The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

lined the planet’s equator.
    JoEl remembered the summers of Gamma Nebulous — the smell of the animal slaughters. A matured carven for each family. A tradition. Smiles and bloody mist filling everyone’s nostrils. It was the adult’s job to close the carven and the closing would mark a special day for a Nebulan like JoEl. A rite of passage. The first days of adulthood began on those warmer days where the carven would suffocate in the summer air, buried in its own flesh.  
    “And the target is just up the road here,” Tech Admin said.  
    “Brilliant,” JoEl said. “I’ll be fine from here. Thanks again.”
    The module died and JoEl shook the memories of Nebulous from his mind. The car slowed, dropping to a lower gear. He gently nudged it forward. The houses were quiet. It would be sleeping hours for the majority of the humans. Some of the windows in the houses still had their lights on, but most were out. Many of the humans were turning themselves off, resting until it was time for their routines to begin again the next morning.
    He read the numbers on the front of each house door: 21, 23, 25. He arrived at the one he recognised. The house that belonged to the family Turner. He pulled the car up on the side of the road and waited. The lights were still on in the house, and so were the neighbours’. It was still too active. He would have to wait a little while before making his way in to finish the assignment.  

Nisha Bhatia

    “You fucked that up a bit, didn’t you,” the man said down the phone. It was her producer: Tom.  
    Producers were always called Tom, and they always had a beard that spanned the spectrum of hair — brown and blond and grey with a peppering of ginger.
    “Tom, I’m so sorry,” Nisha said. “But I can’t really take responsibility for having a mind spasm, can I?”  
    She’d known Tom for more than fifteen years. They’d gone to university in Manchester together to study Broadcast Media. He went down the production route and she went on to become a presenter. He went for the behind-the-scenes glory of spreadsheets and equipment and budgets and she went with makeup and the always-smiles.
    “Look, I’ll be honest, it isn’t going to kill you or anything. You’ve built up such a solid relationship with the audience over the last five years of this show I think you’re allowed to have a brain fart or whatever that was every now and again,” Tom said.
    Nisha had escaped the studio in good shape. As soon as the cameras went dead she had burst out of there, made an excuse about picking up her non-existent nephew from a made-up school, and avoided all eye contact as she made her getaway. The only casualty was the receptionist, Joan. Or was it Joanne? Or Jan?
    “There’s always tomorrow,” June said.
    The receptionist had meant to say it as a way of caring. She’d meant it to be a gentle caressing of the face, but it felt more like a backhand slap. The kind that left her sore and red and embarrassed.
    She switched her phone to her other hand and rubbed her sore cheek and jumped over a puddle. She walked the long stretch of road leading to her apartment building: the twenty-two-storey monstrosity reaching for the stars in Canary Wharf.
    It was already getting cold and dark. The summer months had passed by and she hadn’t even noticed.
    The warm damp smell of suds and conditioner tickled her nose. A laundrette across the road. Inside the dryers tumbled freshly-cleaned clothes. It looked cozy. It looked warm. A mother was inside, emptying a tumble dryer as her child played with a yoyo.  
    “Nisha?” Tom said from the phone. “You still there?”
    As he spoke, Nisha stepped in a puddle. The muddy water seeped into her black shoe and up into her tights. An “eurgh” escaped her mouth and she shivered.
    Five years. The show had been running for five years now. In the beginning, they were challenged every which way for having a show that clashed with the greats — The Morning