"I Can Buy Pickles"

I CAN BUY PICKLES
By Curtis C. Chen

"You know it's just for show," Paul said. "To demonstrate that we respect their culture."

Sophie made a face. "You keep saying that, but I'm the one elbow-deep in fermented intestines."

"We've been through this. The Varna'ut are deeply patriarchal—"

"I know, I know," Sophie groaned. "The wife has to smell of housework if it's a proper family, and that includes their putrid food."

"Especially food." Paul sighed. "Besides, I'm the one who actually has to eat that stuff. And then regurgitate it later."

"I'm sure that second part's not too difficult." Sophie lifted a bone shard out of the rubbery yellow mass and dropped it in the garbage. "And I know all about your pre-function drinking binges at the embassy." She watched Paul for a reaction.

Paul shrugged, completely unashamed. "A spoonful of moonshine helps anything go down."

Sophie felt her anger building again. It was bad enough her husband had dragged her to the other side of the galaxy on a diplomatic mission, but being a female, she was rarely invited to mingle with their hosts.

While Paul enjoyed guided tours of thousand-year-old cities and massive starship factories, Sophie was stuck with the female Varna'ut, whose interests were limited to cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing. She didn't even have anything interesting to write home about. Exciting day: market had great sale on alien offal, perfect for pickling in hydrochloric acid!

The only good thing was being able to use her training as a chemist. She turned her head and hid a smile.

"I'm going to be late," Paul said, putting on his jacket.

"I would give you a hug, but..." Sophie held up her slime-covered hands.

Paul gave her a peck on the cheek and headed for the door. "Love you. See you tonight."

"Oh, come on." Sophie pouted. "Give me a proper kiss."

She leaned back and craned her neck toward him. Paul smiled, walked back, and touched his lips to hers. Sophie pushed her head forward, making full contact with his skin.

After a moment, Paul pulled back. "Are you wearing lipstick?"

"Three," Sophie said, smiling.

"What?"

"Two."

Paul's eyes widened, and his hands clutched at his throat. A variety of gagging and choking noises emerged from his open mouth.

"One," Sophie said, and watched her husband collapse to the floor. His legs kicked, and she stepped out of the way. His eyes flicked back and forth wildly, then quivered and stopped.

Sophie dug her hands into the sink, lifted a huge pile of pickled viscera, and dumped them onto her dead husband. She repeated this until the sink was empty, and Paul was barely visible underneath the gooey yellow mess.

The chemical bath she'd prepared in the bathroom would scrub the smell of food from her skin. Most Varna'ut were notoriously bad at distinguishing human genders, and even worse at telling individuals apart. Sophie would have to cut her hair, but she'd be halfway to the next star system before any human authorities caught up to her. Plenty of time to do some proper sightseeing.



Photo: preserved foods at Fort Vancouver, December, 2008

"Transport"

TRANSPORT
By Curtis C. Chen

"I'm going to let him out of the bag for a minute."

"Do not let him out of the bag."

"Just for a minute."

"Do not open that bag!"

The armored truck's front left tire hit a pothole, and Derek cursed as he bounced in the driver's seat. The heavy vehicle, swathed in steel and doused with drag-inducing kinetic wards, handled like a drunk beaver on stilts.

Jay, the younger man in the passenger seat, craned his neck to look at the man-sized lump wrapped in sackcloth and chained to the floor of the rear compartment.

"Are you sure he can breathe in there?" Jay asked.

"You do remember what his power is, don't you?" Derek replied. "He's a persuader. He influences people, gets them to do what he wants."

"Well, that's why we're wearing these, right?" Jay lifted the diamond-shaped pendant around his neck. "Besides, if he were controlling me, I'd probably just pull my gun on you."

Derek grunted. "It's not that simple. He doesn't pull your strings like a puppetmaster. He gets under your skin, into your subconscious. Makes you think you believe things you don't. You don't even realize you're being influenced. Guys like this don't leave fingerprints."

"Guess we're lucky to have caught him at all, then." Jay cocked his head. "Did you hear that?"

Derek kept his eyes on the road. "No."

"Sounded like coughing."

He unbuckled his seat belt and leaned toward the doorway. Derek took one hand off the steering wheel, grabbed the roll bar behind his head, and yanked the wheel over hard. The truck swerved, knocking Jay's head against the passenger side window. The truck flipped onto its left side, scraped down the road, and shuddered to a stop.

Jay's unconscious form had fallen onto Derek and pinned him. Derek flexed his fingers, tracing sigils in the air. A blue cloud appeared and levitated Jay's limp body into the rear compartment. Derek disentangled himself from his seat belt and the airbag which had deployed from the steering column, then climbed through the doorway.

The prisoner stood on the wall which was now down, both arms lifted by the shackle and chain holding him to the vertical floor. His head, still bagged, wiggled from side to side, but stopped when Derek hopped down into the compartment.

"What's going on?" the prisoner called out.

Derek didn't answer. He looked down and moved his fingers again. Jay's right arm stiffened, lifted a key off his belt, and clumsily unlocked the shackle around the prisoner's left wrist.

"You gave him a dead charm," the prisoner said. "You're a controller, too! You breakin' me out, bro?"

Derek drew his sidearm from its holster, cocked it, and aimed at the prisoner's chest. "Killed while trying to escape."

"What?" The prisoner jerked back. "Wait! Let's talk about this!"

"Say hello to my daughter for me," Derek said.

He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and then it was over.



Photo: Blade Runner "spinner" flying car at the Science Fiction Museum, Seattle, September, 2008

"Scene from a Buddy Movie"

SCENE FROM A BUDDY MOVIE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Where is he?" asks the man holding a gun to my head.

Normally, I'd be happy about someone asking me questions. It's my job. I can tell you anything you want to know—for the right price.

And that's the problem here. I get paid for my work, and I'm worth every penny, if I do say so myself. When you demand something for nothing—when you make it personal—that's trouble.

"Put the gun down," I say, "and let's talk."

The barrel digs into my left temple. "You've got ten seconds to tell me where he is, or I blow your brains out."

"I don't work for free," I say. "Now, my usual rate is—"

"Are you stupid?" the man shouts into my ear, and tightens his right arm around my neck. "I'm going to kill you if you don't tell me where he is!"

"No, you're not."

"Five seconds!"

I close my eyes and concentrate for a moment. Judging from the odor and how strongly I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, the man's head is less than six inches away from mine.

I skim the surface of his mind, plucking the strongest emotional crests from an ocean of thoughts. Not enough to give myself a headache, just enough to unsettle him.

Then I start singing.

"Whe-e-e-e-ere is love? Does it fall from skies above...?"

I've never heard the song before, but the melody is loud and clear in the man's head. I continue singing. His left hand starts shaking. His right arm relaxes the tiniest bit, and I make my move.

My left elbow comes up, fast and hard, slamming into his gun hand. At the same time, I reach my right arm backward and grab his jacket collar. I bend my knees and tip forward, yanking hard and flipping him over.

He lands with a thud on the carpet. Meanwhile, I've grabbed his left wrist and held on to it. He yowls in pain as I twist it even more, then pull the weapon out of his loosened grip.

"You should know better," I say.

The man glares at me. "I saw you with him," he says. "I saw him paying you."

"Two weeks ago," I say. "An unrelated matter."

"How can you do business with someone like that?" he barks. "A murderer, a kidnapper—"

"So you've never taken money from a criminal?" I say. "You always turn down a client if you suspect he's mobbed up? You only take payment by certified check?"

"So it's true," he says. "You are a mind-reader."

"Well, yes," I say. "But I didn't get any of that from reading you. I just noticed a car staking out my building, got your license plate number, hacked into DMV records, then asked around about you."

He laughs. "It's more impressive if you say you're a psychic."

"I wouldn't lie to you," I say, extending a hand. "Professional courtesy."

He takes my hand and stands up. "I need your help."

I nod. "Clearly."



Photo: old photograph at McMenamins Kennedy School, June, 2009

"Life Goes On"

LIFE GOES ON
By Curtis C. Chen

Breakfast was an awkward affair. Max didn't eat or drink, and Fina didn't have much to say to her sister and new brother-in-law. There were reasons the two women hadn't seen each other in over a decade.

After trading content-free small talk over soy omelets and making a halfhearted attempt to fight over the bill—Max and his cybernetic grip won—the couples said their goodbyes, and Max and Fina walked down the street toward the parking lot where they'd left their sedan.

"You're not going to say anything?" Max hissed.

Fina waited until they had turned the corner to say, "It's her life. Let her do what she wants."

"Did you see his eyes? That's got to be a dominant trait..."

"What do you want me to do?" Fina stopped next to the sedan. "We're already at the car. You want me to run back and grab her and shake her by the shoulders?"

Max swiveled his head from side to side. "I just think you should have said something."

"Well, if you're so concerned, why didn't you say something?"

"She's your sister."

Fina glared at Max. "It's hot out here," she said, and pressed her thumb against the entry lock. Servomechanisms inside the vehicle whirred, and the doors slid open. Fina sat down in the driver's seat and tapped at the climate controls.

Max entered on the front passenger side and waited for the doors to cycle shut. The vents in the dashboard blew cold air against his molded face. "I'm just worried about you. Anything goes wrong, you know you're going to be the first person she calls."

"Sure you're not worried about yourself?" Fina asked, still staring at the climate control display. "Getting caught in the blowback of whatever the next family crisis is?"

"Well," Max said, adjusting his necktie, "I can't say I'm excited about that."

Fina tilted her head, touched the pale blue fabric covering his torso, and smiled. "You look nice in that shirt."

"Do you want to have a baby?"

She made a sound halfway between a cough and a laugh. "Non sequitur much?"

"Hey, you started it."

Fina's smile faded. "It's been two years."

"Yeah, and I'm no closer to getting a new body." Max flexed the polymer-skinned metal fingers of his right hand. "And no offense, but you're not getting any younger."

Fina shook her head. "I guess it's traditional for people to have sex after attending a funeral."

"I know you want children."

"I want to have your children."

Max lowered his left hand to touch her forearm, palm down. "Seriously, did you see those eyes? Heredity is overrated."

"You would say that, robot-man."

"Racist."

Fina blinked at him, her eyes glistening. "I wish I could kiss you."

Max curled the corners of his synthetic mouth upward. "I remember what it feels like."

He closed his eyes. Fina leaned over and pressed her lips to his face. Max was glad he couldn't cry.



Photo: tree roots growing over gravestone in Chalmette National Cemetery, New Orleans, Louisiana, May, 2008

Sponsor me in the Clarion UCSD Write-a-Thon 2010!

Starting on Sunday, June 27th, and continuing through August 7th, I will be participating in Clarion UCSD's first annual Write-a-Thon. I did the Clarion West Write-a-Thon last year, and raised $323.66 for them. This year I'm hoping to break the $512 barrier.

What is a write-a-thon? It's like a charity walk-a-thon, but instead of walking or running (dammit Jim, I'm a writer, not an athlete), I will write every day during this six-week period. I haven't defined a specific goal yet, but my baseline will be 1,024 words a day. (Yes, I am a huge nerd.)

To read more about my writing and make a donation, visit the web site:

http://www.theclarionfoundation.org/writeathon/wrtn-writerpage.php?writerID=1508

All proceeds go to support the Clarion Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, and your donation is fully tax-deductible in the United States. You can sponsor multiple writers--feel free to browse the list and see if there's anyone else you want to support!

Follow my progress on LiveJournal, where I'll be posting daily updates. Or watch for my inevitable procrastination on Twitter.

"It's Not the Heat, It's the Stupidity"

IT'S NOT THE HEAT, IT'S THE STUPIDITY
By Curtis C. Chen

The elastic snapped and flew out of Maria's hand before she could wrap it around her hair. She cursed and held her ponytail in place while searching for another elastic. If she let go, the hair would fall and stick to her sweat-soaked skin.

Maria continued walking to keep the air moving over her skin. It hadn't rained for weeks. She looked forward to getting back to her apartment and sitting in front of the ancient air conditioner. Noisy, but it worked.

There it is. She pulled a hair elastic out of her back jeans pocket and tilted her head down to tie up her ponytail. The pavement curved right. Just a few more minutes, a quick jog up the always-stuffy stairwell, and she could cool off.

Just a few more weeks, and she'd be out of the city forever.

Somebody whistled ahead of her. "Lookin' good, senorita!"

Maria looked up. Three cholos sat on the front steps leading into her building, one of them built like a tank, another adorned with tattoos, the third holding an unlit cigarette between his lips. All three wore blood-red bandanas.

Perfect. That's just perfect.

She slowed her pace and lowered her hands to her sides. The men watched her—not looking for threats, but ogling her figure. Maria had considered the risks when choosing her outfit this morning, but her desire for comfort had outweighed her modesty. She stopped a few feet from the nearest cholo and turned out her pockets.

"That's all I got, guys," Maria said, holding out two dollar bills and her go-phone. "Take it or leave it."

Non-Smoker stood up, shaking his head. "Don't want your phone. But we sure gonna take something. Ain't that right, boys?"

"I like what I see," Tattoo grunted.

"I'd like to see a little more," said Tank.

Seriously?

Maria looked up and down the street. Empty. Chances were somebody would notice three gang-bangers raping a woman in broad daylight and probably call 911...

"Look," she said, "I'm not going to fight, but can we at least go inside? This is my building. It's got AC."

"Hey, no problem," Non-Smoker said, stepping aside. "Anything to make your experience more... pleasurable."

They snickered as she walked up the steps and unlocked the door, then followed her inside. She waited until she heard the door click shut again.

"Damn!" said Non-Smoker. "You need to talk to your landlord, girl, because this air is not conditioned—"

Maria whirled around with her wrists together and palms forward, her fingers curved around an invisible ball. She whispered three syllables, and a wave of energy rippled from her hands and through the cholos. The three bodies smashed up against the closed door and turned to ash. Their clothes and bandanas fell into a dusty heap.

Three more souls, Maria thought. I'm never going to get out of this damn city.

On the bright side, the spell had been endothermic, taking heat energy out of the surrounding air. She actually had a pleasant walk up the stairs for once.



Photo: downtown Portland, June, 2009

"Dickly Departed"

DICKLY DEPARTED
By Curtis C. Chen

"Why do military types use so many abbreviations?" Erva asked.

"Why do lawyers use so many Latin phrases?" Densin replied.

She closed her book, leaned toward the other side of the bed, and planted a sloppy kiss on his nose. He made a face, put down the file folder he was reading, and used both palms to wipe away her saliva with exaggerated swipes.

"I hate it when you do that," he said.

"I know," she said, smiling. "Gotta pee."

"My wife, the romantic."

The ghost appeared while Erva was sitting on the toilet. She did her best to ignore it, hoping it would go away, but the luminous form kept crowding her while she washed her hands. It shoved one arm under the running faucet and fouled the water. Erva sighed.

"Den!" she called into the bedroom. "Your friend is back."

Densin rolled out of bed and plodded into the bathroom, grumbling all the way. As soon as the ghost saw him in the doorway, it drifted away from Erva. Densin waited until the glowing figure was flying across length of the bathroom, then took one big step back.

The ghost pancaked against the invisible plane separating the bathroom from the bedroom. It wiggled and shimmered, trying to free itself.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Erva said, putting her hands on her hips. "Now it's going to be glowing there all night."

"We can close the door," Densin said.

"And how am I supposed to get out now?" Erva crouched down, looking for a space between the ghost and the door frame large enough for her to slide past without touching the specter. There was none. "Great. I just washed my hair, too."

Densin knelt down to study one of the ghost's tattered sleeves, which was vibrating just beneath one of the door hinges. "What's the big deal? We're just going to bed."

Erva stood and folded her arms across her chest. "Well, at least one of us wanted to do something before going to sleep."

"What?" Densin looked up at her. "Oh."

Erva shook her head. "I swear, sometimes you're like talking to a brick wall."

"We can still do it," Densin said. "You won't smell that bad."

"I know you won't be able to smell it," Erva said, "but I'll be able to feel it. Forget it. Just throw me a blanket and a pillow. I'll sleep in the tub until this thing goes away." She waved at the ghost.

"No, come on! We can figure something out."

"Blanket. Pillow." Erva turned away from him and stepped into the tub. "Sleep."

Densin sighed and stood up. The ghost's half-decayed face was contorted into what might have passed for a shit-eating grin.

"Asshole," Densin muttered.



Photo: greeting dummy at Pearson Air Museum, October, 2009

"Reaction"

REACTION
By Curtis C. Chen

"Want shoot gun!" screamed the alien's voicebox.

Martin gritted his teeth and looked at the Secret Service agent standing closest to the alien, a tall, gray-haired woman. She didn't look that old.

"Is that allowed?" Martin asked.

The agent's eyes looked black behind the reflection of the shop's overhead lights. "The ambassador requested a visit to an indoor range."

"Why didn't you just take him to the Pentagon, Agent...?"

"Lieber." She shrugged. "The ambassador doesn't have clearance to enter military facilities."

"This gun!" The alien tapped one tentacle on the glass countertop. "Shoot this gun!"

Martin wondered if it was really that difficult to build a voice synthesizer that didn't sound like a hyperactive child. Not that anybody on Earth knew how the Varna'ut translators worked.

He walked over to see which pistol the alien was pointing at, then looked up and hoped he was making eye contact. The Varna'ut looked like a large purple sausage with a dozen tentacles, mottled color patterns around its sensory organs, and an X-shaped mouth.

"That's a fifty-caliber Desert Eagle," Martin said loudly, mostly to the Secret Service. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to start with something smaller? Maybe a twenty-two revolver?"

"Want shoot this gun!" the alien screeched. "Shoot now!"

Martin turned to Lieber. "Can the ambassador legally sign a waiver?"

She nodded. Martin retrieved the forms, filled in the dates and names, and watched as Lieber signed her name and the alien used one thin tentacle to make a brown inkblot on the paper.

It took a while to figure out ear protection for the alien. Lieber said plugging the four largest ear-holes near the yellow eye-stripe would be good enough. The alien seemed too excited to care.

Everyone else on the range stopped to gawk as Martin led Lieber and the alien down to the last lane. He stretched out his usual safety talk for as long as he could.

"Have you ever handled a firearm before, ambassador?"

"Load gun!" the alien cried. "Shoot now!"

"The Varna'ut don't have projectile weapons," Lieber said. "Let's just start with one round."

Martin fitted one cartridge into the clip, loaded the pistol, and let the alien take it with three tentacles. He followed Lieber's lead and took two big steps back.

Before Martin could offer any tips on aiming, the alien had pulled the trigger. The sound reverberated through Martin's earmuffs, and he instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened his eyes, Martin saw the back end of the Desert Eagle buried in the alien, thrown by the weapon's considerable recoil. The handgrip was completely swallowed up by the purple flesh. The alien's voicebox made a strange chirping noise.

Martin cursed and asked Lieber, "Is he okay?"

She chuckled. "The Varna'ut also don't feel pain the same way we do."

The alien rippled the front of its body, expelling the Desert Eagle and catching it with one tentacle. Another tentacle pressed the release button on the side of the pistol to eject the empty clip.

"Again!" it screamed.



Photo: antique revolver at House on the Rock, Wisconsin, July, 2008