A drop of dew rolled slowly down a petal. Reaching the tip, it started growing until it strained under its own weight, waiting to be released onto an unsuspecting leaf below. The white of the petal looked slightly green through the pureness of the liquid. Just as it seemed as though the petal couldn't hold the weight of the water anymore, an index finger slid underneath it, and the drop rolled onto a bed of skin without fuss. Erica tilted her head slightly as she squinted, trying to focus on the reflections in the tiny ball of water. She moved her hand up towards her face, balancing the drop as carefully as possible on the smooth surface of her fingertip. Halfway up, it started rolling towards the joint . She stopped, tilted her whole hand a little forward, and brought it closer.

The drop turned pink, then peach. As it came closer to her face, Erica started losing her focus. She moved her hand up towards her right eye. The peach burst into a dozen shades, almost as though the hint of sun behind it was commanding the colours to obey its orders and show that light has the power to be more than just one colour.

As she squinted into the sunrise, Erica felt the slight movement of something against her ankle. She looked down just as a gecko scurried from behind her, hurried between her boots, rapidly hiding itself underneath a slate of rock just ahead of her. She looked up again, and realised that the dew drop was losing its grip. It splashed down into the dust where the gecko had passed, blurring its tiny footprints in the process. She looked at her fingertip. The colour was gone, the peach now replaced by a lighter colour as the sun grew above the horizon. The day was starting.

She stood up, raising her body off its temporary perch on her ankles. Both her hands came to rest on her waist as she surveyed the landscape in front of her. Erica couldn't understand why people didn't like the desert. The dusty, sometimes red, sometimes white, sometimes brown hues created a world of colour one needed to slow down to appreciate. Maybe that was it, she thought. The beauty didn't reveal itself until your eyes, your ears, your nose stopped processing things at hyper pace. The desert needed you to stop for a moment for it to show itself. It needed you to take it all in without expectations, without timelines. It demanded all of you for it to make sense.

A vibration inside the pocket of her cargo pants suddenly disturbed the silence. The quietness in the air immediately became more apparent as she reached into the pocket and retrieved the bulky satellite phone. Flipping the aerial open, she sighed. "Hello, this is Erica." The voice on the other end asked a question. "Yes, Erica Gimbal." The sun was almost half a circle now above the horizon. "OK, I'll be there by lunchtime. Goodbye."

Thorsten Hughes looked down at the mass of bodies below him. People were mulling around past pillars, pot plants and desks. Every once in a while, someone settled down, sliding a chair into what looked like a comfortable position behind an array of monitors. In some spots, around water coolers, the mulling continued. He could see mouths moving, some smiling, some animated, others almost pouted in anticipation of questions asked and answers waiting to be given.

As he moved his eyes upwards, people became smaller. The expanse of desks stretching towards the opposite end of the building was deceptive, he'd been told. He focused his eyes as they moved even further up towards an abrupt end, emphasised with glass and stainless alloy that sparkled just slightly in the dawn light. Each cluster of desks on the way looked as though it had been arranged like a piece in a giant jigsaw puzzle. He smiled. The puzzle existed because the position of each desk was calculated by someone who understood space and volume better than he did. He liked this idea. At the same time, there was an odd feeling of in turn knowing something someone else didn't. He knew that the objects in front of him weren't desks; they were spaces filled with efficient processes, projects completed on time, value added to otherwise mundane activities. The desks - but more importantly, the thinking they contained - were progress in tangible form.

Everything was silent. The glass was only centimetres away from his face, but it might not have existed. Hughes ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head briefly as he turned around. He was tired. Days didn't matter to him, but they did to his body. Even though the day had just begun, the cogs of Hughes Holdings never really stopped turning - the numbness in his shoulder blades reminded him of this. He thought about the machine as he walked over to a couch, lay down and wrapped both hands behind his head, staring at the high ceiling above him. Closing his eyes, he remembered what James Denton had said to him a little less than 24 hours ago.

"It cannot be done". The words sounded hollow, like the sound a drop of water makes when it hits the pool inside a large empty metal tank. Even though Denton had meant these words, even though he wasn't someone who said things without intent, the sentence just didn't sound grammatically correct in Hughes' head. It could be done.

The story starts here.

To follow it from the start, your best best is the archives page, where you can view all slices from the above first one.

The sequence works a little differently to a book: the latest slices are at the top, so you'll need to start from the bottom for things to make sense.

Happy reading!

This story is conceived and brought to life by me. My name is Martin Hattingh. I'm not really a writer; I'm a User Experience Analyst who spends my days running a software business I co-founded in 2002. I'm in love not only with what I do to earn a living, but with the potential of the human mind. It's potential which drove me to start telling this story.

Visit my personal website if you're interested in finding out more about me.

Otherwise, go ahead, read the latest slice

This is a story.

Most stories told in print are conceived, written, structured, polished and then published. Often, the story changes significantly along the way; not because there was anything wrong with it when it started, but because hindsight usually provides insight not visible at the time. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to see a story unfolding in its raw form, knowing that polishing can't be done, because you already have the original in your head? I have.

The pages on this website contain an unfolding story which I decided to start sharing in April 2008. Roughly every week, a new slice is published. Why "slice"? Mainly because the traditional term "chapter" is not accurate - each slice doesn't necessarily constitute a chapter. Besides, who says stories should be bound by chapters? Some slices may be short, others may be a little longer. All previous slices of the story are available under the "Previously" section if you'd like to catch up, or refer back to anything at any stage. The latest slice is always displayed on the home page.

Where do I start reading?

OK, so who is the author?