"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

3,900 Other Words

"The Tongue of Bees," by my Viable Paradise XII classmate Claire Humphrey, was published yesterday at Fantasy Magazine. It's a damn good piece of fiction, and one of the legendary "Evil Overlord" stories from the workshop.

The first two lines:

The children roll in clover on the other side of the hill. On this side, Raymond Holt is eating belladonna.

If you tell me you don't want more, I'll know you're lying. What are you still doing here? Go. NOW.

Read "The Tongue of Bees" by Claire Humphrey

"Guards"

GUARDS
By Curtis C. Chen

"Asshole," Ivan muttered as the door closed.

"Geez, say it a little louder, why don't you?" Conrad said. "Those doors are bullet-proof, not sound-proof."

The small, circular room was empty except for the display pedestal, two consoles with chairs, and a trash bin between them. Ivan and Conrad were seated facing a holographic map of the base.

Ivan swiveled his chair around, lifted his forearm onto his console, and flipped up his middle finger.

"That's good. Real mature," Conrad said.

Ivan brought his other arm up and deployed his other middle finger as well.

"I'm going back to work now," Conrad said, ignoring the dance that Ivan's middle fingers were doing.

"Don't you ever get sick of it?" Ivan asked, withdrawing his hands. "Following orders all the time? I sure do."

"Probably shouldn't have joined the Army then."

"Didn't have much of a choice." Ivan slumped in his chair.

"Is this where you tell me a sob story and I pretend to care?" Conrad said.

Ivan slapped his console. A red light started blinking, and a shrill alarm bell sounded. "How about that? You care about that?"

Conrad worked his own controls and silenced the alarm. "What is wrong with you? Now we have to write up an incident report. After the duty officer chews us out for another false alarm. Are you trying to get thrown into stockade?"

Ivan pulled a candy bar out of his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it and had the bar halfway to his mouth when Conrad leaned over and snatched it away.

"Hey!" Ivan said.

"No food or drink," Conrad said, throwing the candy bar into the trash. "Regulations."

"That was the last nutty bar at the exchange," Ivan said. "You owe me."

Conrad grabbed his crotch. "I got your nutty bar right here."

Ivan leapt out of his chair and tackled Conrad. They fell to the ground in a tangle of fists and shouts.

The door slid open. The duty officer entered and shouted, "Attention!"

Conrad and Ivan separated, stood, and lined up against the wall.

"What is going on here?" the duty officer asked.

"He started it," Ivan said, pointing at Conrad.

"What are you, twelve years old?"

"Twelve and a half," Ivan muttered.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" the duty officer screamed into Ivan's face.

"Twelve and a half, SIR!" Ivan replied.

The duty officer turned to Conrad. "And what's YOUR excuse?"

"He had a candy bar, sir!" Conrad said.

"A candy bar," the duty officer repeated.

"A nutty bar," Conrad said. Then, after a moment: "They're the best."

The duty officer shook his head. "Okay. I'm going to write up both you idiots, and your C.O. can decide what to do with you later. Now sit down!"

Conrad and Ivan went back to their consoles. The duty officer walked toward the exit and stopped in the open doorway to give them one final dirty look.

"Kids these days," the duty officer muttered as he left. The door slid shut behind him.

"Asshole," Conrad and Ivan said in unison.



Photo taken at Buckingham Palace, June, 2009.

"The Stories We Tell Ourselves"

THE STORIES WE TELL OURSELVES
By Curtis C. Chen

Gerald stirred his coffee, waiting to change the world.

The front door of the cafe swung open, and the bell jingled. A bald man wearing an overcoat entered and looked around.

Gerald waved. The man walked to the corner table.

"Gerald Mortman?" the man asked.

"That's me."

The man sat down. "Carl Point. Thank you for meeting me."

Gerald held up his hand. "You want some coffee? I ordered you a cup."

He nodded at the table, where a second mug had appeared in front of Carl.

"That wasn't there before!" Carl said.

"Just a small demonstration," Gerald said.

"Incredible." Carl looked around the coffee shop. "What happens if someone's watching when things change?"

"Nothing changes," Gerald said. "This is how it's always been."

"But I remember—"

"You'll forget soon enough," Gerald said. "Everyone does. Everyone except me." He leaned forward. "We don't have much time."

"Okay," Carl said. "It's my daughter, Emily. She passed away recently. Leukemia. She was five years old."

Gerald started pulling back. "I think you've misunderstood—"

"Just say she didn't die, say she's cured." Carl grabbed Gerald's arm. "I'll pay anything."

"I don't want money," Gerald said.

"Four words. 'Your daughter didn't die.' Simple."

"It's never simple, Mr. Point."

Carl reached under his coat and pulled out a revolver. Gerald heard gasps and murmurs all around. People moved away from the table.

"Say my daughter's alive," Carl said. "Say it!"

"Your daughter is alive, Mr. Point," Gerald said. "She's standing right behind you."

Carl stood, keeping the revolver trained on Gerald, and turned to see a teenage girl with curly brown hair. She was shaking.

"Please, Daddy," she said, "put down the gun."

Carl's head whipped back around to Gerald. "What the hell is this? That's not my daughter!"

"This isn't my story," Gerald said. "This is your story."

"Daddy!" the girl sobbed. "It's me! Allie!"

"Allison?" Carl's face went pale. "My God. You're all grown up."

"You have to stop, Daddy," Allie said.

"Look at your hair. Just like your mother's," Carl said. "God, we were both so young. We couldn't afford to raise a child..."

His arm fell just a little, and Gerald spoke.

"I'm glad you didn't bring a gun, Mr. Point. Some people get upset when I can't help them. Thank you for being reasonable."

Allie was gone, and so was the revolver. Carl looked down at Gerald, his face blank, waiting for the rest of the story.

"I'm glad you've finally accepted your daughter's death."

Carl sat down. "It's been very difficult."

"Go home, Mr. Point. Spend some time with your family. If you ever need to talk, you know how to find me."

Gerald extended his hand, and Carl shook it. "Thank you, Mr. Mortman. I think I'm going to be okay."

"I know you will be."

The bell rang as Carl walked back into the cold.

Gerald took out his notebook and started writing. He had lied to Carl. If he didn't write down all the stories, he would forget them, too. And he wanted to remember.



Photo taken at Charlotte Nature Museum, June, 2008.

This story is dedicated to Bayla. May she rest in peace.