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crooning vocals with a backdrop of string instruments and light percussion. Everyone sips politely from funny-shaped glasses with cocktail sticks topped with a miniature of the artist’s head alongside an accompaniment of small pastry puffs filled with something cheesy and fragrant. The event is for the featured artist of the season -- Ray Halisin.
    Mays was happy to provide cheerful and enthusiastic assistance to the artist in setting up his art installation, Street Fight Alley . She didn’t even complain about his bad breath and eye-watering musky cologne. Ray has done nothing but praise Mays’ work and her wonderful P.E.-ness. Mays is up for a promotion as a result: Senior Art Installation Technician.
    Mays stands on the black-rubber floor tiles, admiring a mass of black tubes with a red, wet wobbly mass on top. She hears a voice next to her.
    “Boring as hell,” mutters the man, just loud enough for Mays to hear. “Standing around here like a bunch of juveniles on this big rubber playmat. And can you tell me what the hell that thing up there is? Something a homeless guy puked up?”
    She considers his comments for a moment, drawing upon memories of herself only a few months ago. “Well…that cute, red, wiggly thing represents the ‘heart of the street fighter’. I would know since I put it up there myself under the guidance of the artist.”
    “You mean you actually helped the idiot who came up this collection of crap?”
    Mays turns her head so fast her bleached-blond hair slaps gently across her cheek. She inspects the flushed and sweaty-faced man standing next to her. He is frowning and dressed in dark, drab brown.
    She speaks in a fierce, bitter whisper with harsh emotions camouflaged with pastels and too-white-teeth. “Don’t be such a middle-finger-up-the-ass. You don’t want to end up at a place like the Garden, do you, Mister Dung-for-brains? Take it back. Replace it with P.E. things. Otherwise, you’ll regret it.” She spits on the floor between them.
    The man’s mouth drops open. Then he laughs derisively and walks away. “You stupid Smilers. Always trying to brainwash people every chance you get.”
    Mays shakes her head and scowls as she watches the man leave. Then the deep line between her pale eyebrows smoothes out. She adjusts her pastel blue jumpsuit and walks over to the next piece of art, smiling.
     

 
    CRACKS IN THE CONCRETE
     
    BY FRANK ROGER
     
     
    Ross cast a glance outside, and his first impressions were promising. The cloud-covered sky was grey, not a single streak of blue could be seen. It was quiet. Most people were still asleep, but soon they would be out on the streets, rushing off to their offices and factories. Yet he would have enough time to inspect the area that fell under his command.
    He quickly scanned the pavement, then the concrete road. There appeared to be no trace of any of the dreaded “wrong” colours. This might well prove an easy morning. For a while there had been no unwelcome “invaders”, and he could only hope it would stay this way. It would make his life easier, and everybody else’s too for that matter.
    He dutifully did his tour of inspection, not missing a single crack between the pavement stones or the concrete slabs. Then he did his tour again, this time checking the facades. Everything looked fine. The colour grey was all-pervasive, nothing stood out. The situation was under control, allowing him to breathe more freely. He went back inside to have breakfast in the privacy of his small three-room house, a privilege coming with his level D Inspector function, just before the workers were preparing to leave. As an Inspector, Ross had to put in fewer hours at the office, just enough to file his reports. His inspecting duties were considered to be of prime importance.
    As he was nibbling his nutritious breakfast tablets, washing them down with filtered water, he heard whispered conversations and hurried footsteps, the usual sounds of people