"Practice"

PRACTICE
By Curtis C. Chen

Travis didn't recognize the boy running toward him or the woman chasing after the boy. That was his first hint that it was going to be trouble.

He looked up and down the corridor. Where's hospital security when you need them?

The boy skidded to a halt in front of Travis.

"Help you find something?" Travis said, forcing a smile.

The boy gaped for a long moment, then said, "Excuse me, are you—" he looked at something flat and rectangular in his hand— "Doctor Travis Imhofe?"

Travis recognized the object. He hadn't been able to tell what it was before, thanks to the reflection of white hospital walls off the plastic slipcover. Now that the boy had tilted it, Travis could clearly see the stat-block on the back of his residency year-one trading card.

"Yes," Travis sighed. "That's me."

The boy grinned from ear to ear. "Cool!"

The woman caught up to the boy and knelt down next to him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry!" she said. "He got away from me downstairs. I didn't know he had brought that." She nodded at the trading card.

"It's okay," Travis said, still smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan."

"Will you sign this, please?" the boy asked, holding up the card.

"I'm sorry," Travis said, addressing the mother. "The hospital has a strict policy. No autographs except through the fan club."

He couldn't say what he was really thinking: I'm under enough pressure every time I go into surgery. I'd rather not have to also worry about living up to a child's unrealistic expectations!

He didn't look at the boy's face, but the mother's reaction wasn't much better. She stood up and stepped closer to Travis.

"Couldn't you make an exception?" she asked. "Patrick's been following your career since UCLA. He wants to be a neurosurgeon when he grows up."

Travis glanced over at the nearby nurse's station. The Club rep seated there—her name tag said DORIS—gave him a stern look.

"I'm sorry," Travis repeated. "You know, I think I'm appearing at a convention next month."

Patrick's mother nodded. "I don't know if we could afford that, but..."

Travis gritted his teeth. Come on, dude, he's just a little kid.

"Tell you what," Travis said, lowering his voice. "Leave the card with me, I'll sign it and get it back to you."

"Really?" The woman's eyes widened. "What about the fan club?"

"I'll take care of it," Travis said.

"Oh, thank you!" She explained it to Patrick, who nodded and held up his arm again. "What do you say, Patrick?"

"Thank you!" said the boy.

"No problem," Travis said, slipping the card into a pocket. "I'll just need your mailing address, Mrs.—?"

"Actually," the woman said, "it's Miss. Robinson."

Travis smiled so hard he thought his face might crack. "Your address?"

She recited it for him, then said, "Would you like my phone number, too?"

Travis turned toward the nurse's station. "Doris? Could you call security to escort these nice folks out of the building?"



Photo: Electrocardiogram (EKG) exhibit at Science Museum of Minnesota, July, 2008.

"Telling Tales Out of School"

TELLING TALES OUT OF SCHOOL
By Curtis C. Chen

"I can't tell you who actually shot JFK. But I can say this: Yes, the Company was involved, and the money came from Texas."

That was Nick. I don't know how he found out about the party. I had made a point of not inviting any of his friends, who we'd hardly seen anyway since he broke up with Michelle.

She had been avoiding him all night, and I had been running interference. I was actually relieved to see Nick hitting on some random blonde.

"Think about it," he said. "The driver—sorry, can you excuse me for one second?"

I followed his gaze and saw Michelle heading to our bedroom with a couple of jackets. Nick was elbowing his way toward her. I caught him before he reached the hallway.

"Looking for the little boys' room?" I said.

"Gloria?"

I grabbed his arm and pushed him out the front door, onto the lawn. The sun had gone down hours ago, and it was cold outside. California's a desert.

"What the hell are you doing here, Nick?" I asked.

He folded his arms. "It's a party, right? Free beer."

"If you came here to harass Michelle—"

"I came to say good-bye."

"You had that chance two years ago," I said. "You blew it. She got over it. End of story."

"This is none of your business, Gloria."

That made me angry. "It becomes my business when you break my best friend's heart! When you dump her over e-mail and move to the other side of the country? It's my business when I have to make excuses for you, so she doesn't think it's all her fault!"

He stared at my shoes. "I'm leaving the country tonight. For a long time. Maybe forever. I wanted to..." He shrugged. "To make things right, I guess."

"Michelle wanted you to stay," I said. "She didn't get what she wanted. Why should you?"

He shook his head. "I wish I could explain."

"Why don't you just send her an e-mail?"

I regretted saying it as soon as I saw his eyes.

"Just tell her I'm sorry," he said. "Will you do that?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Thank you." He turned and walked toward the street.

I heard blood rushing in my ears. Maybe I had been a little too hard on him. I'd had at least four drinks that night, and they had all come out of shot glasses. I was just starting to say something when Nick stopped on the sidewalk and spoke into his wristwatch.

"One four tango," he said. "Yes. I'm alone."

The air around him shimmered and glowed like a fluorescent mirage. I heard a soft whut sound, and Nick vanished. One second he was there, and then he wasn't. I ran out to where he had been standing and looked up and down the street. Nothing.

I wasn't drunk. I'm sure Nick knew I was still watching when he left. He wanted me to see. And he knew I could never tell Michelle any of it.

What a bastard.



Photo: Recyclables left behind in hotel room, Falls Church, Virginia, July, 2008.

"The Kid Who Noticed Things"

THE KID WHO NOTICED THINGS
By Curtis C. Chen

Everyone knew Jason Hawn had uncanny powers of observation, but nobody cared much until the day he rescued a cat from the President of the United States.

The President was one of the life-sized robots made for Lemarr Smith's re-election campaign. After Smith won, most of the robots were shut down by remote—they all had built-in radios to receive updated speeches every week during the campaign. Many of the robots disappeared, presumably stripped for parts; the few left standing were reprogrammed to deliver new talking points.

Every day after school, Jason walked past the President outside the western entrance to Linchpin Shoppingtown. This was one of the first Presidents installed anywhere in the country, and its weatherproof exterior was printed with a texture map of a three-piece suit. It had long since stopped talking, but one arm still waved whenever it sensed motion nearby.

The cat in question was a feral female who lived in the woods behind the mall. A variety of wild animals came and went through the battered chain-link fence, foraging in the dumpsters by night.

On this particular afternoon, Jason noticed something fuzzy wriggling in the shadow of the Linchpin President. Normally, he would have ignored it, not wanting to delay his daily pilgrimage to Zeta Blasters, but then he heard a noise.

"Meow?"

Jason stopped and turned. He could just make out the shape of the cat's head, her ears flattened suspiciously.

"What are you doing down there?" he said.

"Meow," the cat replied.

Jason knelt down. The cat was wedged in the seam between the President's trouser legs. As Jason moved closer, the cat groaned and tried to move away. He saw one of her front paws touching the back of the President's left leg. One of the cat's claws had sunk into the President's plastic exterior and was now stuck.

"Hunting something, were you?" Jason muttered. "Okay, now, don't hurt me."

"Meow!" the cat complained as Jason tugged at her front leg.

"Relax," Jason said. "I just need to lift this—"

The claw came loose with a ripping noise, and the cat kicked her legs against the President and Jason's arm. Then she was a brownish blur streaking toward the treeline.

"You're welcome!" Jason called after her.

He turned back to the robot and inspected its torn casing. Inside, he could see electronic components wired into the robot's metal skeleton. He had expected the only circuitry to be up near the President's head, where the speakers were located. Jason himself had built a digital audio player in science class last year, and that hadn't been much bigger than a deck of cards, even with the battery pack. What in the world could all this extra tech be needed for?

Jason touched the side of his eyeglass frames, storing an image of the President's innards, then stood up and walked into the mall. He could research this stuff on Wikipedia later. The afternoon rush was almost upon Zeta Blasters, and he wanted to be first in line to play the new gravity booth.



Photo: Thomas Starr King statue inside U.S. Capitol, July, 2008.

"Within Sight"

WITHIN SIGHT
By Curtis C. Chen

Johanna sees the sound of footsteps, and she panics. Dark blue, blotchy—they're boots, and it's a man wearing them. Can't be good.

Into the bathroom, open the toilet tank—oh, hell, just two more for the road—peel apart dripping wet plastic, pick out the little yellow lifesavers. Dry-swallow both in one gulp, drop the rest and flush. Scrape the lid back into place.

Knocking. Go to the front door, breathe, unlock the deadbolts. Standing outside is a fresh-faced ensign in service khakis. His heartbeat pulses dull red, almost twice a second.

Lieutenant Klaus? says the ensign, whose name tag reads ACKER. His green-blue syllables blossom like a false-color sat map.

Who wants to know? Johanna asks. Her own voice makes a purple tunnel around Acker's face.

VA outreach, Acker says, saluting. We're surveying veterans with synesthetic disorders. He holds up a digital notepad.

Bullshit, Johanna says. The VA doesn't make house calls.

Acker swallows, and his throat glows sickly urine yellow. May I come in, Lieutenant? This is a sensitive matter.

Johanna nods. Acker walks into the apartment. Johanna sticks her head outside, looks both ways down the hall, doesn't see a spotter. Can't be that important if greenhorn came alone.

She closes the door, folds her arms. So what is this really about, Ensign? The last word pulses in a blue halo.

Acker turns his notepad around. The screen glitters with a Naval Intelligence shield above a thumbscan box. I need to verify your identity first, ma'am.

Johanna's heart jumps, painting an orange haze over the pad. She's been waiting for this. Months now, suffering with constant noise in her ears, but she knew they had to approve the transfer. Someone with her experience, her skills? They had no choice!

She reaches for the notepad, smiles up at Acker, and freezes.

His hat. He's still wearing cover, indoors. She had the habit drilled out of her in boot camp—

He grabs her wrist, yanks her thumb toward the scanner. Johanna closes her fist, punches the pad away, slams her forehead into his nose. Before he hits the floor, she's already got her go-bag, pulling open the front door.

Two plainclothes police detectives block her way, one showing his badge, the other holding a revolver.

NYPD, says badge-cop, his voice a red mist shot through with orange streaks. Johanna Klaus, you are under arrest for possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell...

Behind her, Acker struggles to his feet, moaning yellow and green.

Told you that was a dumb idea, revolver-cop calls into the apartment.

Ma'am, I need to handcuff you, says badge-cop.

Johanna drops her bag and turns around. She knows the drill.

Damn, Andy, why do you always get the hot suspects?

The cuffs go on with a flashbulb clink. Jake, this woman was wounded in battle. Show some respect.

Oh, I definitely respect that.

Johanna sees a puff of pink, elbow hitting gut. She allows herself a tiny smile. That's not the drugs.



Photo: View from WWII Memorial in Washington, DC, June, 2008.

Elsewhere, 250 words

At Larry Hosken's urging, I've submitted a story to the "Silhouette" Short Fiction Contest over at The Clarity of Night, a short fiction and poetry blog. I'm Entry #198. Feel free to visit, read, and comment.

"Switch"

SWITCH
By Curtis C. Chen

Laura didn't notice the fog until it had eaten away an entire wall. She ran out of the bathroom, her hands still soapy and wet. Most of the building was gone, leaving only the hallway between her office and the executive washroom. There was nowhere else to go.

The fog swallowed her, and there was a moment of disorientation before Laura found herself in a featureless gray limbo.

"No," Laura groaned. "Not now!"

"Who are you?" said a familiar voice behind her.

Laura turned and saw a woman in pink pajamas. For Laura, it was like looking into a funhouse mirror and seeing an obese caricature of herself.

"This is definitely the strangest dream I've had in a long time," said the fat woman.

"It's not a dream," Laura said.

She lunged at the fat woman, who slipped out of Laura's soapy grasp and elbowed her down to the ground, then sat on her back and pinned her there.

"Well," the woman said, "at least physics works normally in this dream."

"It's not a dream!" Laura shouted.

The fog had first come for her in college, and that first switch had been the most traumatic. It wasn't just killing her doppelganger, who wouldn't stop screaming. Going from her own dorm room to a cramped studio apartment shared with a boorish husband and two screaming brats had been a tremendous shock.

She had suffered in that life for two long years before the fog appeared a second time. Laura had no idea where the fog came from. She only knew what it did. Every time she dispatched one of her other selves, she got to take over that other's life.

Laura did her best to fit into each new life and forget the often terrifying battles to the death she fought in limbo. For nearly a decade, the lives she won had gotten progressively better. And then the fog had stopped coming.

But now it had returned, and here was this fat-housewife version of Laura. If Laura killed her, Laura would have to take over that miserable existence. That was how the fog worked; whichever Laura survived limbo got sucked into the other's universe.

"Kill me," Laura said.

"What?"

"I know this is confusing," Laura said slowly. "Only one of us can leave this place—"

"I'm not hard of hearing," said the fat woman. "I understood what you said. But why should I kill you? We just have to wait for the fog to clear."

Laura gaped. "You've been here before?"

"Sure," the fat woman said. "I was a little confused this time, because I was sleeping, but—wait a minute!" She looked down at Laura. "Are you telling me you've never merged before?"

"Merged?" Laura said, her voice cracking.

The fat woman grabbed Laura's hand and squeezed. "You're going to love the kids."

"I don't want to die," Laura sobbed. When had she started crying?

"Don't be silly," said the fat woman. "We're both going to live."

The fog retreated, and a new world came for them.



Photo: view of morning fog from Sea Lion Caves in Florence, Oregon, October, 2009.

"Little Drummer Girl"

LITTLE DRUMMER GIRL
By Curtis C. Chen

Harvey didn't like the probe. Every time it slid into the back of his head, it made a grinding noise that rumbled through his skull and made him feel like his head was being scraped out. Today was worse, because he didn't have his normal technician, and this new fellow was not gentle at all.

Frank had met Harvey at the airport and presented proper credentials from the talent agency, but Harvey didn't like him. Frank spoke in a loud voice and with a mouth full of chewing gum that he kept snapping. Now he was breathing artificial berry flavor everywhere as he set up the link interface.

"So you been to St. Louis before?" Frank asked, pronouncing it "LOO-ee."

"A few times," Harvey said. "It should all be in my profile."

Frank waved a hand in the air. "No worries, Mr. Feldon, I'll take real good care of you. They hired me special for this gig when your regular tech got sick."

"How is Barry, by the way?" Harvey asked.

Frank shrugged. "Never met the guy. I'm an independent contractor, see, paid by the hour? Be honest with you, I don't know much about literature, but if the agency can afford my rates, you must be a real crowd-pleaser."

Harvey wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I guess narrative fiction isn't quite dead just yet."

Frank laughed from behind his laptop computer, which was connected to Harvey's head by a glowing blue cable. "Okay, we got green lights across the board. You want to give me a level here?"

"We can't start yet," Harvey said. "My drummer's not here."

"Your what?" Frank actually stopped chewing his gum for a moment. "You got a drummer? Seriously?"

"It's in my profile," Harvey said.

"No shit," Frank muttered, tapping at his computer. "Haven't seen a drummer in—okay, here we go, Chris Tuttle, latest firmware..." He smacked his gum while reading. "Wow. It's been a while." He looked into his equipment case. "You ever considered upgrading, professor? I could set you up a firewall in, like, two minutes."

"I'm an old dog," Harvey said.

Someone knocked on the dressing room door, and Frank went to open it.

Christine Tuttle stood in the hallway, wearing an asymmetrical green evening gown that left no doubt as to her gender, checking her beatific face and wavy brown hair in a tiny mirror. She closed the compact and nodded at Frank.

"Thanks," she said, and walked over to Harvey. She leaned down and straightened his necktie. "Sorry I'm late, sugar."

"You're worth waiting for."

Christine smiled. She pulled up a chair and sat, crossing her long legs. "What are we, ten minutes out?"

"Fifteen," Frank said, still standing by the door.

"Well, you going to plug me in, ace, or is this a do-it-yourself gig?"

"No. Yes. Okay." Frank shut the door and scrambled back to his station.

Harvey coughed into his hand, hiding a smile. It was nice to know that all men responded to Christine the same way.



Photo from Science Museum of Minnesota, July, 2008

"The Gift of the Maggie"

THE GIFT OF THE MAGGIE
By Curtis C. Chen

She had been feeling tired all week, and now she knew why: the talisman wasn't in the hall closet with her other artifacts. Maggie calmed herself and went into the living room.

"Jonah, have you seen my bugle?" she called.

"Snacks are in the pantry," said the man sitting in the armchair. "We got some Funyuns, too."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "I'm talking about the brass musical instrument. Looks like a trumpet, but without any valves?"

"You haven't touched that in years," Jonah said, and drained his beer bottle.

"Not since high school," Maggie agreed. "But I need it now. It's important. Have you seen it anywhere?"

She walked around the armchair and stood between Jonah and the television. He muted the sound and looked up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Maggie got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "What did you do?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Jonah said.

"What did you do?" Maggie repeated, her voice rising in pitch.

Jonah stood, holding his hands up, palms out—not surrender, more like pushing. "Stay here. I'll show you."

He walked past her and into the garage. Maggie folded her arms and tapped her foot on the carpet. The flashing images on the TV drew her eye, and she grabbed the remote and turned it off. Thumping noises came from the open garage door.

Jonah returned, holding a large, oddly shaped mass of wrapping paper.

Maggie's foot froze in mid-tap. "What the hell is that?"

"Merry Christmas!" Jonah said. "You might as well open it now—"

The package jerked out of Jonah's fist and sailed across the room. Maggie caught it with her left hand.

"Whoa!" Jonah gaped. "What—how did you do that?"

"Long story," Maggie muttered. She ripped open the wrapping paper and grimaced at the object inside. "You got me... an electric guitar?"

"And lessons," Jonah said quickly. "You know how we're always talking about doing more stuff together? And we both love music, right?"

Maggie glared at him. "How did you afford this?"

"Don't be mad," Jonah said. "I traded in your trumpet-thing."

"You WHAT!"

"Okay, you're mad. That's fair."

Maggie dropped the guitar, walked up to Jonah, and grabbed the collar of his t-shirt. "Where is it? Where?"

"Inside voices," Jonah said.

"Tell me where it is!"

"Okay, okay! I took it to that music store on Sixteenth Avenue! The one with the funny name, and that old dude with the glass eye."

"Pokorny's?" Maggie asked, horrified.

"That's the one," Jonah said. "You know he runs an antique shop, too? He told me—"

Maggie placed one palm flat against the side of Jonah's head. His face went slack, and he said, "Yes, dear."

He sat down in the armchair and stared at the blank TV screen.

Maggie stalked into the kitchen, yanked the telephone handset off the wall, and dialed an international number. It took forever for the woman on the other end to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Grandmother," Maggie said, "we have a problem."



Photo: marching-band automatons at the House on the Rock, July, 2008