James McGill

The Low-Tier Thinker

“Getting them done early, I see. Nothing breeds creativity like four hours of sleep and half an energy drink, eh?” Tilsa, slumped at her desk, gazed out her circular window at the contrail-scarred sky, only half listening to the quip coming out of Ava’s mouth. She clasped a ball of her brown hair in one hand as another lazily circled the screen of her tablet. The keyboard spun lazily under it, dancing across the screen with relentless obedience to Tilsa’s uncertainty.