Look at them. Dr. Aris — the man who won a Nobel for essentially rediscovering that gravity still works — is currently holding court in the breakroom. I can hear the cadence of his laughter from here. It’s that specific, honking sound a man makes when he’s convinced he’s the smartest person in a room full of sycophants. They’re probably discussing my latest paper. Or, as Aris called it in the faculty lounge, “the most expensive piece of science fiction ever printed on university letterhead.”

They call me The Alchemist. It’s a slur against my sanity, not a compliment to my ambition.

They want data they can touch. They want elegant, linear equations that fit neatly on a cocktail napkin so they can feel secure in their little clockwork universe.
F = ma. Simple. Safe. Boring.

“The methodology is speculative,” they say.
“The results are non-replicable,” they sneer.

Of course they aren’t replicable. You can’t replicate a miracle with a suburban mindset and a government grant. You don’t find the edge of reality by following peer-review guidelines. You find it by leaning so far over the abyss that your glasses fall off.

I saw Aris in the hallway today. He gave me that look — the one you give a dog trying to whistle. Pity. He patted my shoulder and asked if I’d “considered a pivot to teaching undergraduates.” The academic equivalent of palliative care.

Let them laugh. History is discovered by the lunatics.

In ten minutes, I’m throwing the primary switch. Either I become a cautionary tale Aris uses to scare freshmen, or I peel back the skin of the world and show them exactly what lives underneath.

I wonder… when the sky turns a colour that hasn’t been named yet, will they still be worried about my “speculative methodology”?

Probably. They’ll likely complain about the glare while the universe collapses.

God, I hate this department.

Written By: Abir Barve, 11 years old

P.S: This piece was penned by the child during the weekly creative writing class on contradiction, bias and unreliable self in writing.