked neatly inside, antihistamines ready. A mask hung from a hook nearby—her doctor’s compromise between fear and freedom.

Prepared. Careful. Ready.

And still… afraid.

“Just ten minutes,” Jason said, knocking lightly. “Sit on the porch. If anything feels off, you come right back in. I won’t argue.”

Ten minutes.

Eli reappeared at the edge of the porch, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Yeah,” he added, softer now. “You don’t have to go far.”

Mara looked at the thin line of sunlight cutting across the floor. The outside hadn’t changed. The pollen was still there, drifting invisibly, waiting.

But something inside her shifted—small, persistent.

Maybe it wasn’t about pretending the risk didn’t exist.

Maybe it was about deciding what mattered more.

She reached for the mask and slipped it over her face, fingers steady despite the quiet thrum of nerves. Then she grabbed her bag.

The door creaked open.

The air met her cautiously, cool against her skin. She didn’t rush. One step onto the porch, then another. Her breath came slow and measured, her chest tight but not closing.

The world didn’t collapse.

The sky didn’t fall.

Eli blinked, surprised, like he didn’t want to startle her back inside. “Hey,” he said.

Jason’s expression shifted—not triumph, just relief. “Hey,” he echoed gently.

“Ten minutes,” Mara said, grounding herself in the limit.

“Ten minutes,” Jason agreed.

She sat down on the porch, leaving the door slightly open behind her—a lifeline she didn’t have to use. The breeze brushed against her, soft and curious, carrying the scent of flowers she couldn’t see but knew were there.

Her throat tightened.

For a second, fear flared.

Then it passed.

Not completely. Not forever. But enough.

They didn’t talk right away. The wind chimes filled the silence. Somewhere in the yard, a bird called out, unconcerned with pollen, fear or careful breathing.

“How is it?” Jason asked after a moment.

Mara considered the question.

The risk hadn’t disappeared. It lingered in every breath she took outside these walls. But so did this—the warmth of sunlight, the sound of life moving around her, the feeling of not being completely shut away.

Eli kicked lightly at the grass again, more gently this time, as if respecting an invisible boundary.

Mara watched the drifting pollen catch in the light.

It was still there.

But so was she.

“It’s… okay,” she said.

And for the first time in a long while, the doorway behind her didn’t feel like the only place she could exist.

For now, ten minutes was enough.

For now, she was outside.

Pollen

By Melissa Judith Avila

“Sir, you’re not going out today?”

“I can’t go out there, there’s pollen. And I have allergies.”

“Oh. I… didn’t know that. Can I get you anything? Maybe some tea?”

“That would be nice. Thank you, Esmeralda.”

“No problem, Mr. Castellano!”

Esmeralda went up to the kitchen to make her tutor some tea. She was trying to find his favorite, Puer tea and ginger. But to her surprise, she couldn’t find any of the ingredients! She rushed to tell him at once!

“Sir! Sir! You don’t have your special tea left in the cupboards! I have to go out and get it for you!”

“Esmeralda! There’s really no need! I- I can just get it myself later—“

And as long as he took to say that, as long as she took her purse and ran out the door.

“Es-Esmeralda! Wait up! Y-you don’t even know where the tea is!” 

Mr. Castellano ran out as well, hoping to catch up to her before she left the building.

…

Now Esmeralda was in the Dark Square, the square where everything strange and rare was found. There were many trinkets and odd things being sold around the market, but she couldn’t find the tea… 

So, she asked around. She started by asking the man selling jewelry.

“Greetings, sir! Um- I’m so sorry to ask, but do you know where to buy the tea? My tutor, Mr. Castellano—“ 

“Have you not bothered to just look in a supermarket?”

“It’s a specialty tea, sir. I don’t think I could—“

“Well just get out and find a supermarket. There’s sure to be tea somewhere. Just look harder.”

“But sir—“

“Are you actually gonna buy something?”

“N- no. Thank you anyways!”

Having no luck finding the tea, she decided to go to the woman selling notebooks.

“Excuse me miss! Do you know where I can find the—“

“In order to see the hidden tea, you must solve my riddles three! Solve them all and you’ll be saved, but fail just one and you’ll lose the way. Just—“

Esmeralda walked away. She was weirded out and wasn’t willing to do that.

She then went to the couple selling soaps.

“Excuse me! Do you know where the tea is? My tutor has allergies and I just—“

“Oh my darling! How you shine so! You are so precious, more precious than rubies, I say!”

“Oh, how you flatter me, sweetkins! Give me a big kiss!”

The couple held each other, and not caring for the moment, nor for the girl standing in front of them, they brought each other into a long, erotic kiss.

Esmeralda had enough of this tomfoolery.

“EXCUSE ME?! NOW ISN'T THE TIME TO START MAKING OUT! CAN ONE OF YOU JUST TELL ME WHERE THE TEA IS!?” She shouted.

The couple was suddenly startled and looked down at the young girl standing before her.

“Oh, it’s just a kid.” One of the sweethearts said.

Looking annoyed, the other replied, “The tea is just down at the other end of the block.”.

“Thank you.” Esmeralda responded.

The couple, finally relieved of their nuisance, went right back to making out.

…

Walking down the block, she spotted another issue. Two drunk men were at opposite ends of the street, arguing and throwing glass bottles all over the floor.

“GOSH DARNIT! YOU BETTER NOT BE TAKING MY MONEY!”

“IT'S NOT MY FAULT THE REDHATS SUCK! IF THEY HAD BETTER LADS YOU WOULD’VE WON THE BET!”

“OI! YOU TAKE THAT BACK! THE BLUEBELTS ARE WORSE! THEY ONLY WON BY GOD’S STROKE! YOU’RE NOT GETTING JACK!”

“SHUT UP AND JUST GIVE ME MY MONEY ALREADY!”

Now they resorted to throwing tomatoes at each other. Esmeralda held up her jacket and ran past the debris until she could duck into an alley.

But when she ducked into the alley, she tripped on a rock. And even worse, while she was still recovering, a person wearing all black rushed past her. She covered her bag and tried to protect the money within it.

“Hey! It’s not nice to steal!”

“Hehehe!”

She dusted herself off and continued on her journey to get her tutor’s tea.

…

The alleyway she took ended up getting her more lost. After many more twists and turns, it was getting dark. But finally, she arrived at the tea shop.

It was an old, crippled man sitting on a Persian rug with many teas laid before him. He was in a secluded area of the market, but she didn't mind.

“Greetings sir! Do you have any puer tea by any chance? My tutor is ill, and I’m trying to find it for him.”

“Um, yes, I do! Let me look around here…” 

Shuffling around the teas before him, only then did she realize he was blind. Taking pity on the man, she tried to help him, but he shooed her away.

“Now, now, I’m sure I have it here! It’s gotta be around here somewhere…”

He felt around a little more, and then a little more looking,

“Aha! Here it is, Puer and ginger! Is this what you were looking for?”

“Ah, yes! Thank you so much! How much is it?”

“Should be 200 coins! Not too bad of a deal!”

Esmeralda was grabbing her purse to pay. But as she did, her face dropped. She only had one coin left! That thief must’ve stolen the rest! After so long, so much trouble, she came for nothing. How tragic!

She was about to apologize and leave, when suddenly…

—Clink!

Mr. Castellano dropped the coins into a bowl and took the tea from the shopkeeper’s hands.

“Mr. Castellano—! I- I’m so sorry! I couldn’t get it for you…”

“It’s quite alright. After all, I wouldn’t have expected my pupil to come so far for this. All that matters is that you’re alright.”

“… Thank you, sir.”

“It’s getting quite late. I should get you home. But first, tea?”

She paused a moment before she said,

“Alright.”

The Pollen is Everywhere

“I can’t go out there, there’s pollen.”

“You’re not even listening to me.”

“I’m sealing the windows so it won’t get in again. I can’t handle that again.”

I’m glad I turned the air purifier on so it can’t get in here. It can’t get in here. Not like last time. Last time was bad. Really bad.

I taped the vents too, just in case any bad air tries to sneak through. I’ve got my hands protected with gloves and a KN-95 mask over my face. Nothing can get to me. In my hand is a can of sanitizer spray. I am protected. No germs on me.

“You remember what happened last time… don’t you?”

“Last time it got me?”

Of course, she doesn’t remember. It didn’t happen to her. It happened to me. That was the worst day of my life. It was spring, around April, and the allergens were floating everywhere. Of course, she said I should stop pussyfooting around and face my fears.

Well, I did.

And because of it, I came face-to-face with my worst fear.

The pollen was thick and heavy. It attacked my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. Hives spread across my skin, and my body turned bright red. I felt like I was burning. I guess I kind of was. I ran back to the apartment, slammed the door shut, and locked every window.

But the windows had already been exposed. The walls, too, probably. How else would bugs get in? The germs got in. I got sick, almost to the point of death, and I could never let that happen again.

So I fixed it.

I fixed it real good.

I sealed thick caulk around the windows and sprayed foam into the cracks around the doorframe. Nothing could get me now.

It’s been six weeks since I’ve been outside. Six whole freakin’ weeks. The season has passed, and the pollen is gone, but I still can’t bring myself to do it. That’s how it got so bad last time. Facing your fears… what a losing game that is.

But I’ve been comfortable in here. I have everything I need. I can even work from home now. Thank God for modern technology. I don’t even have to put pants on if I don’t want to.

But sometimes I do want to.

Sometimes I want to go outside, try a restaurant, have fun, and feel normal again. But I can’t. I know it’ll be like last time. How could I have ignored that little voice warning me how bad it could get?

Never again.

I will never let that happen again.

Is that the phone ringing?

“Hello?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You need me to come into the office?”

“What if I have a medical condition?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter?”

“Goodbye to you, too, sir.”

Damn it.

They seriously want me to come into work. To do something as meaningless as typing numbers into spreadsheets about quarterly sales, like any of it actually matters. I should just quit.

But then I’d lose my apartment.

And where would I live?

On the streets, probably. No showers. Same clothes every day. Sleeping on dirt. Filthy bathrooms. Diseases everywhere.

No. That cannot happen.

So I guess I have to go to work.

“I’m afraid I have to go in today.”

“Yes. Like the actual office.”

“Goodbye. I love you too.”

Just walk to the door and turn the handle. Easy as pie. Nothing could be simpler. Besides, are you really going to tell people you became homeless because you were too weak to leave the house? Nonsense. I’m going to work. My life depends on it.

Okay.

There it is.

Brass knob. Cold to the touch.

Now put your hand on it.

Can you imagine the germs on it? How many people have touched that knob? And that’s before I even get outside. Bugs are flying around everywhere. Bees that sting. Mosquitoes that suck your blood.

And I haven’t even left the front yard yet.

Then the outside air will come through the vents in the car because the filter barely protects anything. And at work, people sneeze. They cough. They don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom.

It’ll be even worse if I don’t go. Homeless. Surrounded by every disease known to man.

But…

I can’t do it.

It’s worse today.

The pollen is everywhere.