"Photorps and Emotions"

PHOTORPS AND EMOTIONS
By Curtis C. Chen

Shut the fuck up, son. I won't allow that kind of talk on my deck. Those officers have earned your respect. Sit down, you're going to get a lecture. Yes, that's an order!

There's a Lieutenant JG up in Science, Spork or something--I can't pronounce Fulcan names. Anyway, couple months ago, he figured out how to stabilize the yield on our new torpedoes, those Unlucky Thirteens. Intermix chambers always went out of calibration after firing and dampened the impact detonation. Annoying as hell.

Of course the captain's interested. He reassigns my entire work crew, including me, to help Spork. Pulls us off vital shuttlecraft maintenance to experiment on three torpedoes. But what really chaps my hide is how Spork struts onto my deck and starts giving orders left and right, telling my people when to jump and how high.

I was ready to give him a piece of my mind. But I'm no dummy, I ain't gonna put my chevrons up against his stripes. So I don't confront him directly. I tell my gang to sabotage his little science project. Nothing dangerous, just a solid fail, enough to make him lose face in front of the captain.

I was wrong. Yeah, you're not gonna hear me say that again in this lifetime, so enjoy it while you can.

Yarrison and Belso got the worst of it. Third-degree plasma burns, toxic inhalants. The rest of us just got thrown back by the explosion. Spork cracked his skull against the deck. I saw him bleeding like a motherfucker, but he didn't hesitate. He yanked on half a hazmat suit, walked right into the burning debris, pulled Yarrison and Belso out before the fire suppression force fields suffocated them.

Anyway, Spork won't go to Sickbay until he's checked the torpedo, and I stay to cover up what we did. But of course I can't. His scanner readings are clear as day; there's no way the intermix went that far out of true without tampering.

But Spork just closes his scanner, looks at me, and says, "It appears one of us miscalibrated the inputs. We should be more careful in our next attempt."

He knows what I did, but he ain't gonna tell. He doesn't have to say anything. I feel bad enough already--I nearly killed two of my own people, and for what? Because I don't like the guy? What the fuck am I, ten years old? I'm an engineering supervisor on a goddamn starship.

So I say, "It won't happen again, Lieutenant."

He nods, and we get back to work.

Forget him saving Yarrison and Belso. He also saved me from myself. I didn't trust the Academy for graduating him, I didn't trust the captain for assigning him, I didn't trust all the evidence telling me that Spork knew his shit.

Yeah, everybody makes mistakes. But don't fuck up the same ways I did, okay? Don't worry, you'll find plenty of new ways to screw up. Just be a little bit better than your old man, that's all I want.



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"Bookworm Adventures"

BOOKWORM ADVENTURES
By Curtis C. Chen

"Shouldn't you be talking to your advisor about this?" I ask Nicole as she pulls another book off the shelf with purple-gloved hands.

"I don't trust my advisor," she says. "Is that thing ready?"

She points at the old film camera which I borrowed from the campus art center and lugged down here at her behest. She still hasn't told me why she wanted it, and I can't imagine a dozen dusty old books in the library's basement will make for an especially compelling student film project. Unless maybe she's planning to take off her top and read them aloud.

I check the camera and nod. "Willing and able. But you know you can record videos with your phone, right? And why don't you trust Professor Wigan?"

Nicole starts opening books carefully—some of them look like they could fall apart at any second—and arranging them on the table. "My phone won't work for this. And Wigan is the one who started me down this path. I think—" She shakes her head. "I don't know what I think anymore."

"Nicky, have you been getting enough sleep?"

She laughs, then looks at me with unfocused eyes. "Start the camera."

I flip some switches, and the camera clicks and whirs. "Okay, it's going. You've got about ten minutes before this cartridge runs out."

Nicole looks into the lens and starts talking.

"My name is Nicole Redberg. I'm a master's student at Leland University. My thesis is on the phonological evolution of Sino-Tibetan languages during the seventh century AD. I found these rime dictionaries in the university's rare books collection and was studying them when I discovered—something."

She holds up one book, showing a dense grid of Chinese characters.

"There are gaps in the rime tables," Nicole continues. "Missing sections corresponding to sounds which are known to exist. In fact, the gaps are different in every book, and tones which are missing from one book appear in others. They have been excluded deliberately.

"Each table has a specific grid pattern, and the gaps indicate a unique sequence of excluded sounds. When combined, they don't correspond to actual words in any of the known languages from that period, but there is something else interesting about them."

She puts down the book, pulls a folded-up paper from her jeans, and recites a series of vaguely Asian-sounding noises. I wonder if it's supposed to mean something to me. After all, Nicole could have finagled her own camera; why did she want me here, too?

"Do you see it, Rachel?" she asks quietly.

"See what?"

She points at the table. Twelve open books, just as before, the overhead lights casting their shadows across the wooden surface--

Shadows?

The books are all floating several inches above the table.

I stumble backwards into the wall. I gape at the levitating books, then look at Nicole. She's smiling.

"Good," she says. "You see it, too." She nods at the camera. "Now let's develop that film and make sure we're not both crazy."



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"Free Advice"

FREE ADVICE
By Curtis C. Chen

I wait an agonizing fifteen minutes in line for the right maker window to open up. Gods aren't used to waiting for anything, you understand; and the bored smiles I get from the hostess in a flimsy Naiad costume are infuriating.

At least I know my own disguise, as a potbellied business drone, is working. Normally a woman would be all over me within seconds. Especially the married ones. It's a curse to be the god of betrayals.

Finally, the diner at window three rolls off his stool, and the hostess waves me over.

The boy working window three can't be more than sixteen years old, but his hands are nimble and quick. He could be one of mine. I order Thunnus sashimi to start and watch as he makes art out of the preparation.

Cut, dip, form, assemble; his grace honors the once-living ingredients and the patron who demands this sacrifice. It's a quaint ritual, designed to give mortals a simulation of receiving worship. I don't begrudge you that need, but it is only a shadow of what real adulation feels like.

The boy bows his head when presenting the wooden slab, adorned with three perfect portions of fish. He doesn't look up as I consume the offering. The textures and flavors unravel magnificently in my mouth, and it almost feels like a sin to swallow.

I compliment the boy, order an Arachne roll, and ask: "Did you grow up on the island?"

He stiffens, but doesn't pause his dance, spinning inside the tiny booth to retrieve a soft-shell crab, turning back to fold it into his next edible creation. "Long time ago, sir. Live here now."

"Ever visit back home? Friends, family?"

He pauses, knife in mid-air, and glances at me. "Got no family since the war, sir. No friends, neither."

The knife descends, slicing through the seaweed-wrapped bundle.

"Not even Kritodemos?"

He stops the blade and looks up. His hands move to grip the edges of his counter, and I see them shaking. "How you know that name?"

I smile at him, a god's smile, and I know it calms him, even if he refuses to soften his stare.

I pull out the hundred-drachma note the man in the alley gave me. The hologram of Zeus glitters in the light. You'd never know it was counterfeit if you didn't have a god's eyes.

"He's here," I say to the boy. "Paroled last week. He will arrange a chance meeting soon, be surprised to run into you, want to catch up. You'll go along. Why not? It'll feel just like old times. You'll wonder how you ever had any fun without him. But he will betray you at the first opportunity."

I slide the cash across the counter.

"I can't accept," the boy says.

"A generous gratuity," I say. "Take it. You're right, islander: you have no friends. Only the gods."

After a moment, he snatches the money and hides it in a pocket, faster than even my eyes can follow. Nimble and quick.



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"Where the Shadows Run From Themselves"

WHERE THE SHADOWS RUN FROM THEMSELVES
By Curtis C. Chen

The elevator stops and the doors open on a featureless white chamber, a single room with a square table in the middle. There's something on the table, blinking different colors, but you can't quite make it out from here.

You step out of the elevator.

The doors slide shut behind you, and when you turn back, the elevator has disappeared. There's only a blank white wall there, and all around you. No windows, no doors, nothing.

Soft white light seems to emanate from every surface, as if these objects are glowing from within.

The lights on the table keep blinking. You walk forward to get a better look.

Attached to the table is a rectangular white box. You can't move it; the box feels like a single, solid block, except for three blinking lights on top.

The lights shine inside three big plastic push-buttons—red, green, and blue, from left to right—each one a convex disk as big as your palm.

You reach out and press down on the red button. You feel something click inside the box.

A male voice booms from the ceiling: "I said don't push the red button!"

You jump back. Nothing else happens. You wait for what feels like a long time—you start counting slowly, but stop after you reach twenty-six.

The button-lights continue blinking.

You push the green button. Nothing happens. You push it again. Still nothing.

You push the blue button. All the illuminated surfaces around you go dark, leaving just the buttons blinking in blackness. You push the blue button again. The lights come back on.

It's weird that the green button doesn't seem to do anything.

You stare at the buttons for a while, and you realize that each one is blinking a different sequence. Sometimes the light stays on for a long time, and sometimes it's much shorter; similarly, there are short pauses, long pauses, and extra-long pauses between lights. The sequences repeat.

The red and green sequences are very similar. The only difference between them is where their single extra-long pause occurs. For red, it's after a long light and before another long light. For green, it's after a short and before a long.

The blue sequence is significantly different from red or green. Blue has more short lights, and a longer sequence overall. You wish you had some pen and paper to write this down, but it's a small enough data set that you can keep it all in your head.

You leave out the extra-long pauses, since that's where each sequence repeats, and the short pauses, which simply appear to separate the lights. What does that give you?

Red: long, short, pause, long, long, long.

Green: long, long, long, pause, long, short.

Blue: long, long, long, pause, short, short, long, short, pause, short, short, long, short.

Recognition snaps into place. You know what this is. You know what the lights are telling you to do.

You push the green button, then the blue button.

And then you see it.



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"Interview with a Gatekeeper"

INTERVIEW WITH A GATEKEEPER
By Curtis C. Chen

I open the door, I close the door. That's all. I don't look inside, I don't go through. You could not pay me enough to go through.

They say what's on the other side always changes. It's different for every person, and different every time that person opens and closes the door. Sometimes it changes on both sides, and the person who went in never comes out. We give them forty-eight hours. Then we have to send the next one in.

It's busier here than you might think. Anyone above a certain national security clearance has to open the door. Every President since Carter has had to at least look inside before taking office. Sometimes they step through, but we never close the door on them. Can't take the chance that he'll disappear. Even if he freaks out—well, that's why we have them do it, right? To see if they can handle it.

No. We have no idea how it works. Every now and then, the eggheads come by with some new sensor they've cooked up. They're always disappointed when they leave. And they always argue about who has to open the door.

See, the door knows who's opening it. It has to, right? Because it shows you something that will scare the shit out of you specifically, and only you. It also knows if there's more than one person looking inside. If there are two or more observers, it does nothing—open it and you see the back wall there. The door works for a single person at a time, and it's eyes-only—no photos, no video. If you try to record what you see, it just doesn't work.

And isn't that almost scarier than the door being a portal to weird-ass places which don't exist? It implies that the door can tell the future. It doesn't decide to stop working after you open the door and pull out your phone to take a picture; it doesn't work at all in the first place. It knows what you're going to do.

But here's the other thing. You see how they installed the door here? It opens toward you. It doesn't work if you open it from the other side, pushing the door away; it only works if you pull it open.

Now think about the doors you have in your own house, like your front door. You pull the door open when you're inside. You push when you're entering the house, pull when you're leaving.

So here's my question. We can open the door and go through—out—to whatever bizarre reality it's created for your own personal torment. But every time we do that, what the hell might we be letting back into our world?

I'm pretty sure we won't like the answer, whenever we finally find out. But that won't be anytime soon. Meanwhile, you know, it's a paycheck. I'm not rigging elections or doing illegal domestic surveillance or anything morally questionable like that.

I open the door, I close the door. That's it.



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"In Which Miss Hartfeil Drops Some Science on Her Tenth Grade Classroom"

IN WHICH MISS HARTFEIL DROPS SOME SCIENCE ON HER TENTH GRADE CLASSROOM
By Curtis C. Chen

The Martians came from the future. We didn't know that at first, and neither did they. And how did we find out? Anyone? That's right, Becky, we had sex with them.

All right, everybody simmer down! You knew this was going to be today's lesson, and we have a lot to get through here.

Who knows where the first ship from Mars landed?

Yes. And the name of the woman who greeted our first visitors from another planet?

Correct. Does anybody know more about that initial encounter? Go ahead, Tanis.

Okay. Thank you, Tanis, for that disturbingly clinical retelling of what was, at the time, a rather sensational news event.

Some of your grandparents may have been alive for this, so as a side project—yes, Molly, it is worth extra credit—you can interview a family member about what they remember from that time.

Now, before anything else, I need to say this: Do not have unprotected sex with anybody! Especially not alien life forms from outer space.

I'm going to say that several times today, because though it might seem like an obvious health safety tip, clearly it wasn't anywhere near Jessy Harper's mind on that fateful night in Willow Creek.

Once again: Do not have unprotected sex with space aliens. Or humans! Just don't do it, okay?

It is possible that young Jessy thought she was safe from disease or pregnancy because her lover wasn't human. Well, she was wrong. There's another important lesson here: If something seems weird, it's probably even weirder than you think. The universe is really, really, really weird, guys.

Here's the punchline. That Martian who had sexual intercourse with Jessy Harper was, in fact, also human. The same species as us—homo sapiens. He came from a civilization of humans who had left Earth, some time in our future, and colonized Mars, hundreds of thousands of years in their distant past.

I'm not going to get into the time travel stuff, because I honestly don't understand it, and that's Mr. Wright's job to teach you about wormholes and brane spaces and quantum foam. It took everyone here on Earth a long time to figure out what was going on with the Martians, but after we did, whole new areas of scientific research opened up to us.

Back to the species thing. Who here has a pet dog or cat at home? Angie, what breed is your dog?

Okay. Does anybody know how many different breeds of dogs there are?

It's a lot. Hundreds worldwide. And while a sheepdog may look very different from a chihuahua or a terrier, all dogs can interbreed and produce viable offspring. So you could think of Martians as just another breed of people. Another race.

Despite their unusual appearance and strange language, the Martians were still biologically human. They had basically human genitalia, which made possible that first Martian's coupling with Jessy Harper, and human DNA, which made possible her subsequent pregnancy.

Yes, Dora, we will talk about Martian penises very soon. You can put your hand down. Thank you.



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"This is the Job"

THIS IS THE JOB
By Curtis C. Chen

I had to burn my clothes after the first time. There was no way to get the smell out. It wasn't that the odor was unpleasant, exactly; but it was such a unique thing, something you wouldn't, couldn't smell anywhere else. It would always remind me of the job.

The second time wasn't any better. Different, sure. I went out with a partner, a guy with a handlebar mustache who would not stop talking. Eventually I figured out that if I just kept feeding him, he'd be too busy eating to yammer about his wife or his kids or his goddamn athlete's foot. As an added bonus, the smell of the raw onions he piled on his overcooked street-vendor hot dogs helped mask the smell.

That one didn't go so well. I work alone now. But thanks to that yappy idiot, I can't eat sausages anymore, either. Reminds me of the fucking job.

Sometimes it feels like the work is taking over my life, making it so I can't do anything without thinking of how it relates to the job. I hear a song on the radio and remember that it was playing in the shopping mall where I did number four. And playing everywhere, piped into every corner of the damn place, even those long, bare concrete back hallways where every sound echoes like a curse.

I was interrupted that time. Some kid leaving his shift at the food court, still wearing his stupid colorful uniform and sipping on a giant plastic cup of sugar water. He dropped his drink and ran, but I had a job to do. So he turned into number five.

Cutting out soda pop wasn't such a bad thing. I still get plenty of caffeine from coffee, and I've also got powders and pills to keep me going when I need a boost. Plus, forcing myself to avoid the temptation of sweet fizzy drinks means I don't hang out around so many teenagers anymore. That's good. Number five was another underage girl, and that was a fucking chore. Never again. It's so much easier when I can get them drunk first.

Planning helps. I figured that out pretty quickly. You have to think on your feet in this line of work. I mean, no plan can account for everything, but it helps to have a few options in mind when you start the job. Know your exits, keep a cover story in mind, stuff like that. You don't actually need much preparation. If you don't act too strange, people will fill in most details for themselves. No need to explain if nobody asks.

Yeah, the smell still bugs me. Mostly because I don't know what it is. I mean, I know the smell of blood. I know sweat and tears and piss and shit and even brains, but it's not any one of those. Maybe it's a combination. Or maybe it's, I don't know, something else. Something particular to the work.

I hate this fucking job. But somebody's got to do it.



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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.