The Last of the 512s

Three months from now, on Friday, August 23rd, 2013, I will publish my 256th and final piece of flash fiction on this site.

On that day, it will have been nearly five years since I started this project. I could continue, but I feel I've accomplished what I set out to do with this project. (And yes, I could continue until the full five years is up--going to 260 stories--but these are all arbitrary numbers, and I prefer powers of two. It's, like, thematic and shit.)

I've demonstrated to myself that I can produce on a regular deadline, and with fairly consistent quality. I can generate new ideas nearly on demand and turn them into stories, or scenes, or at least writing exercises. It's time to move on to bigger, better, possibly salable things. This has been fun and productive, but it's not the endgame.

However, that last piece won't quite be the end of 512 Words or Fewer. I'm going to put together that "best of" collection I was talking about, years ago; my discerning, well-read wife DeeAnn will help me edit the book, and we'll publish it no later than my 40th birthday, on October 1st of this year. It's a happy coincidence of milestones, and I'm going to take it.

So stay tuned for the last of my 512s, to be posted on this blog over the next lucky-thirteen weeks. I can't promise they'll be any better than previous installments, but they will be new.

"Who Died?"

WHO DIED?
By Curtis C. Chen

If you tell me, I can bring him back. Or her. Whoever it was. Tell me.

Oh, no. Stop. I'm sorry, I wasn't clear. It has to be your first. Yes, the very first. Your first experience with death. It may not have been a human; perhaps it was a pet, a goldfish or dog or—no? All right. But it must be your first.

I'll know if you're lying. It only works if you tell the truth. It has to be the first. The first death which made it clear to you that death is real, permanent, pervasive, inescapable. Your first. That's the only one I can bring back.

That doesn't mean it has to be someone who was close to you. That's the other thing everybody gets wrong. It's not the first person who died and affected you in some deep, traumatic, emotional way. No. It's simply your first death, the one that exposed the reality of dying to you.

Yes, they do often coincide, and those stories are as horrible as they are pedestrian; the young child who loses a parent, we've all heard that one, haven't we? But the good news is, I can do something about it. I can bring that parent back. If that was your first death.

Well, of course there's a price. Isn't there always? That's how this works. The price, in this case, is your memory.

Oh, not your entire memory. Heavens, no! That would be unspeakably cruel. I only take that single memory, of your first encounter with death. That moment of revelation, when you understood that the Reaper was whispering around every corner, waiting for each of us at the end.

I take that memory, and you get your dearly departed back.

Of course, there will be certain side effects. That knowledge of death, of what it does and how it affects us, has informed every decision you've ever made since you acquired it. You would have been a very different person without it. And once I take that memory, you will be different.

Not different in any noticeable way; not at first. You'll still be you, with the same personality, the same fears and foibles as always. But you'll not have the same understanding of death any longer. You'll have to go through that experience again. You'll have to relive your first death.

Maybe it will be easier this time, better; maybe it'll be worse. Who can say? Some actually desire that opportunity, that second chance to grasp the ineffable.

But in any case, you'll have your dead back. That's the important thing, for most; they're willing to sacrifice to save that person. They're willing to plunge themselves into the unknown for the guarantee of seeing their long-lost loved one, alive again.

Oh, I can't tell you what happened to any of the others. Also part of the bargain, I'm afraid. You don't get to play the odds. You must decide with only the information I've given you.

Have you decided? Excellent.

So, tell me: who died?



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"Down to Earth"

DOWN TO EARTH
By Curtis C. Chen

"They have telescopes," Perry said. "They've all got telescopes. Some of them are tracking you right now, feeding live video to public web sites. We can't shut down the entire worldwide amateur astronomy community. You can't de-orbit."

I hated not being able to see him. Several of the meteors—the smaller ones—had impacted my helmet, knocking out the heads-up display embedded in the transparent visor. It was weird, hearing Perry's voice in my ear without seeing his face, and I wondered if it would have been better if one of the bigger rocks had smashed into my head. At least then I would have died in an instant, instead of now having to choose a terrible public demise.

"You think it's going to be better if I yank off my helmet and suffocate?" I asked. "Then the whole world gets to watch my corpse circling the planet for centuries. At least if I burn up, it's over in a few minutes."

"Do you want your husband to see that?" Perry said. "Do you really want your immolation broadcast live, in high-definition 3-D?"

"Fuck you, Perry," I said. "Lamont's smart enough to turn off his TV. You're worried about how this is going to affect the stock price."

There was a long pause. I stared down at planet Earth, huge and beautiful and still. I wondered how many people were observing me from the ground. They probably couldn't see my face through the polarized helmet visor—unless somebody was using a wide-spectrum receiver. Never underestimate the ingenuity of bored graduate students.

"We have another option," Perry said at last.

"Does it involve me not dying?"

He hesitated before answering. "I wish I had better news, Kayla—"

"Just tell me."

"Your spacesuit thrusters still have eighty percent of their reserves," Perry said. "We can give you a procedure to overload the primary fuel cell cluster."

I kept my face calm and hoped nobody watching from the ground could read lips. "You want me to blow myself up?"

"Just let me finish," Perry said. "It'll be quick. Over in less than a second, and any debris gets incinerated in the atmosphere before hitting the ground. We can program in a random delay, so you won't even know when it happens."

"You're so kind," I said. "And then the company gets to cover up the whole thing, pretend my suit was damaged in the meteor shower, and call this entire 'incident' a terrible, unavoidable tragedy."

"I'm on your side, Kayla," Perry said. "I'm sorry, but this is your best option now."

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding in my tears. "I want to talk to Lamont."

"What?"

"I want to talk to my husband."

"Kayla—"

"You get my husband on comms," I said, "or I start waving my arms in semaphore and spelling out exactly what happened for the whole damn world to see. You've got thirty seconds, Perry."

"That's not enough time!"

"Twenty-five seconds."

"Okay, okay!" The line beeped and went dead.

"Fucker," I muttered.



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"Dear John"

DEAR JOHN
By Curtis C. Chen

The day Michael's dead wife wrote back to him was the day the world started to end.

Michael had written to Barbara every day since the one after her funeral, when he'd woken up, bleary-eyed, to face a house full of the assorted stationery she loved to collect.

There were notepads of all sizes, and letterheads from fictional organizations like "The Watchers Council," and whimsical cards featuring original, hand-drawn cartoons. Michael couldn't bear to throw any of it out, but he also hated the idea of packing it away. Either one felt too much like he was making an effort to forget her.

Then, while sorting through a pile of note paper made from strips of recycled concert posters, Michael started writing down a grocery list. Maybe the long, narrow format of the paper influenced him. Maybe his subconscious had decided that since he wasn't going to get rid of the paper, he might as well use it.

Partway through the list, after "eggs" and "milk," he didn't know what came next, but his hand continued moving the pen. What emerged was a series of questions that Michael would have asked Barbara: do we need more cereal? what dishwasher soap do we use? does the spinach really need to be organic? why don't you just subscribe to that magazine?

He filled the rest of that page and several more, until his tears made the ink run.

After that, he wrote a new letter every day, using a different type of paper each time. When he finished a letter, he sealed it in an envelope and packed away the rest of that stationery. After sunset, he started a fire in the living room and burned the letter, watching as his words became glowing flakes and spiraled up and away.

One morning, three months after the funeral, Michael brought his mug of coffee into the living room and dropped it on the hardwood floor.

He stared at the envelope which sat on top of the ashes of last night's fire. It was not the stationery he'd used; that had been lavender-colored, with ponies prancing around the border of each page. This was a plain white number ten envelope.

Michael fell to his knees and crawled through a lukewarm puddle of coffee to reach the envelope. He poked one shaky finger under the flap, tore open the seal, and pulled out the letter.

It was a single sheet of paper, eight and a half by eleven inches, folded in three parts to fit inside the envelope. On the paper was written a single word, in Barbara's delicate script, without capitalization or punctuation:

run

Michael turned the paper over, then held it up to the window, trying to see if anything else might be written or watermarked or scratched there. There was nothing. He went back to the kitchen and placed the letter and envelope on the counter.

As soon as he let go of the papers, they crumpled themselves into balls and disappeared in two flashes of green flame.

Michael ran.



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"Overtones"

OVERTONES
By Curtis C. Chen

"No," Hailey said as soon as Mark dropped the brochure on the table. She didn't need to read past the title: MECHANOID DEVELOPMENT EXPO, rendered in shiny chrome letters above a photo of an automated sentry unit guarding a little girl.

"Come on," Mark said, sitting down and unwrapping his sandwich. "This is the perfect opportunity for us."

"To embarrass ourselves?" Hailey shoved the brochure across the table. "No thanks, I can do that just fine right here at my day job."

Mark frowned, pushed the brochure back at Hailey, and said through a mouthful of roast beef, "You want to design robots. We both do. This is our chance to get out of the tech support salt mines."

Hailey sighed and put her sandwich down. She turned the brochure to face Mark and tapped a finger against the photo. "What's that?"

"A little girl."

"A little white girl," Hailey said.

Mark shrugged. "So?"

Hailey shook her head. "Boy, it must be nice to be a tall white guy from an upper middle class family."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Hailey pointed a finger at her own face. "What's this?"

"Your... face...?" Mark said.

"This is an Asiatic of indeterminate national origin," Hailey said.

"You were born in Oakland."

"And you can tell that by looking at me?" Hailey held up the brochure. "Every single robotics manufacturer depends on some kind of government or domestic defense contract for the majority of their income. They're not going to hire a non-white, potential security risk when there are plenty of 'real Americans' available to do the job."

"You're exaggerating." Mark bit off another hunk of sandwich and started chewing. "Besides, the prejudice works in your favor. Everyone thinks Asians are good at math."

Hailey counted to ten before responding. "Do I look Chinese to you?"

"Dude, your family's from Bangladesh."

"Forget that you know me," Hailey said slowly. "Do I look Chinese to you?"

Mark shrugged. "How should I know? You look Asian. Maybe a little Hispanic."

Hailey scrunched up her face in disbelief. "Hispanic?"

"I don't know!" Mark threw up his hands, sending a shred of lettuce flying over his shoulder. "I can't tell. You just look—normal."

"No," Hailey said, "you look 'normal.' People look at you and they don't have any preconceived notion of who you are or what you do. People look at me and they instantly think they know something about me."

"That's stupid," Mark said.

"It is what it is." Hailey dropped the brochure and stared at her sandwich. "But I have to deal with it every day, whether I like it or not. I'm not going to go looking for more of it to deal with, and I'm certainly not walking into a convention where everyone is going to be paranoid about Chinese spies stealing their secrets. Can we talk about something else now?"

Mark nodded. "You are good at math, though."

Hailey stood and jabbed both middle fingers up at Mark. "I'm going back to my desk."



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"Hang a Lantern on It"

HANG A LANTERN ON IT
By Curtis C. Chen

"I can't feel my legs," Trager said.

"Is every word out of your mouth a goddamn cliché?" Jamie held down the field communicator's power button until both her thumbs were numb. The screen lit up a second later. "What the hell does 'OPSEC' mean?"

"Operational Security," Trager said. "Need access code."

"What's the code?"

"Can't tell you." Trager's left arm twitched, then fell back into the dirt. "I'll do it."

"You're about to pass out," Jamie said. "Tell me the code."

"Can't. You're civilian."

An energy beam sliced past the bunker, making the ground sizzle. Jamie grabbed Trager's helmet and turned the other woman's head until their eyes met.

"Tell me the fucking code, please," Jamie said.

Trager grinned. "If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

Jamie bit her lip. Trager's pupils were huge. Whatever painkillers and other drugs the battle armor was pumping into her system, they were working fast.

"I need the code to activate this beacon or we're both dead." Jamie pressed the communicator screen up against Trager's visor.

Trager pursed her lips. "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

"And now she's speaking in tongues."

Trager raised her right hand and unbuckled her chestplate. The seal opened with a hiss, followed by the urgent beeping of alarms.

"Whoa!" Jamie said. "Stop! That armor's keeping you alive—"

"I'll give you the code," Trager said. "But you need to do something for me."

"Sure, anything, just put your armor back on!"

Trager reached under her chestplate and yanked hard, snapping the chain around her neck. She held out her fist.

"No," Jamie said. "You're not dead. I'm not taking your goddamn dogtags."

"Not my tags," Trager said. "The other thing."

Jamie looked down at Trager's open palm. Strung beside her dogtags was a smooth obsidian ring, bulging on one side but with no gemstones or markings.

"Your ring?" Jamie said.

"Not mine," Trager said. "Found it."

Jamie picked up the ring. "Okay. I'll get it back to HQ—"

"No!" Trager clamped her hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Not the military. Give it to my brother."

Trager slumped forward. Jamie caught her.

"His name is," Trager slurred. "What's his name?"

"I'll find him," Jamie said, shoving Trager's chestplate back into place. The armor resealed itself and stopped beeping. "Don't worry. Now what's the code?"

Trager recited a string of digits. Jamie started typing them into the communicator. It was hard to work the keypad while holding the ring, so she slipped the black circle onto her finger.

"Don't do that," Trager said.

"What? Ow!"

The ring bit into Jamie's skin, like a pinprick, then grew warm. It rotated itself around her finger until the bulge faced upward. Multi-colored dots danced beneath the surface.

"Holyshitwhatthefuck!" Jamie said.

"Told you not to do that," Trager said.

"You could have warned me earlier!" Jamie tugged at the ring, but it wouldn't move. Flickers of light appeared at the edges of her vision, then coalesced into clusters of unfamiliar shapes. "What is this thing doing to me?"

"Funny story," Trager said, and passed out.



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"Hailing Frequency"

HAILING FREQUENCY
By Curtis C. Chen

Carranda waited for the captain to turn his head, then palmed the data chip from her control panel.

"Request permission to visit the head, Captain," she said.

Captain Bailey Numpshol, Hero of the Tenth Fleet, recipient of the Plated Crescent for Valor in Service, inclined his head toward the comms station, grunted, and waved his hand as a sign of approval.

Carranda bit her tongue to keep from saying something her career might regret later, stood up, and walked to the private lavatory in the starboard aft corner of the bridge. She waited for the overhead illumination to flicker on, checked the lock on the door, and then pulled the computer tablet off her equipment belt. She slid the data chip into the tablet's reader slot.

She hated the face that appeared on the tablet screen a few seconds later, after her personal encryption key had unlocked the coded transmission from Central Command. She hated her nineteen-year-old self for agreeing to run an errand for a devastatingly handsome midshipman. One stupid task which had plunged her into the dark and twisted tunnels of political espionage, where she was now trapped.

"Hello, Lieutenant Vurzo," said the face on the screen. The audio was being piped directly into Carranda's cochlear implant. "First things first. Your transfer request has been denied."

Carranda cursed under her breath.

"I'm sorry," the face said, without a hint of apology in his voice, "but you're just too valuable in your current posting. We need an asset aboard Scamander, and your bridge station is the perfect cover. You're right in the middle of the action, but nobody notices you."

She wanted to punch the man on her screen. She wanted to punch him in the nose and make him bleed. She wanted to do anything that resulted in a visible, tangible result.

Eighteen months aboard the Scamander, suffering under that arrogant bastard Numpshol, passing intel back and forth without ever knowing why or if her work was making a difference. Central Command said she was essential, but they said that to everyone. Sometimes right before they "closed the loop" to prevent any possible security breaches.

"Your next assignment will be somewhat complicated," the face said. "Encoded in the sideband of this transmission is a chemical formula. Follow the provided instructions to override the safety protocols in your personal food dispenser and synthesize the compound.

"Once you've manufactured the liquid, put a few drops in Captain Numpshol's morning coffee. The compound acts very quickly. He won't feel anything.

"Complete this task before Scamander reaches Paglaban. If you can't get Numpshol to ingest the compound, find some other way to remove him from command, permanently. We don't care how you do it. Just make sure Commander Jauneen Marfish is the acting captain of Scamander when you make contact with Paglaban. We need her in that center seat.

"That is all, Lieutenant Vurzo. Go and execute."

Carranda turned off the tablet. Her stomach was churning, and her legs felt weak. She might actually need to use the toilet after all.



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"Not From Montgomery"

NOT FROM MONTGOMERY
By Curtis C. Chen

On Thursday night, the angel reappeared in Gaby's room.

"Go away," the girl said to the glowing apparition floating above her bed.

The angel shook its head. The face was a haze of light, but the voice was unmistakably female. She wore a form-fitting, one-piece garment that covered all but her face and hands.

"I'm sorry," the angel said, "but I can't. I'll try to explain better this time."

"You're not real," Gaby said in a hoarse whisper. She didn't want to wake her parents. "I'm still sick. That's all. I'm not crazy."

"You're neither," the angel said. "I'm not actually here. You're seeing a projection—an image of me. Like a picture. Do you know what photographs are?"

"Yes," Gaby replied, somewhat offended. "Father has a brand new Kodak camera. He's quite the shutterbug."

"Hey! That's slang, isn't it?" The angel vibrated, momentarily dissolving into a mist of light. "Phil, can we pinpoint that word origin? If we can find the year—" The angel nodded. "I don't suppose you know the model number of that camera, do you, sweetie?"

"My name's Gaby. And no, I'm not allowed to play with Father's things."

"Right. Yes?" The angel nodded. "Okay, Gaby, this is very important. Can you tell me what year it is?"

"Leave me alone," Gaby said, pulling her blankets up. "I want to go to sleep."

The shape made of light pushed through the blankets and hovered underneath the covers, just a few inches from Gaby's nose. "Sorry, Gaby, but we're on a schedule here. I need you to tell me the date. Today's date."

"I don't know," Gaby pouted. "I've been sick."

"I'm very sorry, Gaby, but we need to know, and you're the only one we can reach."

"Why do you need to know?" Gaby asked. "And who's 'we?' I only see one of you."

The angel sighed, and the glowing outlines of her eyes looked sad. "There are others here with me, Gaby. You can't see them because—it's complicated. But we can only fit one person into this picture.

"It's very important that we find out when you are in time. We're on a very important mission. We didn't expect that you would be the only one we could talk to, but we can't control that very well."

"Are you in heaven?" Gaby asked quietly.

The angel pursed her lips. "Not exactly."

Gaby curled up tighter. "I know what you are. You're a devil. You're trying to trick me. Well, it won't work. I'm not telling you anything."

The angel frowned, vibrated, then turned and shouted over her shoulder. "Hey, you want to try doing this, Phil?" There was a pause. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Shut up and let me talk to her." The angel shook her head. "Asshole."

"Who's Phil?" Gaby asked.

The angel's eyes went wide. "I thought you said this mute button was working!"

She whirled around, and then her light dissolved away.

The angel didn't appear again that night. It took Gaby a long time to fall asleep.



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