by Pauline Masurel

The climate didn't suit her. She pined and wouldn't eat the rations, sent pleading emails for her aunt to inveigle ingredients onto the base’s supply drops. At least the research was going well. That was some compensation. In the fourth month her husband phoned to break the news. She went to the door and spat in the snow. Her colleagues watched, disbelieving. She dropped her wedding ring in the drink she'd lovingly mixed as reminder of home. Next time they went to work out on the floes she cast the sealed beaker adrift in the ocean. The container didn't sink. It bobbed. The cargo of white liquid and worthless gold set out around the world. By the time it was within spitting distance of her husband, cosily esconced in Kerala with his new mistress, the contents had frozen, melted again, curdled, fogged over and then formed a tough, impenetrable rind.

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