"Family Jewels"

FAMILY JEWELS
By Curtis C. Chen

The trouble started at Thanksgiving. Terrence brought Rachel home to meet his unexpectedly welcoming family. Of course, they were just buttering her up, biding their time.

It happened on Sunday night, after a trip to the local merchdome. Terrence's mother handed Rachel a mug of hot tea and asked, "Have you and Terrence thought about children?"

It was quite shrewd; Mrs. Katoomba had waited until the men had retired to another room for sports viewing and she was alone with Rachel.

"Well, we're not thinking about it immediately," Rachel said. "We couldn't start now anyway, with Terrence in the motility program and all."

Mrs. Katoomba blinked. "What program?"

They had to stay an extra day because bad weather closed the bridges. Rachel wanted to hide in the bathroom every time she saw Mrs. Katoomba's face.

Terrence couldn't stop apologizing during the drive home.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It just hadn't come up."

"You could have mentioned it."

"I don't generally discuss my sex life with my parents."

"So don't," Rachel snapped. "Tell her you're moonlighting. Tell her it's hard to find work in lowtown. Tell her something. Anything."

He didn't speak for a long time. Finally, when they were almost home, he said, "I'll talk to them."

Rachel sighed, her breath fogging the windshield. "No. You won't. That's not what your family does. That's why your mother cornered me. She knew you weren't going to talk."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

There was a message waiting on their refrigerator. Terrence touched the door, and the video display came to life with the computer-generated image of a motility clinic nurse.

Rachel didn't want to hear it. She dragged their luggage into the bedroom and started unpacking.

She was angry at Terrence, but she was more unhappy with herself. Motility was a miracle of modern science, and their contribution to it was genuine charity. They had nothing to be ashamed of. But the pittance that the program paid didn't compensate for the time lost, months at a time, when Rachel and Terrence couldn't make love.

They had tried, of course. Sometimes Rachel could bring herself to a climax by rubbing against Terrence's doll-smooth groin--he still had a pelvic bone, after all--but she hated seeing his face below her, full of desire that she couldn't satisfy.

She turned around and jumped, startled by the sight of Terrence standing in the doorway.

"What's wrong?" Rachel asked.

"The clinic," he said. "They lost power during the storm."

She walked over. "Was anything--damaged?"

He blinked at her. "They're not sure. They want us to go in so they can reattach it and have us--test it. Make sure it still works."

Rachel's mouth hung open. "You mean..."

"Yeah," he said. "They want a sample. And--a video record."

She took his hand. "Oh, my."

"There's nothing sexy about this," he said, smiling. "It's purely medical."

"Yeah," she said. "You can tell that to your mother."

"You want me to call her now?"

Rachel punched his shoulder. "Go put on your hat."

Audio: "Family Jewels"

http://512words.blogspot.com

Music: "Bassexp" by p1rj1s, licensed under Creative Commons from ccMixter.

It's difficult to find instrumental music that's simultaneously funny and a little sexy. Let me just say that.

A few years ago, I took a voice acting class that focused on audio book reading. One of the most important lessons I learned in that class was not to belittle the material. No matter what you, as a reader, may think about the book--even if it's something you'd never read yourself, like a Harlequin romance--you must deliver it to your audience in a respectful way. You have a responsibility to the people who pay money and time for that audio book.

Many writing instructors tell their students to always read their work aloud, because words (especially dialogue) that seem clever on the page may ring false in your ear. I still have a tough time writing about sex or violence (how much should you describe? How much detail is required for clarity, and when do you cross the line?), but I'm working on it. As shown here.

NSFW

Happy Holidays, legal adults over the age of majority in your respective jurisdictions!



This week's story is based in part on an actual incident. I tend to sleep later than my wife, and during one holiday at my parents' house, D and my mother had an early-morning conversation which the latter party steered toward the topic of children. D was not a happy camper.

My parents have known since high school that I'm not interested in being a father, but perhaps they were hoping some outside influence might alter my attitude. Sorry, folks. I'm working on a different kind of legacy.

To all those visiting family (and especially in-laws) for the holidays, I salute you for going Once More Unto The Breach.

'Tis the Season

Since I just shot off my mouth over on the HotSheet about how great Creative Commons is, and I've been using music from ccMixter, I thought I should update my own copyright notice to make it clear that I'm doing a Doctorow and publishing 512 Words or Fewer under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

I know, that's a mouthful, but the short version is this: you're free to share any of these stories (text or audio) with your friends, and even use my words or ideas in your own art.

The only things you can't do are sell them (hence "noncommercial"), omit my byline ("attribution"), or publish your own work under a more restrictive license ("share alike").

I agree wholeheartedly with Tim O'Reilly's assertion that, for creative types, obscurity is worse than piracy. If you do anything with my 512 words, let me know so I can add a link from this site!

"Perchance"

PERCHANCE
By Curtis C. Chen

Edwin had never dreamed until his wife died. The night after Angie's funeral, he fell asleep, still dressed in his dark suit and necktie, and imagined that he was floating in an indoor pool.

The smell of chlorine wrinkled his nose. A vast rush of noise swirled around him--shouting, whistles, echoes. He was up to his neck in lukewarm water, and his feet couldn't touch the bottom. He'd never been any good at swimming. He started panicking and splashing. Nobody seemed to notice.

He woke up before he drowned. The last thing he remembered seeing while he sank was a lone infant, who seemed too young to be swimming unsupervised in a public pool, floating just below the surface of the water.

One week later, Edwin was back at the clinic.

"All the eggs are still viable," Doctor Plume said, adjusting his eyeglasses. "Now, your--situation has changed, but there's no reason we can't continue with the fertilization procedure."

Edwin nodded.

"Since your wife has--passed on, we will need to find a surrogate. I know this is awkward, but have you talked to your family about this? Your siblings, or maybe your in-laws?"

"I'll do it," Edwin said. "I'll carry the fetus."

"What?"

"I researched male pregnancy. They've done it successfully in Singapore. Implant the embryo in my abdominal cavity, then give me the right hormones--"

Plume held up a hand. "Okay, Ed, stop. Yes, it's possible, but it's incredibly dangerous. Even with healthy women, ectopic pregnancies tend to kill the mother. And you don't have a birth canal--we'd have to do surgery to get the baby out. You'd never survive in your condition, and the baby's chances wouldn't be good, either."

"I've been dreaming," Edwin said, and described his dream. He'd been having the same one every night, about the baby in the swimming pool. Sometimes he could almost touch the baby. Sometimes the baby swam away. It always had Angie's eyes, and it never blinked.

"Look," Plume said, "we're both scientists. You know this is just your subconscious going on a joyride. It's not a message from beyond or some kind of holy vision. You're still very fragile, emotionally, and you need time to consider a decision like this."

Edwin nodded. "How much time do I have? Eighteen months? I can die from my next relapse, or I can die giving birth to my child, aren't those my choices? Weren't those Angie's choices?"

"You wouldn't be able to continue the gene therapy," Plume said. "There's no guarantee you'd survive a whole nine months with the disease and with, frankly, a parasite growing inside you. It'll probably kill both of you."

"There's a chance it might not."

"As your doctor, I can't even think about recommending it."

"Fine," Edwin said. "But will you help me? As my friend?"

Plume stared at Edwin, then removed his glasses and sighed. "This is going to be the most convoluted euthanasia I've ever performed."

Edwin smiled. He would look forward to dreaming for the rest of his life.

Audio: "Perchance"

http://512words.blogspot.com

Music: "dreamer..." by cdk, licensed under Creative Commons from ccMixter.

Not much to say about this one. I probably should have picked a different name for the doctor, since I popped a couple of his P's pretty hard. And I didn't really mean for Edwin to sound like Hugo the Abominable Snowman. Sometimes these things just happen, y'know?

ObDreamSequence

Yes, the dream sequence which feels totally out of place and does nothing to advance the plot is the hallmark of amateur and amateurish writers everywhere. But combine said dream sequence with an oblique Shakespeare reference and add a sprinkle of medical jargon, and (as the band kids say) voila!

Well, actually, it's still not very good, but at least it's finished.

In high school, I read a short story by Robert Bloch (I think) that totally freaked me out. It was written in the first person by a witch who cursed a man by putting a baby inside him. The implication was not that it would kill him, but that he would suffer horribly because his body was not designed to support the growing fetus or, eventually, give birth to it. Eww.

On the other end of the spectrum, there's the 1994 movie Junior, arguably notable only for the fact that it stars both The Terminator Arnold Schwarzenegger and Elinor Dashwood Emma Thompson.

"Antique"

ANTIQUE
By Curtis C. Chen

I brushed away more leaves. There was a hard surface beneath. Ceramic armor. I ran my hand along it until I found the edge, then pointed my flashlight. I stared into a dark mass of machinery--joints, gears, struts, wires. There was a serial number engraved on the interior surface of the casing.

"I don't believe it," I muttered.

"What the hell is it?" Embeck called from below. He had insisted on staying at ground level, scanning the landscape, his finger on the trigger of our only blaster.

"It's a mech," I called back.

"A what?"

I rolled my eyes. "A giant robot."

"You're kidding."

I lifted one leg and kicked the hidden mass beside me. My boot clanged against the armor, and leaves fell like rain. I pulled away the remaining vines so my co-pilot could see the huge metal arm.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"Get up here and help me clear this stuff away."

"What if we're attacked?"

"Then you'll have the high ground. Hurry up."

He secured the blaster in his hip holster and climbed slowly. Very slowly. He was the cautious one now. Funny.

I was sitting on the mech's shoulder by the time he got halfway up the torso. The main antenna array had been crushed a long time ago. Rust, bird droppings, and other stains streaked down to the middle of the mech's back.

"I don't suppose you've ever driven one of these things," I said.

Embeck shook his head. "Never even seen one in person. When were these last used in combat? Fifty, sixty years ago?"

I grimaced. "Christ, Embeck, I'm not that old."

"You were a mech driver?"

"I got the training. I was a Starbird candidate, you know."

He smirked. "How the mighty have fallen."

I saved my breath. "Let's get this canopy open. Maybe we won't have to walk back to the crash site after all."

We found the emergency release latches around the opaqued chest cavity of the mech, following the seam just above the window slit. I remembered being sealed into one of these things, being overwhelmed by a dizzying array of displays, nearly losing my lunch as the mech lurched around the training field. The narrow band of sunlight coming in through that window was the only thing that had helped steady me.

When we opened the seal, a cloud of dust puffed away from the mech, with a sound like a sigh. Mech cabins are airtight, to protect the driver from biochemical attack. It smelled stale. We lifted the creaking canopy and locked it into place, then leaned over and looked inside the cabin.

This mech's driver was still strapped into his seat. Something must have made it through the ventilation filters. He just had time to park the mech in this grove to hide it from the enemy. His desiccated fingers were still touching the throttle.

Embeck vomited into the cabin.

"You're cleaning that up," I said.