"Sweet Nothings"

SWEET NOTHINGS
By Curtis C. Chen

Amy concentrated while holding the piece of candy, thinking: You're not fat. Stop cutting yourself. You are not fat.

The girl on the other side of the counter was wearing long sleeves, but Amy had seen her bare wrists when she turned to point something out to one of her friends. The older scars were horizontal, across the width of the girl's arm; but the newer, brick-red scabs were diagonal slashes, turning ever closer to fatal.

"Here's a free sample of our Milk Bordeaux," Amy said, identifying the candy in the tiny paper cup as she slid it across the top of the counter.

"Thanks," the girl said, picking up the candy between her thumb and forefinger.

You're not fat, Amy kept thinking. She was pretty sure her power to imbue objects with thought impulses only worked as long as she was touching them, but it couldn't hurt to try.

She forced a smile while ringing up the girl's purchases. Amy's face was starting to feel sore from feigning holiday cheer. After the teenagers had left, Amy rubbed her jaw muscles with both hands.

"Long day?" said a male voice.

Amy looked up and saw Joe leaning against the doorway and smiling at her. His mall security uniform was rumpled, as always, but Amy knew that was just an act; when push came to shove, the stern looks he could summon far outweighed his informal appearance.

"At least it's Friday," Amy said. "Free sample?"

"Nah," Joe said, patting his midsection. "I get enough of that at home."

"Right," Amy said, smiling. "I forget your wife's got that cottage industry—"

An arm appeared over Joe's left shoulder, and the attached hand closed around his throat. Joe made a gurgling noise and jerked forward and to the side.

Amy saw the owner of the arm, a stocky bald man wearing a gray suit and dark glasses. The man's other arm raised a menacing black pistol to the side of Joe's head.

"Step out from behind the counter," the man said.

Amy couldn't say anything for a second. "M-me?"

The man looked annoyed. "Yes, you! Amy Washington! Get out here before I—"

As suddenly as the man had appeared, he stopped talking. His hands twitched, and Amy was afraid the gun would go off; but then his entire body went limp, and he crumpled to the floor. Joe fell forward, also unconscious, and Amy rushed around the counter to help him. She froze when she saw the woman.

The woman—tall, blond, imposing—stood behind the collapsed man. She had one hand inside her jacket, which she slowly withdrew as Amy watched. The woman held both hands up, palms out, empty.

Another man, younger, with brown hair and an angular face, came jogging up and skidded to a halt beside the blond woman.

"I can't believe that worked!" the younger man said to the blond woman. "Were you actually touching him?"

"Discuss later," the blond woman replied. She looked at Amy. "Miss Washington, you need to come with us."



Photo: See's Candy by Brad Lauster, December, 2009

"Ekphrasis"

EKPHRASIS
By Curtis C. Chen

"My art is not a weapon," Glenda said to the soldier.

The man in the khaki uniform smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled in the afternoon sun. "We'd never call it that, Miss Knopp. We like to think of it as a force multiplier."

"I don't know what that means."

The soldier leaned forward. "Something that increases the effectiveness of our troops beyond their numbers. For example, GPS. Knowing exactly where you are grants a huge tactical advantage."

Glenda nodded, only half understanding but wanting the soldier to think she actually cared.

A door opened behind her, and Jeff walked through the living room of the small apartment on his way to the kitchen. "Sorry," he said, in a tone of voice that indicated he really wasn't. "Don't let me interrupt."

"Not at all," the soldier said. "I was just explaining to Miss Knopp that the Army doesn't want to weaponize her artwork."

Jeff refilled his coffee mug and headed back to the office. "You're still the military. She doesn't like the military. And neither do I."

The door closed again, making more noise than it needed to.

"You'll have to excuse Jeff," Glenda said. "He's from Berkeley."

"I don't care what your boyfriend thinks, Miss Knopp. I'm asking you to help your country."

"By killing people?"

"I can guarantee you, if you allow us to use your artwork, that it will never be used offensively," the soldier said. "In fact, you can help us deter violence. We air-drop information leaflets into the Middle East—"

"Propaganda."

The soldier shrugged. "Right now, most of it gets ignored. But can you imagine if each leaflet had your artwork on it? Images that would compel people to look at the paper, read the words, and believe them?"

"I get final approval on the design," Glenda said. She wanted the soldier to think that she was getting as excited as he obviously was.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll only agree if I get to approve all the propaganda messages," Glenda said. "You'll need original brushstrokes on every piece anyway. It doesn't work with mechanical reproductions."

The soldier smiled. "I think we can work that out."

She made some additional, minor demands, asked for double the money he was offering, and otherwise kept pushing until his eyes stopped twinkling. Then they shook hands—his palm was cool and dry—and the soldier said he'd send over the paperwork right away.

"You've made the right decision, Miss Knopp," he said as she showed him to the door. "Your art will save lives."

She closed the door behind him. When she turned around, Jeff was standing in the kitchen, watching her expectantly.

"So?" Jeff asked. "Did he go for it?"

"Oh yeah," Glenda said, hugging her boyfriend. "I thought he would balk at the price, but I guess the Pentagon's got a big budget."

"I still don't trust them."

"Of course we don't trust them." Glenda smiled. "That's why we're not telling them about your music."



Photo: arte em movimento by Tiago Sousa Garcia, July, 2009

"Humbuggery"

HUMBUGGERY
By Curtis C. Chen

Lewis stared at the shifting swarm of tiny, six-legged, black beads inside the clear plastic box and wondered where his life had gone wrong.

"You're going to take over the world... with ants?"

"Pay attention," said Mentarian. Lewis had never learned his current employer's real name. In fact, Lewis had never seen Mentarian's face. The old man always wore goggles, and rubbed his bald head with his vinyl-gloved hands, making a squeaking noise like two balloons being rubbed together. It set Lewis' teeth on edge and reminded him of his worst childhood experiences.

"The insects are just one of my many tools," Mentarian continued. "Tell me, Lewis, what do ants do that no other creature can?"

Lewis fought the urge to roll his eyes. Mentarian indulged in long Socratic dialogues—not just in the lab, but also during heists and battles. Lewis suspected that was why none of Mentarian's plans ever succeeded, and why he had agreed to take on an intern. Lewis was yet another person Mentarian could talk at.

"I don't know," Lewis said. "Find unattended picnic baskets?"

Mentarian frowned, creasing his brow above his comically huge goggles. "I'm getting a little tired of your attitude, Lewis."

"Only a little? I'll have to work harder then."

"Is this all some kind of joke to you?" Mentarian snapped.

"You really don't want me to answer that."

The bald scientist stomped around the table to stand toe-to-toe with Lewis. Mentarian shoved a gloved finger into Lewis' face. "You serve at my discretion. If this course of study is unfulfilling for you, I can find another intern who is more receptive to my teachings."

Lewis thought about biting Mentarian's finger, but the entertainment value would be outweighed by the council's disciplinary measures. There were better ways to get reassigned. Like bringing up the one question his introductory paperwork had said never to ask Mentarian.

"Why do you wear those stupid goggles?"

Mentarian took a step backward. "I can see you're not in a studious mood. We'll continue this tomorrow." He turned and walked away.

Lewis followed. "You know they make you look like an idiot, right? People might take you more seriously if you wore a better costume."

Mentarian whirled around and pointed at his face. "These are not a fashion choice! This is a necessity."

"Are you horribly disfigured?" Lewis asked. "It can't be that bad. Come on, you're supposed to take sidekicks into your confidence." He reached out and grabbed the goggles.

"No!" Mentarian clawed at Lewis' arms, but the old man wasn't nearly strong enough to prevent Lewis from lifting the goggles.

What lay underneath those dark lenses was the last thing Lewis ever saw.

***

"I swear, Mentarian," the council inspector said, "you go through interns like other people go through toilet paper."

Mentarian shrugged, placed a water dish inside the box of ants, and closed the lid. "You know what they say. Gotta kiss a lot of frogs."

"Or ants?"

Mentarian grinned. "At least they're useful."



Photo: Ant by Jeff Kubina, May, 2007

Book Interest Survey Results

(with apologies to Harper's Index...)

         Number of responses to survey: 16
        Most desired price, in dollars: 10
    Percentage of votes for that price: 31.3
                    Number of comments: 8
     Requests for "best of" collection: 2

So here's the deal. I've decided. I'm going to finish out a full four years of 512s--that means a new story every week until October, 2012, making over 200 to choose from--and then I'll sit down with someone (probably DeeAnn) to pick the "best of" for a print collection.

Who knows? Maybe I'll even have sold a novel or two by then, and a real publisher will want to do all the heavy lifting. We can dream. I'm pretty sure I'll be a better writer two years from now, which means the "best of" will be higher quality than they are now--and if I'm not, well, then it'll be time to end this sabbatical and go back to software engineering.

Thanks to everyone who completed the survey! If you have further comments, feel free to post them here or send me an e-mail.



Photo: I was going to start procrastinating from I Can Has Cheezburger?, January, 2010

"Shibboleths"

SHIBBOLETHS
By Curtis C. Chen

The rain started the same day the animals started talking. Noah was sitting in his office, staring out the window at the gray clouds, when the female pig with an Australia-shaped blotch on her right ear trotted into his open doorway.

"I don't want to go with Ricky," said the pig.

"Who's Ricky?" Noah asked.

"Whoa!" The pig stumbled. "You can understand me?"

"Yeah," Noah said. "Why didn't you ever talk before?"

"I've been talking for years!" the pig said. "Okay, hold on. Repeat back what I say exactly: multi-variable calculus equation."

"Multi-variable calculus equation," Noah said.

The pig nearly fell over. "How long have you been able to understand our talking?"

"What do you mean, 'our talking'?" Noah asked. "You don't mean all animals can talk?"

The pig snorted. "Okay, don't go anywhere! I'll be right back!"

"Where would I go?"

The pig ran away. Noah looked out the window. Lightning flashed in the distance, and fat raindrops slapped against the glass, distorting the skyline of the distant city.

"Okay, I'm back!"

Noah turned to see a camel hunched in the doorway behind the pig.

"We have camels?" Noah asked.

The pig nudged the camel's leg. "Go on, say something! Let's see if he can understand you, too!"

The camel looked at the pig with baleful eyes, then said, "A radical government may be toppled by a reasoned populace."

Noah repeated the phrase.

"Bloody hell," the camel said. "How long has he been able to understand us?"

"I don't know!" the pig said, hopping up and down. "I just came in here to tell him about Ricky, and he could understand me!"

"Ricky," the camel said, with obvious disdain. "Why do you hang out with that wanker?"

"He's not so bad. I just don't want to spend forty days at sea with him, you know?" The pig ran over to Noah's desk. "There are other male pigs, right? I can get a new partner?"

"Not my department," Noah said. "You need to ask Eliza about that."

"Right!" the pig said, and ran off. The camel stared at Noah.

"Can I help you with something?" Noah asked.

"Did you see that ludicrous display last night?" the camel asked.

"What?"

"Chelsea and Everton," the camel said. "What was Ancelotti thinking?"

"Is this sports?" Noah said. "I don't really follow sports."

"Typical." The camel shook its head and retreated back down the hallway.

Noah picked up the telephone and dialed a four-digit extension. When the woman at the other end answered, he asked, "When did the animals start talking?"

"How long has it been since you left your office?" Eliza asked.

"Don't change the subject," Noah said. "Are they actually talking, or am I hallucinating again?"

"Interesting," Eliza said. "Why do you think you might be hallucinating?"

Noah hung up the phone and ignored it when it started ringing. He looked out the window. The rain was coming down harder now, in glowing sheets of luminescent green. He was pretty sure that wasn't supposed to be happening, either.



Photo: Camel by Catherine Joll, Cyprus, September, 2008

"Exterior, Alley, Daytime"

EXTERIOR, ALLEY, DAYTIME
By Curtis C. Chen

Detective Burgeson dragged me out to the dumpster, where Morales' body lay under the black tarp.

"Some free advice," she said. "If you ever want to make detective, you need to be more circumspect when interviewing people."

"Who says I want to make detective?" I said.

"You're a good cop, Griff." I could tell it took great effort for her to pay me a compliment. "There aren't enough thinking police in this city. You want to walk a beat for the rest of your life, or do you actually want to put away the bad guys?"

I didn't want to think about this. I might be dead in three years. I didn't want to complicate my life any more than it already had been by my uncontrollable magic superpower.

"In case you haven't noticed," I said, "those of us in uniform are the ones watching your back when you walk into a crime scene. The black-and-whites are first to respond when there's a riot, or a gang war, or a run on DVD players at Walmart."

"I am not in any way belittling the uniformed officers of SFPD," Burgeson said. "But we both know there'll always be more cadets. You can do more than this."

"Why this sudden interest in my career?" I asked. "Last year we didn't even know each other. I don't think we've had ten conversations since then, and most of those were while you were investigating me for Debra's murder. Now suddenly we're best friends?"

Burgeson sighed. "You're treading water, Griff. I know you've been through a lot. Your partner died. That's some heavy shit. But I don't see you dealing with it. You gotta move on, and getting out of that uniform is a big step."

I started walking away. "Thanks for the pep talk, Dr. Shawna. I'm going now."

"Griff! I'm serious!"

I whipped back around and glared at Burgeson. "You think I'm fucking around here? You think I'm wallowing in self-pity or grief?" I felt my hands curling into fists. "Have you ever lost a partner? Have you ever had to watch someone's throat get torn out, and later wonder if you might have been able to prevent it?"

Burgeson shook her head. "No."

"Well, I hope you never have to. And maybe you'd react differently. Maybe you'd make a run for police chief, or sell all your worldly possessions on go on a spiritual odyssey." I felt tears burning behind my eyes. "Or maybe, just maybe, you'd decide that the best way to honor your dead friend is to keep doing the job for which she gave her life. And when it's my time, I hope I go down in the line of duty, because anything less will be an insult to everything that I ever chose to stand for."

We stared at each other without blinking for a long moment.

"Somebody order a meat thermometer?" called a female voice behind me.

I turned to see the ME, Pamela Walker, strolling down the alley. She waved at the tarp. "Is that the body?"



Photo: Dumpsters in an alley by marika.laurel, Seattle, March, 2009

"Lost in the Snow"

LOST IN THE SNOW
By Curtis C. Chen

"It's almost noon," Joseph said.

David didn't look up. "Keep digging."

"We've got less than two hours—"

"Then shut up and help me dig!"

David's shovel bit into the frozen ground. He levered it upward, and Joseph watched another tiny chunk of icy dirt sail through the air and land on top of the mound they'd been making.

"It's no use, David," Joseph said. "It'll take us a full hour to perform the funeral rites. There's no way we can dig deep enough in the next hour."

David made an inhuman noise and attacked the earth again. The shovel clanged against something solid—maybe a rock, maybe ice—and slipped. David fell forward, his face denting the snow at the edge of the shallow grave.

It had been snowing since yesterday morning, since before their mother had been killed at midday by a pack of dire wolves. The wolves had rushed directly for Rachel, perhaps sensing that she was the weakest of the humans.

Joseph and David had both drawn their weapons and started firing at the animals, and by the time Joseph remembered the portable defense energizer on his back, two of the wolves were inside the perimeter. He had sliced one wolf in half when he powered up the force field, but the other wolf had torn out their mother's neck before David could blast its head off.

The remaining wolves had left and not returned. The battery on the defense shield had failed six hours ago. Joseph and David had been digging all night, and they had only managed to dig a hole barely a foot deep. Not deep enough to cover their mother's body and ensure her a resting place in the afterlife.

David rolled onto his back and wailed. Joseph sat down on the cold, hard ground and waited for his brother to finish.

After a moment, David sat up, grabbed his pack, and pulled out his pistol. He held it out to Joseph, handgrip forward, and said, "Shoot me."

Joseph blinked. "What?"

David pressed the pistol into Joseph's palm. "One shot, right into my forehead. Make it quick."

"I'm not going to kill you!"

David turned the pistol around and pointed the barrel at Joseph's chest. "You shoot me right now, or I'll shoot you."

Joseph shook his head. "This is insane."

"One of us has to stay with her," David said. "If we can't lay her to rest, one of us has to stay with her, and it can't be a suicide! Now is it going to be you, or me?"

Joseph blinked back the tears in his eyes and took the pistol. "What am I supposed to report to the outpost?"

"Tell them the wolves got us both," David said. "Nobody's ever going to come out here to check. Now hurry up, I'm freezing."

Joseph raised the pistol, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

***

"Mother?"

"Hello, David."

"What is... are those wolves?"

"Yes, David."

"But they're... they're..."

"I know. We were wrong, David. About so many things."

Photo: our Prius in a Portland snowstorm, January, 2009

"Vampires of New York"

VAMPIRES OF NEW YORK
By Curtis C. Chen

The thin girl in the silver bikini unwrapped her wrist slowly, as if she were doing a striptease. She must have been new. Max hadn't seen her in the club before, and he spent a lot of time in the club.

"I don't need the show, honey," Max said. "I'm just here for a drink."

The girl stopped and shrugged. "Whatever you say." She yanked the rest of the bandage off unceremoniously and held her wrist valve over Max's goblet, releasing a steady trickle of dark red liquid.

"You a vegetarian?" he asked. There was a faint grassy aroma to the girl's blood.

"I thought you just wanted to drink."

There goes your tip, thought Max.

The girl pulled a new bandage out of the dispenser attached to the table. She put a thumb over her valve to stop the flow, then wrapped the bandage around her wrist and turned away. She didn't even offer to let Max lick the blood off her thumb.

"Kids these days," he muttered.

"Talking to yourself again?" said a voice behind him. "Not going senile, are you?"

"You should be so lucky," Max said.

Josef walked around the table and sat down. "I swear, these chairs get less comfortable every time."

"Maybe you're losing weight."

"Don't you start with me. My doctor keeps telling me I can't drink positive. You believe that? I say he can tell me what to do when he's a hundred and twenty years old." He turned to flag down a waitress.

"Why do you keep dragging yourself to that free clinic?" Max asked. "Why don't you join a health plan like a normal person?"

Josef scowled. "Max. How can you ask me that? We both lived in the ghettos, we both went to the camps, how can you even ask me that?"

"It's not the same, Josef."

"It's never the same," Josef said. "They always find some new way to kill us."

Max shook his head. "Things are different, Josef. This is America."

Josef snorted. A blond waitress stopped next to him, and he smiled up at her. "Hey, sweetheart, what's on tap today?"

"A-positive, A-negative, B-pos, B-neg, O-neg," the waitress recited, chewing gum and clearly bored. "Soup of the day is beef and barley."

Josef grumbled. "Nothing AB? What's her name, the brunette with the curls?"

"Called in sick," the waitress said. "I can get you a plasma mixer."

Josef made a face. "Please don't. A-positive, make sure she's an omnivore. I can't stand that grassy vegetarian aftertaste. I want a girl who enjoys a good hamburger once in a while, you understand?"

The waitress nodded. "Stacy. I'll send her right over." She dropped a napkin on the table, then sashayed off toward the bar.

"Oh, look at that," Josef said, ogling the waitress' backside. "I tell you, Max, it's a damn shame we didn't get turned when we were younger. The things I'd do if I still had a twenty-nine-year-old body..."

"Please," Max said. "You'll ruin my appetite."



Photo: Bloody Moon by Steve Jurvetson, August, 2007