512 Words or Fewer

Review Roundup: ZUGZWANG

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 3 Apr 2015 10:24:00 -0700

Posting this to track reviews for a former 512 which became a longer story, and was published last September! You might see some ETA's below as time goes on...

"Zugzwang"

Games with aliens. The sort of story that's not in the least bit groundbreaking, but still enjoyable.

— Psocoptera, "2014 online short fantasy and science fiction recommendations, part 6"

A middle-aged woman is challenged to a game of alien chess to save the crew of a spaceship. This story could’ve been bleak, but instead it made me happy and hopeful.

— Sara Norja, "Sunday recs: Fairytale, memory loss, alien chess"

[T]his story is about an alien encounter and it hooked me in right from the beginning. Its writer’s name is Curtis [C.] Chen. As a big fan of Ted Chiang and Ken Liu (if you haven’t heard of them, you’re missing out on some awesome stories!), I was curious to see another Chinese American name.

And I wasn’t disappointed. The story was excellently crafted. The plot had tension and several layers of things going on, yet no word seemed redundant and all of the sentences were simple-yet-varied.

— Natso, "A Cool Sci-Fi Short Story, A Question That Sprouted From It"

ETA (28 Mar 2016):

Although space chess is never a terribly original idea for a story, I rather liked Curtis C. Chen’s “Zugwang.” While he definitely dwells a little too much on his heroine’s insecurities about her body, and things are tied up a little too neatly at the end of the tale, it was solid enough to get me to read his other two stories [in Up and Coming].

— Bridget McKinney, SF Bluestocking

(original 512: "Zugzwang," posted 29 Mar 2013)

Thanks for reading!

Review Roundup: IT'S MACHINE CODE

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 3 Apr 2015 05:12:00 -0700

Hello there, readers! It's been a while. Hope you've been well.

I meant to do a "one year later" sales/stats post about Thursday's Children, but clearly that hasn't happened. I have good excuses, though, and I'll be able to talk about them soon. SOON™

Meanwhile, I'm posting this to track reviews for a former 512 piece which became a longer story and was published this February! You might see some ETA's below as time goes on...

"It's Machine Code"

[This] is a light-hearted piece without much literal ass-kicking nor anger, but Julie Nickerson is great fun anyway. She’s a bored techie, a new Portland Deputy Police Officer (this issue of Unlikely Journal contains a disproportionate number of police procedurals) and small-time criminal who, in the course of a simple data-mining investigation, stumbles upon the machinations of a much more ambitious criminal.

Julie starts out as a bit a shlubb, the sort of civil servant who is made lazy by her intelligence and has very little interest in her job or her coworkers. She has an antagonistic relationship with her friend Victor that provides some funny lines and good banter, but there’s no real loyalty or affection between the two. Julie solves the story’s original case incidentally, off-page between scenes, while focusing her real energy on a very interesting data packet she found in the course of the investigation.

Julie’s not interested in catching any criminals: she’s much more interested in the crime. She’s casually competent, having “learned how to use military-grade encryption before learning how to ride a bicycle,” but stuck in the comfortable rut that casually competent people often get stuck in. In trying to solve the mystery of her data packet, she stumbles across a much more interesting character and some inspiration to become more interesting herself.

It wouldn’t be any fun to give away the mystery’s solution, but suffice to say this is a story that gets best right at the end. Julie, Victor, and their rather hapless department are fun in a bumbling kind of way, but they aren’t particularly motivated people. It takes a criminal mastermind to show how much fun it can be to go off script and just flip off the system. This story’s real star is the criminal.

Yah, you could be a comfortable civil servant. Or you could kick ass. “A clean desktop, a blank slate, a new life.”

— Charlotte Ashley, Clavis Aurea #25 (Apex Magazine)

Julie Nickerson works in the IT Department of the Portland Municipal Police. She is assigned a request that came to them from the FBI. A traffic bot had stopped a car speeding almost fifty kilometers an hour over the speed limit. The bot pulled the car over but was put out of commission just as it had activated facial recognition overlay just as it approached the driver's side of the car. Along with another techie, Victor, they check a Universal Internet broadband router in a house (owned by a sweet grandmotherly type named Margie Fisher) near the incident. It might have recorded sensor reading from the downed bot. She discovers evidence of a felony by dear sweet Margie. But things take a wild turn at this point and make for a fun story.

— Sam Tomaino, SFRevu

(original 512: "CSI: Computer Science Investigation," posted 11 Jan 2013)

Thanks for reading!

Flash Fiction Panel at Story Con!

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 17 Oct 2014 08:00:00 -0700

Good news, everyone! I'll be moderating a panel on "Where to Find Great Flash Fiction Online" this Saturday, October 18th, at 12:30PM at the Fort Vancouver Community Library. This is part of the first-ever Story Con, a Portland-area event started by Erik Wecks which aims to help readers "find their next great book."

I managed to talk four other genre writers into doing the panel with me:

Folly Blaine, one of my Clarion West classmates and also an accomplished audiobook/podcast narrator;
Mark Niemann-Ross, who's had several stories published in Analog and also manages the SFWA Pacific Northwest Reading Series (more on that later);
Rhiannon Rasmussen-Silverstein, another of my Clarion West classmates and also a talented illustrator; and
Simone Cooper, who runs AmberCon Northwest when she's not working on her alternate world suspense novel.

We're a pretty diverse bunch, and I expect the conversation to meander quite a bit. (In fact, I'll be disappointed if it doesn't.) I can promise it won't be boring in any case.

If you're in the Portland area tomorrow, come check us out!

Situation Normal, All Flacked Up

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 8 Aug 2014 08:08:00 -0700

As you know, Bob, I have a short story in the military horror anthology SNAFU, published by the nice folks at Cohesion Press.

And, as you further know, I am not above a bit of shameless self-promotion. Here are some of the very nice things readers have said (minor spoilers below):

"SNAFU is a very strong horror anthology with plenty of compelling tales... My top favorite stories of this collection include: ... Making Waves by Curtis Chen: Another WWII tale, but with a Mythos theme."
- RichardPF, Amazon.com review

"Let’s look briefly at a few of my favorite offerings [from SNAFU]... Curtis C. Chen, 'Making Waves': When a magician teleports aboard an allied submarine off the coast of Japan during World War II, her objective is simple and direct—to awaken the Kraken hidden in the depths and thereby keep the Japanese too busy with defense to mount an offensive; the task becomes more intricate, however, when she discovers that instead of one Kraken, the area harbors two Elder Things."
- Michael R. Collings, Collings Notes

"Curtis C. Chen’s Making Waves adds magic and slumbering things beneath the sea to World War II, and uses them to provide an alternate explanation for the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It also makes good use of gender and racial themes. Plus, submarines. I’m actually surprised that it’s the only submarine story in the book, given how easy it is to make that environment tense and creepy."
- Paul Douglas, A Comfy Chair

ETA (31 Mar 2015):
"Curtis C. Chen's 'Making Waves' is another fun monster story, this time dealing with...Elder Things. It should be enough that it has humongous and terrifying monsters of the sea, but throw in some magic, an alternate reality of World War 2 (I'm a sucker for alternate reality stories) and you have a grand old time. This is a tale that's begging for [a] film version, preferably directed by Guillermo del Toro."
- Steve Pattee, Horror Talk

ETA (03 Apr 2015):
"‘Making Waves’ by Curtis C. Chen manages to maintain the quality with an engaging story set within the claustrophobic confines of a nuclear submarine. A Lovecraftian tale of creatures of the deep with magic and teleportation thrown into the mix, the author creates a believable environment that makes it possible for the reader to assimilate these more outlandish elements, rather than them seem jarring. Characterisation is strong and the only criticism would be that the final section causes the story to rather peter out after the excitement of the final confrontation and seems only to be there to suggest that there are further stories to be told."
- Ross Warren, This Is Horror

ETA (28 Mar 2016):
"'Making Waves' is a Lovecraft-influenced piece that has a lot of potential, but never quite manages to capture the tone of creeping horror that characterizes the best Lovecraftian tales. Its best ideas are actually its characters—Hatcher in particular has a very compelling story—and its WWII naval setting. There’s enough story seeds here to carry a novel, and I think the characters could definitely benefit from more room to grow."
- Bridget McKinney, SF Bluestocking

So feel free to go buy SNAFU, if you like that sort of thing. Thanks for reading!

More Than 512 Words

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 14:43:00 -0700

Hey look, another of my stories has been published! This one is in SNAFU, a military horror anthology:

cohesionpress.com/snafu

My story is "Making Waves," and yes, it's based on the 512 of the same name. Among other things, you may notice that I changed the name of the main character, and I made the magic system a bit more specific to this world.

The SNAFU Kindle eBook is on sale now for just six American dollars. Hardcover, paperback, and other eBook formats to follow soon.

BTW, here are two other stories that grew out of 512s and got published:

"Somebody's Daughter" (based on "Who's Your Daddy?") appeared in Leading Edge Issue 65. Buy it on Kindle for just $3 and find out how Jake & Andy deal with a woman whose mother was a clone, and who thinks Jake is her biological father!

"Don't Fence Me In" (based on this 512) appeared in Song Stories: Blaze of Glory, which is FREE for Amazon Prime members to borrow.

Happy reading!

512 eBook now just TWO DOLLARS

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 20 Jun 2014 08:00:00 -0700

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6z9Cg46Nktw

As you may know, Bob, I'm going to Clarion West on Sunday. I'm hugely excited about this, and to celebrate, I've reduced the price of the Thursday's Children Kindle eBook to a paltry $1.99 (cheap!).

I've also slashed the price of the trade paperback edition to $11.99. That's a mere 10¢ per story (you get 117 of 'em), not to mention awesome cover and interior art by Natalie Metzger! However, I just submitted the pricing change yesterday, so it may take up to a week to propagate through to Amazon and other booksellers. Apologies if you have to wait to order at the new price.

In related news, lending copies of Thursday's Children are now on the shelves at the Multnomah County Library and Fort Vancouver Regional Library! And I can't tell you how ecstatic I was when I found out about this. Seriously, it's the second best writing-related news I've had in, like, a month.

(BTW, you're welcome to also recommend Thursday's Children as a purchase for your local library. There's no guarantee they'll acquire a copy, but it can't hurt to ask your friendly neighborhood librarian.)

So, to sum up: you can now buy the Thursday's Children Kindle eBook for just $1.99, or the trade paperback for $11.99. Please spread the word!

Making Book: A Great Reason to Throw a Party

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 7 Feb 2014 01:45:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

Time for some numbers! Are you ready? As of today--Friday, February 7th, one week after Thursday's Children officially went on sale--here's how many copies have been sold:8 Kindle eBooks
13 paperbacks
Of course, that doesn't count the 15 copies I purchased to give away as gifts--10 of them at last week's launch party--or the free downloads: 120 PDF and 11 plain text. (Creative Commons wins, amirite?)

There are now over 160 copies of the book in the hands of readers, and that's fantastic.

None of this is at all record-breaking, but it's not bad for a single-author short story collection by an obscure writer, with no marketing budget and no promotion aside from a handful of Twitter, Facebook, and e-mail messages.

Besides, this was never about "sales velocity." (I'm a terrible salesman, and I learned years ago to just stop trying.) It's not even really about sales. Honestly, nobody who doesn't know me has any reason to care about this book, and not even all of my friends or family will be interested in it. I appreciate all the congratulatory messages I've received, but I don't expect anyone to rush out and buy the book just because I wrote it.

I wrote these stories because I wanted people to read them. You can still find all of them online, but most people prefer their reading material packaged in some kind of book format--because that process implies editorial intervention and approval. Presenting something as a book is the publisher telling the reader that people who care about its content have looked at it, reviewed it, curated it and made it the best they could before actually publishing it.

When you pick up a book, you're trusting that its author and publisher have worked for months or years to ensure that the book you're about to read is something you'll enjoy. And that's why it feels like a betrayal when a book doesn't fulfill that promise.

Thursday's Children is not for everyone. (I pointed out to one friend that his grade-school-aged daughters should definitely not read it until they're older.) I hope the variety of stories included will appeal to a wide audience, but like I said, I'm a terrible salesman. I have no idea how to identify those "leads" and "target" them for "acquisition."

I'm playing the long game here, hoping that by putting my stuff out there for free, the people who find it and love it will help spread the word. (If you happen to be one of those people, the best thing you can do to support the book is to tell two friends about it, and ask them to tell two friends, and...) It might be a very long game, but I can wait.

Meanwhile, I'll keep writing.

Making Book: Happy New Book!

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 31 Jan 2014 05:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

Today's the day! You can now buy Thursday's Children in paperback or Kindle editions:

Attack of the stacks of paperbacks

My friend Kenna checks the eBook

I know traditionally published authors may wait as long as two years from the time they submit a finished manuscript to when the book actually goes on sale, and I imagine that's rather torturous. It's been maybe five months since DeeAnn and I started working on Thursday's Children, and though I'm very happy with how much we accomplished in such a short time, this final week has been a real crunch, and I'm ready for the production process to be over. (Mostly. I still have to produce an EPUB file to push to other, non-Amazon eBook distributors, but that's always been lower priority.)

Today is also the the start of the Chinese New Year, traditionally a time for celebration and hope (and red envelopes). It's now the year of the horse. In Chinese, the characters for "horse" and "mother" are very similar, and in fact, they're near-homophones in Mandarin, differing only in inflection. I don't know why I mentioned that. It's not really relevant. I may be a little punchy. Did you know my mom worked for many years as a public librarian? It's true.

One last thing... I may not have mentioned it before, but I'm releasing Thursday's Children under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike license. (You can download PDF and plain text versions of the entire book for free, and re-share them as much as you like. Please. I'm begging you.) I started the 512 Words of Fewer project with the same license, and I still believe it's a good idea. Because I am pretty much a nobody in the wider writing world, and making a name for myself is more important than making money at this point.

Sure, my friends and family and other acquaintances who like me are extremely supportive, but the few hundred people I know personally isn't a big enough audience to build a career. If I ever want one thousand true fans, I'm going to need an even greater number of casually interested readers, and I want as few barriers as possible between them and my content, for that fraction of a second between pictures of cats with pork products adhered to them.

Hi! I'm Curtis Chen. I write science fiction and fantasy. Would you like to read some of my stories?

Making Book: The Mythical One-Man Band

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 24 Jan 2014 17:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

Just in case it wasn't clear before: THURSDAY'S CHILDREN is self-published. Yes, I said self-published. I know some writers prefer the term "indie author," but I don't feel the need for that bit of dress-up. Let's call a spade a spade. This one book will not bring me any sort of fame or fortune. Nobody in the history of the world has ever gotten rich off a frickin' short story collection.

The main reason I'm publishing at all is to commemorate a personal milestone, and to share it with my family and friends. I've written more than two hundred and fifty stories, y'all. That's a hell of a thing. I want to celebrate it, and you're invited to join me. That's all.

So I'm self-publishing this book for fun. I am doing the work mostly by myself, but I'm not doing it alone. What's the difference? I'm not alone, because I couldn't do any of this without the infrastructure and systems that others have already built.

It's like Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA) says:

https://secure.flickr.com/photos/joebehr/6170035291/

There is an entire Internet of resources that I've taken advantage of, and which have been absolutely necessary for this project. I don't begrudge any of those other individuals and organizations the money I've paid for their tools or the time I've spent learning how to use them.

Here's a short list of just some of the software, sites, and services I've used in the creation of this book: Scrivener, Microsoft Word, GIMP, Emacs, Lulu, Createspace, Amazon, BookBaby, Blogger, Gmail, Chrome, Flickr, and PayPal.

(By the way, that list doesn't include all the standards—file formats, network protocols, and more—that make it possible for me to turn my raw data into something humans will want to look at. For example: HTML/XHTML, CSS, JPEG, PNG, TIFF, PDF, DOC/DOCX, MOBI, EPUB, and ZIP, to name just a few.)

And then there are the people, actual human beings, who helped me with the production process: DeeAnn Sole, my redoubtable editor; Laura Mixon, who wrote a fantastic introduction; and Natalie Metzger, who created the amazing cover art and interior illustrations. Plus there are all the 512 readers who gave feedback over the last five years, and my fellow writers who offered invaluable publishing advice. (You'll find a more complete list in the Acknowledgements section at the back of the book.)

I could have made the book without these people, but it would have been a much inferior thing.

Nobody creates in a vacuum. If nothing else, any artist needs an audience for her work; sometimes it's an audience of one, but in most cases, we want a plurality to see and enjoy our work. At the very least, it's asking yourself: "Will anybody else care about this?" And in a world of seven billion people, the answer is probably YES. Then it's a matter of crafting your work so that it's meaningful and appealing, to whatever degree satisfies your sensibilities, commercial or otherwise.

It's okay to make art for art's sake, and not expect to reap a dime of financial reward. I mean, hell, I spend who knows how many hours making at least a dozen free puzzling events every year, and even spend my own hard-earned money (and precious time) to subsidize their creation. I do this because I want to share those fun things with other like-minded people. If I get something tangible in return, great. I'm not expecting it. That's not why I do the work.

All that is to say that I don't expect to break even on self-publishing THURSDAY'S CHILDREN. (You know the old joke: How do you make a small fortune in publishing? Well, you start with a large fortune...) I don't expect to sell more than a hundred copies of the book—if that many—and that's just fine. I'm doing this for love, not money. And we will do things for love that we would not do for any amount of money.

Making Book: Inspirations and Introductions

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Sat, 18 Jan 2014 05:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

Before I get into this week's behind-the-scenes stuff, a quick announcement:

Thursday's Children, the 512 book, is officially launching on Friday, January 31, 2014 (less than two weeks from today), in eBook and trade paperback. Mark your calendars!

Now, let me tell you about the notable science fiction author who wrote the introduction for Thursday's Children. (TL;DR: it's Laura J. Mixon, and she's awesome.)

As you know, Bob, I attended the Viable Paradise (VP) science fiction and fantasy writers' workshop in 2008. See how excited I was when I got the news of my acceptance? I was not disappointed by the experience. A bit overwhelmed, perhaps; VP packs a lot of stuff into a single week. And Thursday night... well, we don't talk about Thursday night.

I met a lot of great people at VPXII. My classmates included the amazing Claire Humphrey, munchkin wrangler Marko Kloos, "the other Asian guy" Anthony Ha, and more.

And then there were the instructors: the distinguished Nielsen Haydens, Uncle Jim & Doctor Doyle, Scalzi, Bear, Steven Gould, and Laura Mixon.

Every one of these people had something important to teach me, and even if I'm still figuring out how to apply many of those lessons, the time I spent on the island was invaluable.

In particular, Laura Mixon offered a refreshing, analytical perspective on writing, which resonated with me—we're both engineers by training, and I love it when there's actual data behind a presentation. (Laura even has research to back up her use of the gender-neutral pseudonym "M. J. Locke." PREACH.) At VPXII, she lectured about a cognitive model of the writing process. "There's a study," she said more than once, before explaining the science of it.

The example I remember best involved two creative writing classes: one was told their work had to be perfect; the other was graded by word count. The result? The second class actually produced, instead of agonizing over whether they could produce for each assignment—and their final work was of comparable quality to the first class' output, plus there was much more of it. More practice was better. Quantity trumps quality.

For a time when I was younger, I hated the word "practice," because it meant sitting in front of the piano and playing the same piece or passage over and over again, with very little variation, until I got it right or made some measurable improvement in technique. It was tedious, and as a child, there were a million other more interesting things I wanted to do.

It takes great discipline to have a long-term goal in mind, and to work tirelessly toward that goal. It helps if you enjoy what you're doing along the way, because plans changes, and you may end up in a totally different place than you originally targeted. And here's the thing: you don't need to be good at something in order to enjoy it.

As Laura explained at VP, there are four stages of learning a new skill:

unconscious incompetence - you have no idea what you're doing, and you're not very good at it
conscious incompetence - you're trying real hard, but you still suck
unconscious competence - you're getting better, but you don't really understand how or why
conscious competence - you know exactly what you're doing, and you're good at it

It's important to note that reaching that fourth stage is not the endgame. You may be good, but you're not great. At this point, the ten-thousand-hours rule applies—especially in "cognitively demanding" fields like playing the piano, where competence is a long way from mastery. Writers often talk about the million words of crap (give or take) which you need to get out of your system before you're producing stuff of publishable quality. And even at that point, it's still a buyer's market. It's good to be good, but it's better to be lucky.

Does any of that discourage me? No. Because I love what I'm doing. I spent 4.9 years writing (or at least editing) a new piece of 512 flash fiction every week. That amounts to a grand total of roughly 130,000 words, and maybe 1,000 hours of practice. During that same time period, I also spent a lot of time writing other stuff—short stories, novels, non-fiction, puzzles, and more—but 512 Words or Fewer was the one thing that demanded regular, deliberate effort, and I am confident it has done more than any other single project to improve my skills as a writer.

None of that would have happened without VPXII and Laura Mixon, and I'm elated that she agreed to write a brief introduction for Thursday's Children. Her intro is the source of the blurb at the top of the 512 book web page, and you should also go read her most recent novel, because it's damn good.

Making Book: 1,024 Words or More

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 10 Jan 2014 05:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

Remember that surprise puzzle hunt my friends organized for my birthday last year? (Yeah, no, I'm never going to stop talking about it. Because awesome.) Well, that same weekend, our friend Natalie sent me this "Cowboys and Aliens" fan art as an early birthday gift:

That was also completely unexpected and wonderful. And it got me to thinking, since DeeAnn and I had already decided to publish a collection of 512 stories: we're going to need a cover. Why not hire Natalie to draw it?

(The image above is also what I used for the "not very good" cover mock-up mentioned last week.)

I'm not precisely sure when I first met Natalie—it was probably during one of the JoCo cruises or at some kind of Doubleclicks-related event in the Portland area, where we both live. But I knew she was quite an accomplished artist—she was one of five finalists in Scalzi's Redshirts fan art contest—and her illustrations had a cartoony, whimsical style that I liked a lot.

So, back in November, I asked her how she was at drawing vehicles. She said she could handle spaceships and dirigibles and probably more. And away we went.

We met just once in person to discuss concepts, and everything else happened by e-mail. Her first set of sketches included two designs with elements that clicked right away, including the astronaut-not-loving-her-EVA:

I had already thrown out the idea of using interior illustrations to break up the 117 stories into thematic sections—one character per theme—and asked if she could find some way to incorporate those same characters into the front cover. I sent her some feedback on those initial sketches, and she came up with this:

That's pretty much the final layout, as you'll see below, with one character showing through each of those portholes. I was impressed with how quickly she dialed it in, and well how the rest of it all came together.

For reference, here are her finished pencils and inks:

We also went through another, somewhat parallel process to figure out the six theme characters. That also went very quickly, except for making sure that a small picture of a female superhero would read correctly and with the right amount of gravitas.

Here are some "super-lady" designs that didn't quite hit the target, for various reasons which I could only articulate after seeing them:

Once we got the characters nailed down, it was just a matter of picking which three should appear in the portholes. We also went back and forth on fonts and engine colors for a bit, but I'll spare you those details and just show you the final cover art:

Long story short: I love it. It's far better than anything I could have imagined or produced on my own, and I think it conveys the perfect tone for this collection.

I look forward to working with Natalie again, and next time, I'll do my best to give her some more monsters to draw. :)

Making Book: By Any Other Name

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 3 Jan 2014 05:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

I'm terrible at coming up with story titles. If you've read more than a couple of 512s, you already know this; my typical go-tos are song titles (e.g., "Don't Fence Me In") or the titles of SF/F novels (e.g., "Stranger in a Strange Land"). Because you can't copyright a title, and I'm lazy. I also like re-using existing phrases, because I can then exploit that emotional resonance. Or just turn it into an awful pun. Both are good.

For this book, however, I wanted something that was at least a little more evocative and meaningful. I'm not a big fan of one-word titles, which can seem very generic, but I also didn't want something too long, since I planned to add some kind of explanatory subtitle to describe the content (i.e., to make it clear that this was a short fiction collection).

Because I am so very lazy, I procrastinated on this until DeeAnn and I started working with our friend and awesome artist Natalie Metzger on the cover and interior illustrations. I'll talk more about that process next week, but she was invaluable in helping me nail down the title and also figure out exactly what images should go on the cover.

Long story short, the relevant portion of our e-mail conversation went roughly like this:

Natalie: Have you come up with a title yet?

Me: ...

(three days pass)

Me: How about SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENTS? Or WRITTEN ON THURSDAY? And here's a mock-up which is not very good. :)

(image attachment sent)

DeeAnn: I like WRITTEN ON THURSDAYS. And I agree, that mock-up is not good. ;)

(the next day)

Natalie: How about THURSDAY STORIES? I like how the day sounds in the title.

Me: I've got it... THURSDAY'S CHILDREN!

(End of scene.)

So there you are: the title of the book will be Thursday's Children: Flash Fiction from 512 Words or Fewer. It's not strictly a "best of" collection, as I explained last week, but it does include many of the most interesting and successful results of my often late-night weekly writing sessions--which usually happened on Thursdays. And some of them have grown up to become longer works, but many others are still developing.

In case you're curious about the mock-up image which I sent as part of the e-mail thread cited above: That's directly related to Natalie's artwork, and I'll show you how next week.

Making Book: Selection Criteria

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 27 Dec 2013 05:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

The 512 collection DeeAnn and I are publishing next month will include one hundred and seventeen stories out of the two hundred and fifty-six from my weekly blog. Why aren't we including all the stories? The main reasons are:

Some have been or will be published elsewhere.
Some are in the process of becoming longer finished works (e.g., novels).
Some of them just weren't very good.

So given all that, how did we pick the stories to include? First, we each rated all the stories independently.

In hindsight, we should have synced up on our rating methods beforehand, because I only used integers (0==no, 1==maybe, 2==yes) and DeeAnn used rational numbers between 0 and 2, inclusive. But we averaged the scores anyway, and discussed any wildly divergent scores or right-in-the-middle ratings.

After we agreed on the set of stories to include, we had to decide on an order in which to present them. To that end, DeeAnn created a new spreadsheet where she summarized each 512 in a logline, and also noted the general theme of each piece and whether it was a strong candidate for an opener or a closer.

Out of all that data, she distilled the themes down to six major sections. Then I took a stab at sorting the sections and stories. (Note my clever use of an old BASIC line numbering trick--i.e., using increasing but non-consecutive numbers to allow later additions--which would have much more useful if I had started doing it before I was halfway through the spreadsheet.)

At that point, we knew exactly what content would be in the book, even if we weren't yet sure about the final order. I spent a few days copying the text of all 117 stories into a Scrivener project, using that latest spreadsheet as a guide, and now we can make whatever tweaks we need to while looking at the actual, mostly formatted text.

So now we have a book, more or less. Yay! What are we going to call it? I'll talk about that next week.

Making Book: Teaser

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 20 Dec 2013 05:12:00 -0800

(With apologies to Teresa Nielsen Hayden)

I don't think I ever made a formal announcement about this, so here it is: a collection of stories from 512 Words or Fewer will be available next month, as a print-on-demand trade paperback or e-book edition. I'm aiming for an official release on Friday, January 31st (which happens to coincide with the Lunar New Year).

Note that this is not a "best of" collection. Certainly some of the best 512s are included, but I've turned other great pieces into longer stories for submission to paying markets. For example, I recently sold "Somebody's Daughter," a Jake and Andy novelette (13,400 words) which started with "Who's Your Daddy?". The expanded story will be in the next issue (#65) of Leading Edge Magazine, and you should all go buy that when it comes out. :)

Anyway, I'm going to post every Friday from now until the 512 book launches with some background info on its creation. DeeAnn helped me select the stories, I love the title we came up with, and there's going to be spectacular cover and interior artwork by our friend Natalie. Stay tuned for details on all that and more!

Free to Good Home

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 01:00:00 -0700

Did you know that my short story "Don't Fence Me In" is featured in the Song Stories: Blaze of Glory anthology? And did you further know that said anthology is a FREE Kindle download this weekend (through Monday, September 30th, 2013)?

And if you simply must have a physical artifact, you may purchase a trade paperback edition of Song Stories: Blaze of Glory for the paltry sum of eight dollars and ninety-nine cents (plus tax and shipping, if applicable). Your book will be made to order, or "printed on demand," if you will. What marvels this brave new century hath delivered!

P.S. Tuesday is my 40th birthday, and I'd like your help with an unrelated project: would you kindly tell me how we met? (If you've already responded, feel free to encourage someone else to do it. I'd love to hear from one hundred people before Tuesday, and we're so close!)

P.P.S. Yeah, yeah, I know. "That's what she said."

Go West, Young 512

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Mon, 9 Sep 2013 06:00:00 -0700

Hey, remember "Don't Fence Me?" Well, it took a while, but I turned that 512 into a longer version (3,600 words) and submitted it to various markets. After fifteen rejections, it found a home in the anthology Song Stories: Blaze of Glory--which is now available in trade paperback and on Kindle!

The anthology also includes a story from fellow Pacific Northwest writer Camille Griep, who organizes the annual Cascade Writers workshop!

Every story in this collection is a "weird Western" inspired by a particular piece of music, which each author describes in an afterword. I couldn't include a music video with my afterword, but here's my song:

https://vimeo.com/11355379

I built the longer story around the same emotional core as the original 512, but added a lot of depth, if I do say so myself. There's more of all the main characters, an extended ending, and a new opening scene. Here's the first line:

The first time I met Horace Granger, he almost got killed by a magic bullet.

Want to read the whole thing, and six other song stories?

Buy Blaze of Glory in paperback ($9)

Buy Blaze of Glory on Kindle ($3)

"The End"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 23 Aug 2013 14:27:00 -0700

THE END
By Curtis C. Chen

God woke up on Saturday morning, went downstairs to check on her animals, then stomped into the kitchen. Satan stood at the counter, fussing with the French press.

"What happened to my terrarium?" God asked.

"I didn't touch your pets," Satan said without turning around.

"They're not pets," God said. "And that ecosystem is very delicately balanced—"

"Okay, eco-sphere, whatever." Satan carefully filled his insulated travel mug. "Your aquarium was blocking the screen. I had to move it so we could watch the game."

"You moved it next to the wine cooler," God said. "Interior temperature dropped by half. Most of the reptiles are dead."

"Are you sure they're not just hibernating?"

"Oh, you're a herpetologist now? And would it kill you to clean up after your little boys' club meetings?"

Satan frowned at God. "Geez, what crawled up your ass and died? Is is that time of the month again?"

"I'm going to forget you said that," God said. She glared at Satan's suit and tie. "You really need to go in today?"

"Yes," he said. "Conference call with Asia. Time zones. Can't be helped. Don't worry, I'll be back before seven."

"What happens at seven?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Satan grabbed his briefcase. "Dinner with Lucy and Geoff! Reservations at the Garden? Remember?"

"Yeah." God fidgeted. "Sorry I've been distracted this week."

"It's been more than a week," Satan muttered, and slammed the front door shut.

God ate two granola bars and drank a bottle of water, then returned to her experiment. The mammals which had survived last night's big freeze were quite resilient, and she wanted to see what would happen if she made them more complex.

The phone rang at five-thirty. God put it on speaker, but had trouble understanding what her husband was saying. It sounded like Satan was driving.

"I'll be ready to go soon," God shouted at the phone.

"No," Satan said. "Listen! There's been a change of plan. I didn't want to do this over the phone, but—this marriage is not working."

God was only half-listening. Her attention was focused on extracting bone marrow from a sedated male specimen, which she could use to create a female clone. "I'm sorry I've been busy. I'll take tomorrow off, I promise."

"That's not the point! Dammit, how do I say this?"

"Just hang up," came a female voice through the speaker. "She doesn't care."

God frowned. "Is that Lucy?"

"You had your chance, honey!" Lucy said. "He's mine now!"

"Okay, stop," Satan said. "You're making it worse."

God put down her instruments. "Where's Geoff?"

"Probably still at the office," Satan said. "Look. Baby. I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore. I need someone who's more attentive, more invested in our relationship."

"You should have sucked his dick more!" Lucy said, giggling.

"Really not helping!" Satan said. "I'm sorry. We're leaving. This is the end."

The line went dead. God turned back to her work.

"No," she said, watching as the male and female shared a piece of fruit. God smiled. "This is just the beginning."

Photo Credit: Anua22a via Compfight cc

Wait for it...

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 23 Aug 2013 01:45:00 -0700

We spent all day driving from Portland to Palo Alto, so I'm a little behind on work. The final 512 will be up, oh, let's say mid-afternoon today.

Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading.

Meanwhile, for no apparent reason, here's a picture of a marsupial.

Photo Credit: Tambako the Jaguar via Compfight cc

I Wanna Be Your Sledgehammer

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Mon, 19 Aug 2013 15:32:00 -0700

ETA (22 Sep 2013): The Readers' Choice Poll is now closed. Winners will be announced soon!

ETA (22 Aug 2013): ~~The Readers’ Choice Poll is now up at sledgehammercontest.com! Look in the left column for the ballot of eligible stories (including mine, "Born to the Legion"). Vote until September 21st!~~

ETA (21 Aug 2013): You can now read "Born to the Legion" online, as well all the other Sledgehammer 2013 submissions. ~~Voting form coming soon!~~

Portlandia residents: If you're free tonight at 7:00 PM, join me and other writers at Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese for three-minute readings from this past weekend's Sledgehammer 36-Hour Writing Contest! I'll be reading the opening of my talking-animals-at-war story, "Born to the Legion."

Everyone else: Visit the www.sledgehammercontest.com and vote for the Readers' Choice Award (coming soon; polls open until September 18th)!

The writing prompts, given during Saturday's scavenger hunt, were:

An animal trainer
"Don't eat that!"
Cornfields
Doughnuts
Spending $4
Owls

And yes, I did spend way too much time watching video clips from Twin Peaks, and the working title was "The Owls Are Not What They Seem." Then I got halfway through the draft and completely changed the MacGuffin that drives the story. (Spoiler alert: it's pretty much just an episode of Stargate now. It's what I do.)

~~All of this year's contest entries will be posted at sledgehammercontest.com next month.~~

"My Least Favorite Martian"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 16 Aug 2013 01:00:00 -0700

MY LEAST FAVORITE MARTIAN
By Curtis C. Chen

The trouble starts before I can say hello.

"You again, human oppressor?" John says by way of greeting. He opened the door a split second before I could knock. Stupid Martian senses. "What vile directive must you impose now?"

I hold up a copy of his lease. "You signed this lease. It is a binding legal contract." I point to the circled paragraphs. "And you agreed to this condition, right here: no pets."

"This one is ignorant of the subject of your tirade," John says, wiggling his antennae.

"I'm talking about the six different cats your neighbors have seen through your back window."

"What is a... 'cat'?" John enunciates the last word theatrically.

Before I can ask just how stupid he thinks I am, a large orange tabby leaps onto John's shoulder. He attempts to shoo it away with his upper arm cilia while it scrabbles for purchase on his deltoid ridges. I fold my arms and watch the cat decide that the flat part of John's skull is a better resting place. The cat settles in between John's antennae.

"You've got thirty days," I say, shoving the lease into his hands.

"Human definitions are primitive and flawed!" John calls as I walk away down the hall. "A sentient being cannot be considered a mere domestic animal!"

I stop and turn around. "Oh, you want to call them roommates, then? You're only allowed up to three of those! Get rid of the cats."

"Cruel, unfeeling human!" John raises both arms to point at the cat now sleeping on his head. "You would ask this one to render an innocent companion creature homeless and destitute?"

"Hey, no one forced you to live here. You can find a new apartment. I don't care!" I realize I'm shouting, and lower my voice. John has followed me all the way down the hall. "But you can't stay here and keep the cats." I push the elevator call button.

John lowers his arms, but his cilia continue vibrating, like Davy Crockett in a wind tunnel. "Your respect for the law is admirable, enforcer human. But perhaps we may yet reach a compromise?"

"This is not a negotiation. Like I said—"

"If you were to consider the cats my roommates, I could retain three of them?"

I shake my head. "Look, you want to be a test case for personhood, that's your problem. Go talk to the ACLU. You've still got thirty days to comply or vacate." The elevator arrives, and I step inside. "These are the building's rules. I don't make 'em up. I'm just the messenger."

John stops vibrating and seems to slouch a little. "You are firm but fair, child-bearing human."

"Word of advice," I say, pushing the button for the ground floor. "It's 'woman,' or 'female,' or 'lady.' Not all of us want babies."

"I was not referring to your gender," John says. "Are you not aware of your medical condition?"

I'm unable to speak for a moment. "What?"

The elevator doors close before John can explain.

Photo Credit: hugovk via Compfight cc

"Money for Nothing"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 9 Aug 2013 01:00:00 -0700

MONEY FOR NOTHING
By Curtis C. Chen

"Don't know why you're wasting your time with the lottery," Rutina says, watching me twirl the ticket between my fingers.

It's because I know something you don't, Ruti. And I can't tell you my secret. It's too dangerous.

I don't know if this will work. It's a long shot, but even if it doesn't pan out, I'm only out a few bucks. And, you know, a third of the money goes toward public education. Hopefully including basic math skills.

The TV announcer shouts something—I'm only half listening, focusing my attention on the Lotto ticket, the object I want to push. Out of the corner of my eye, I see white balls spinning inside a metal cage.

"Maybe turn it down a bit," I say. "We just got Wally to sleep." A crying baby will definitely affect my concentration.

"Tevs." Ruti lowers the volume.

I have no idea what I'm doing. If I do win the lottery, how much luck does that count for? What's the price? Because I don't make the luck I push onto things—I steal it from somewhere else. And I'm always hoping it comes from someone I don't care about.

Ruti punches me in the arm.

"Ow!" I glare at her.

"Did you win or not, weirdo?"

I look up. I read the numbers on the TV screen, then compare them to my ticket. I read them again. And again.

"Well?" Ruti says.

"I did it," I say. "I won."

***

"Hey, Ollie! You're on TV!"

I rush out from the kitchen where I'm helping Ruti's mom with the dishes. Ruti's bouncing excitedly on the couch. Of course the news chose the worst possible photo of me, the one with my hair in those stupid curls, but the big number floating beside my dopey face softens the blow.

Six zeros. Two commas. More money than I've ever imagined.

And sure, a lump sum payout will be only half that amount, and income taxes will eat half of that, but that still leaves eight figures. Over a hundred thousand dollars, tax-free, every year for the rest of my life.

As soon as I finish doing the math, I'm reminded it's all too good to be true.

When I regain my senses, I'm kneeling on the floor, crying. Ruti is next to me, holding me upright.

"Ollie, what's wrong?" she asks. I point at the TV. "Who is that?"

"Dead," I sob. "He's—supposed—to be—dead."

Ruti's mom crouches down and puts a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, Olivia. We'll figure this out."

"Mom?" Ruti says. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

Mrs. Alwen nods. "I haven't seen him in years, but that looks like Olivia's birth father."

So this is the price. This is what I have to live through to win the lottery.

Jesus, we're all going to be at the award ceremony, all four of us together. I don't know if I can do it. Mom sure can't. And I don't know how we're going to keep Steven from killing him.

Image: Fred Meyer Rewards Rebate mailer, August, 2013

"Meet Cute"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 2 Aug 2013 02:04:00 -0700

MEET CUTE
By Curtis C. Chen

"We have faster-than-light interstellar travel," Anglana said. "We have medical technology that can regrow entire limbs. I have a chip inside my skull which allows me to access the sum of human knowledge in a fraction of a second." She took a breath. "How difficult can it be to find one name on a goddamn registration list?"

"I'm very sorry, miss," said the robot behind the check-in desk. "Could you spell your name again, please?"

Anglana held out her passport. "Here. Can you see that? Can any of your sensors detect at least one of the three distinct identification markers in my official travel documents?"

"I'm very sorry, miss—"

"Of course not!" Anglana threw her hands up.

"Is there a problem here?" said a voice behind her.

Anglana turned and saw a man, roughly her height, wearing a hotel uniform and a nametag labeled RILEY. His dark eyes were as unreadable as the robot's. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Yes, Riley, there is a problem," Anglana said. "This robot can't verify my conference registration."

Riley nodded. "Yeah, that's been happening quite a bit. Some problem with their local data interfaces."

"How hard can it be to set up one lousy database?"

"I saw one of the conference organizers—a human—down that way." Riley gestured behind him. "If you'll follow me, maybe we can track her down and get this sorted out?"

Anglana exhaled. "Thank you. I will." She turned to the robot. "Thanks for nothing, you waste of silicon."

"I'm very sorry, miss."

"I'm married!"

Anglana followed Riley down the hall, around a corner, and then—after they both made sure no one was looking—through a door marked ASSOCIATES ONLY, down a service corridor, and into a supply closet. Riley closed the door, and they both began taking off their clothes.

"'Married?'" Riley said, kicking off his shoes and undoing his pants.

"Orders said make a scene," Anglana said as she unbuttoned her blouse. "I made a scene."

"You had to have the last word." Riley had removed his shirt, and Anglana had to admire his naked torso for a moment.

"Do I need to do anything with this?" she asked as she pulled on the hotel uniform.

"Nope." Riley had retrieved a garment bag and extracted a new, business-casual wardrobe for himself. "Hotel imprints a new day code into the fabric at start of shift. You've got full security clearance until eight AM."

"Good." Anglana twisted up her hair and fastened it in back. "Visual confirm on target?"

"Room 1024." Riley handed her a keycard. "Still partying, last time I checked."

"How long ago was that?"

He blinked. "Just under three minutes."

Anglana stepped back into her shoes and adjusted the RILEY nametag. "How do I look?"

"Dressed to kill."

Anglana made a face. "Really?"

The man shrugged. "It's a weakness."

Anglana opened the closet door, walked out, and turned around. "Nice to meet you. Don't die on the way home. Good-bye."

She closed the door before he could respond.

Photo Credit: elkit via Compfight cc

"Sportsball"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 01:00:00 -0700

SPORTSBALL
By Curtis C. Chen

Welcome back to everyone watching our live broadcast of the 127th Galactic Harmony Games! I'm Gropflixnum Square, and with me here in the booth is Braznart Morchey-Morchey-Pop. Whaddya say, Braz? Still having fun?

My status is unchanged.

Hey, me too! Now, I gotta tell you, folks, I have seen some outrageous plays over my five decades of announcing for the Harmonies, but what happened in this last quarter absolutely takes the cake. What do you think, Braz? Is this going to be the most memorably disastrous Harmony Games to date?

Gropflixnum, my dear friend, you are as ignorant as you are sexually promiscuous. Do you not recall the final moments of game seven of the 64th Harmonies, when an entire starting line-up of humanoids failed to defend their home goal from the onslaught of a trio of mind-bonded lump-beasts? Or game three of the 96th Harmonies, when a single Zallgallian child scored the winning point against an all-star team representing Arbogastia's best and brightest? I hardly think today's tawdry events will rate even a footnote in the grand history of this heroic competition, the greatest athletic tradition in the known universe.

And that's why we have him here, folks, to give you that unique Pop-Snarquijan perspective! Thanks, Braz.

It would not disappoint me if you were to perish in a conflagration, foul Gropflixnum.

Okay. Folks, if you're just joining us, I don't know what to tell you! We are still in a time-out here in game six of the 127th Harmonies, and the referees are still conferring over how to call that last play. Not to mention the stadium medical teams have been treating the wounded players for nearly twenty centizhus, and we still do not have an update on their status. Even the coaches have been barred from entering the surgical tents, and you know that's gotta be driving them crazy!

That is unlikely, Gropflixnum, you polyp on the rectum of existence, since the Earth humans use telepathic implants for communication. Their coach is surely aware of every development as it occurs—

Hold that thought, Braz, here comes a ref to make the call!

DECISION: UNNECESSARY ROUGHNESS. PENALTY, EARTH HUMANS, FIVE YARDS.

Ouch, that's gotta hurt!

Gropflixnum, you are a genetically inferior specimen of questionable mental faculty.

Okay, folks, a quick recap of the action so far: the Earth humans are down by five points in the final six centizhus of the fourth quarter, and in what can only be described as an act of desperation, they finally unleashed their trademark "meltdown" attack! It's virtually guaranteed to generate some forward motion for them on the field, but always results in heavy collateral damage. Braz! Your analysis?

Thank you, honorable Gropflixnum. Taking all variables and available data into consideration, I believe—with better than 90% certainty—that your mother was surely an unlicensed sex worker, and more than likely a blood relation of your eventual father.

I meant your analysis of the game, Braz.

I know.

Photo Credit: Werner Kunz via Compfight cc

"Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 01:00:00 -0700

WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIVE YEARS?
By Curtis C. Chen

"I'm not a terrorist," Ava said as soon as the man in the dark suit walked into the room. He ignored her, sat down across the bare metal table from her, and continued reading his display tab.

Ava watched the man's dark eyes scan back and forth. He swiped his finger across the display once, twice, three times. How was it even possible that her police file would be that long?

"I want a lawyer," Ava said.

The man looked up from his tablet. His expression was unreadable.

"I want a lawyer," Ava repeated.

The man turned the display face down on the table. "Where do you think you are, Miss Farman?"

"I want a lawyer!"

The man shook his head. "You are no longer on American soil. In fact, since this room doesn't officially exist, you are not anywhere. And nothing that happens here is real."

His smile made Ava want to punch him. She couldn't do that with her wrists cuffed to the table, so she kicked him in the shin. He yelped and jumped out of his chair.

"What the hell!" he said.

"Oh, are you experiencing some phantom pain?" Ava asked. "Because I'm pretty sure nothing at all just happened."

The man glared at her. "Fine. Here's the deal. We've confiscated all the computer equipment in your home and disabled your networked computing projects--"

"Bullshit," Ava said. "You can't shut down the grid. It's a decentralized global volunteer network. Open source, asshole."

"What do you think the 'National' in 'National Science Foundation' means?" the man snapped. "We see everything that's managed by the Berkeley servers."

Ava gaped. "You're NSA."

The man shrugged. "Close enough."

"I'm not a terrorist. I was sequencing my mother's genome—"

"To try to cure her, we know."

Ava shivered. "Right. My search history." She had always known the government was watching every unencrypted thing she did online, but the reality of it had always seemed distant, academic. Now it was a very real knot in her stomach. "Then you know I'm telling the truth. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Not yet," the man said. "But it's only a matter of time."

He turned the display tab around and held it up. Ava recognized a PCR scan of her mother's DNA, showing the thousand or so base pairs which might be causing her cancer. Ava blinked back tears.

"How the fuck is curing cancer a national security issue?" she spat.

The man lowered the display tab. "You're not going to cure cancer, Miss Farman. Not like this. We already know what these particular genes do."

"And what's that?"

The man manipulated the display tab, then slid it across the table. Ava looked down and saw a dense block of text. She had to read the page twice before its meaning registered.

"This is an employment contract," she said.

"Yeah," the man said. "All things considered, Miss Farman, I'd much rather hire you than kill you. But I'm going to let you choose how you leave this room: in a body bag, or with a keycard."

Photo Credit: Boreio Selas via Compfight cc

"Photorps and Emotions"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 12 Jul 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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.

Photo Credit: MATEUS_27:24&25 via Compfight cc

"Bookworm Adventures"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 5 Jul 2013 01:41:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 28 Jun 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 21 Jun 2013 02:01:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 02:14:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 7 Jun 2013 02:19:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 31 May 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 24 May 2013 10:00:00 -0700

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?"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 24 May 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 17 May 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 10 May 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 3 May 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 01:00:00 -0700

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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"Better Luck Next Time"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 5 Apr 2013 01:00:00 -0700

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME
By Curtis C. Chen

Dear Costumed Adventurer:

Thank you very much for submitting your application to shift home realities from Universe Ganymede.XII.52.0 to Universe Hupperts.XCVII.10.3! We regret that we cannot accommodate your relocation request at this time.

As you know, the Transcendental Oversight Office of Parallel Existences, Multiple Dimensions, and Alternate Histories receives hundreds of thousands of relocation applications every single month. This unfortunately prevents us from providing specific feedback on your particular application.

However, please check these important details first:

- Your application must include unique and proper identifiers for both your home reality and your requested relocation target (we prefer nominal signifier, timeline branch era lettering, retcon sequence number, and descant decimal).

- Your application must include your personal name, correctly spelled, capitalized, and punctuated. Due to the cosmological congruence constant, many creatures in one reality may share the same name, so please make sure to include other unique identifying information, such as your home planet, mother's shoe size, and favorite ice cream flavor.

- We cannot approve relocation requests which would result in an intra-universe talent conflict. Please verify that your particular preternatural ability combination, specialized training or skill set, and/or wardrobe color designs do not already exist in your target reality. Many public resources are available to help you perform this research.

- If our Superposition Quantum Uncertainty Interference Detection System (S.Q.U.I.D.S.) determines that you have an established nemesis in your home reality, and that you and your nemesis have unfinished business of a professional or personal nature, we cannot allow one of you to relocate to a new reality without the other. Please file a joint application using the current forms provided on our Weird Wide Web site.

- If you are under the age of majority in your home jurisdiction, you must obtain the legal signature of a parent or guardian before we can process your application.

Thank you for your interest in alternate realities! We encourage you to re-apply for relocation in the future, especially if environmental or social conditions in your home reality continue to interfere with your inexorable compulsion to fight crime, avenge your dearly departed loved ones, and/or put right what once went wrong.

Sincerely,
Merton V'X'Wanwo Adagamps
Administrator, TOOPEMDAH

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"Zugzwang"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 01:00:00 -0700

ZUGZWANG
By Curtis C. Chen

"You lose," Ensign Darrow said. "Again."

He tipped over Erin's game piece, the one they were calling the king. Ton-Gla-Ben wasn't exactly like chess, but it was close enough, and the actual Quggano names were mostly unpronounceable.

Erin hated chess.

"This is useless," she said.

"You just need more practice." Darrow swept up the pieces and reset the board. "Let's try a different opening."

"Tell me again why we can't just cheat?" Erin asked. "Have me wear a hidden micro-cam and have you coaching me through an earpiece?"

Darrow shook his head. "The Quggano are honorable, and they enforce honor in others. The competition chamber is fully radiation-shielded."

"Why are we even bothering with this?" Erin stood up. "I barely have time to learn this game. I might as well concede and save myself the humiliation."

She wanted to pace, but there was no room. The Myrmidon wasn't designed to carry passengers. It was pure dumb luck that Erin had ended up here. A piece of space debris had killed her stardrive, and she'd spent nearly a week adrift before the Myrmidon happened into range of her beacon.

Unfortunately, a Quggano destroyer had also heard Erin's distress call, and intercepted the Myrmidon right after they picked up her ship. When Captain Yokota demanded a champion game, a variation on the Quggano single-combat tradition, the Quggano named Erin as their opponent.

"You could get lucky," Darrow said. "You never know."

Erin sighed. "Okay, let's go again."

The door chimed and slid open. Rayley, the ship's science officer, leapt into the room, looking very excited.

"We've got something," Rayley said. "A way for you to win."

***

"A kid?" Erin gaped. "They've got a child on board?"

The conference room display showed an interior scan of the enemy destroyer. There was definitely some kind of smaller creature running back and forth between two adult Quggano.

"We hacked into their comms," Captain Yokota said. "The adults are some kind of state dignitary and his mate. Their presence aboard a destroyer is unusual, but not unheard of."

"And now you can call out the child," Rayley said. "Name him as your opponent."

"You know it's a boy?" Erin said.

"We know his name, his age, his bedtime—"

"It's allowed," Darrow said. "They never asked us to name an opponent. Most champion games involve the captains of the respective warships by default. The Quggano named Miss Bountain because they knew she was a civilian, and therefore hadn't been trained to play Ton-Gla-Ben."

"And neither has this kid," Rayley said. "He's old enough to serve, according to their laws. They have to honor your champion request."

"The losing champion dies." Erin looked at the captain. "I'm not going to kill a kid. You must be considering other options."

"Sure," Yokota said. "I can blow up my ship."

Erin blinked. "What?"

"Nobody here is going to become a Quggano POW," Yokota said. "If you lose the game, we trigger the auto-destruct and hope we take those bastards with us."

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"Secret Stash"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 01:00:00 -0700

SECRET STASH
By Curtis C. Chen

"The coffee was poisoned."

Samantha didn't say it like a question; she said it like she didn't believe me. That just made me angrier.

"You want to talk to the doctor here? The alchemist?" I said, feeling the edges of my phone dig into my fingers. "Jacob is in a fucking coma."

"Why weren't you affected?"

"Mom and Dad," I said. "Remember all those tinctures and potions they made us drink every morning? 'For luck, for protection?' We're immune to plant toxins and the most common thaumaturgic reagents."

"So you know what the poison was."

"We'll know in a few hours."

"Good," Sam said, sounding distracted. "I assume you want to stay there with Jacob. I'll call Lee and ask him to send someone else back to the house."

I wasn't sure what to say, but I had to say something. "What?"

"Is it not Lee? Who's your supervisor these days?"

"What the fuck," I said, "are you talking about?"

Sam sighed. "Who should I call at your office to redeploy agents to the house? Just tell me, Rachel."

"You're not calling anyone," I said. "I'm waiting for the toxicology report, and then I'm getting a warrant and a SWAT team and breaking down that old geezer's front door."

"No, you're not," Sam said, in the tone of voice which asserted her older-sister-ness and which I hated down to my very bones. "The priority here is repatriating those artifacts. Look, don't worry about it. We'll send another team to negotiate—"

"I'm going to say this one time." I spoke slowly and clearly. "My partner is in a coma. Strickland poisoned us both. He is going down. We can seize the goddamn artifacts after he's behind bars."

"No, no, no," Sam said. "Once those jars are in a DC evidence locker, they become part of a criminal investigation, and it'll be hell to get them out of the system. No. We get Strickland to sign the papers as a free citizen; we remove the jars legally and quietly; and we avoid an international incident."

"And then we arrest Strickland for assaulting a federal officer?"

Sam hesitated before answering. "We can talk about that later."

"Don't fucking bullshit me here, Sam."

"Look," she said, "you want the truth? Strickland's going to ask for immunity from prosecution. He knows what he did, and he knows the value of those artifacts. He knows he has leverage.

"And my hands are tied here, Rachel. The Prime Minister of Egypt sat in the Oval Office and looked Marshall right in the eye and—"

"Oh, so it's 'Marshall' now?" I said. "Not 'Mr. President?'"

"So not the point right now, Rachel."

"You know what?" I pictured Sam sitting behind her giant wooden desk, and I focused my hatred. "Call whoever you want. I bet I can beat them back to Strickland's house with a black-and-white. Let's have a little race. Just like old times. Whaddya say, Sammy?"

"Rachel!" Sam said. "Do not—"

I hung up on her and headed out of the hospital.

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"Just Follow Your Nose"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 01:00:00 -0700

JUST FOLLOW YOUR NOSE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Then the girl said the guy coming out of the bathroom was her boyfriend. But the old man didn't believe her. So he went over to talk to the bathroom guy. This corpse is twenty-two hours dead. Are you sure I'm not talking too much?"

"Absolutely not," Andy replied before Jake could. "Could you say that part about the corpse again?"

"Sure." Jennifer waved at the vaguely human-shaped lump of charred flesh and bone on the ground. "This man died no more than twenty-three hours ago."

"How can you know that's a man?" Jake asked.

The teenage girl stared at Jake like he was some kind of alien. Which wasn't far from the truth; Jennifer had been raised by Varna'ut for the last ten years, ever since her birth parents—Earth's ambassadors to the Varna'ut homeworld—died in a shuttlecraft accident. Jennifer was physiologically human, but all her habits and behaviors were distinctly Varna'ut.

"I can smell his burned testicles," she said, pointing. "Enzymes from the seminal vesicles have a very distinctive odor. Even more so when they've been oxidized through combustion."

"I don't want to know how she knows that," Jake muttered to Andy.

"Anyway, the old man stops the guy coming out of the bathroom," Jennifer continued, without missing a beat. "Of course, the guy has no idea what's going on. But he recognizes the girl."

"Sorry to interrupt," Andy said, "but would you mind finishing that story later?"

Jennifer blinked. "This isn't interesting to you? You can just say that. Are you trying to be 'tactful?' They told me you might do that. I can tell a different story. There were at least four different attackers in this room. There was also this really hairy man on the flight. His beard came all the way up his cheeks, and he was wearing sunglasses."

"It's not the story," Jake said. "It's the way you keep changing subjects. Go back to the four attackers."

"I thought humans liked to talk," Jennifer said.

"We like to talk about one thing at a time," Jake said.

"Jake's very focused," Andy said. "Could you try... limiting our conversation? Just for a little while?"

Jennifer shrugged. "I'll try it. I can smell the residue from the attackers. You could, too, with proper training. The first thing Varna'ut children learn in school is how to use their noo'usp."

"You're doing it again," Jake said through gritted teeth.

"No," Jennifer said, "we're still talking about scents."

"Look—"

Andy grabbed the sleeve of his partner's jacket. "Can I have a word with you, Jake? Outside? Please excuse us."

"Don't touch anything," Jake said as Andy dragged him out the door.

"Why would I touch anything?" Jennifer asked.

After Andy had shoved Jake around the corner of the building, he said, "What the hell is your problem? She's helping us. Not to mention this will become an interstellar incident if you punch her in the face."

"I'm not going to punch her in the face," Jake said. "Stomach, maybe."

"Hard to believe you're still single."

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"Not Necessarily Genre"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 8 Mar 2013 01:00:00 -0800

NOT NECESSARILY GENRE
By Curtis C. Chen

"Why is he wearing one glove?" I whispered.

"Quiet," Anne replied. "He hates interruptions."

We were sitting near the back of the lecture hall, fingers poised over our tablets to take notes. But Professor Glendor hadn't covered anything new yet. I also couldn't believe he hadn't noticed that his left hand was purple.

"That's a sterile glove," I hissed. "If he came from his lab—"

"Apparently someone has a comment," Glendor's voice boomed.

His eyes scanned the room. I sat perfectly still.

"Now you've done it," Anne said.

Glendor pointed at me. "You!"

I gave Anne a dirty look. "Thanks a lot."

"Would you like to share your scintillating conversation with the rest of us?" Glendor asked.

"I was just wondering," I said, "why you're only wearing one sterile glove, Professor."

He squinted at me. "Who are you?"

My mouth felt dry. "Jodette Shah."

"I didn't ask for your name," Glendor said. "Who are you?"

My tongue was a desert. "I-I'm a third-year pre-med—"

"No!" He smacked the podium. "Who are you?"

"I don't understand the question!"

Glendor stared at me. "Come down here, please."

I walked to the front of the lecture hall slowly. I didn't want to trip and fall and make an even bigger scene than I already was.

"Now," Glendor said when I was standing next to him, "I'm going to ask you a different question. Why does it matter that I'm only wearing one sterile glove?"

"It's just—unusual."

"What makes it unusual?"

"You wouldn't wear gloves unless you were doing lab work or a medical procedure," I said. "And you wouldn't wear just one. You walked into class like that, which implies—possibly—you removed the right glove and forgot about the left one."

"So?" Glendor said. "Maybe I'm just eccentric."

"You've never done it before," I said. "And it doesn't matter which situation is more likely. Not knowing is the problem."

Glendor nodded. "I'm going to ask you again, Miss Shah: who are you?"

I took a chance. "I'm the one who asked the question."

"Close enough!" Glendor snapped off his glove and addressed the room. "Miss Shah is the only other person here with even half a brain.

"If any of you shared her concerns about why I walked in with a sterile glove on one hand, you sure didn't speak up. You see something out of the ordinary, you ask about it. You're afraid you'll look dumb in front of your peers? Get used to it.

"Given the choice between saving face or saving your patient, which do you choose? If you have to think about that for any amount of time, get the hell out of here right now!"

I leaned over and asked, "May I sit down now, Professor?"

"Sit down?" Glendor pulled me over to stand behind the podium, then sat down in the front row. "You're giving the rest of this lecture."

As much as I hated the old man in that moment, I also fell in love with him that day.

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"A Middle Portion of the Star-Sailor's Tale"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 1 Mar 2013 01:00:00 -0800

A MIDDLE PORTION OF THE STAR-SAILOR'S TALE
By Curtis C. Chen

The sailor refused to answer questions about why he had journeyed into prohibited space, but the Brigadier could prove no wrongdoing more severe than trespassing on the sailor's part. After the prescribed holding period had expired, the peacekeepers released the sailor onto a small merchant moon in the Western Spiral Arm. Once again penniless and friendless, that is where the sailor met the gene-seeker.

Indeed, these are the fables you surely heard as a child, or saw played out in countless popular holodramas: the adventures of the star-sailor and the gene-seeker, traveling the known galaxy and beyond in search of adventure! But those swashbuckling tales are not the whole story, of course.

The sailor was not so carefree and inquisitive when he first encountered the gene-seeker. In fact, the sailor was quite single-minded in the pursuit of his sworn enemies, the pirates of the near-core systems. His first meeting with the gene-seeker was a clash over which of them would hire a particular starship out of lunar orbit.

"Your dead science can wait," the sailor said to the gene-seeker. "I have more pressing engagements. And none will stand in my way."

"Oh, you intend to hunt down your former captors all by yourself, do you?" the gene-seeker replied. "Be realistic, my friend. The peacekeepers devastated that pirate fleet when rescuing you; the surviving raiders have surely scattered to distant stars by now. It would take years to track them all down."

"I have nothing but time," the sailor said.

"Allow me to propose another situation," the gene-seeker said. "You have, I understand, been sequestered for some time, and may lack knowledge of certain current events. I offer my services as information broker, negotiator, and guide. I mean no offense, but it seems clear that you are not, at this time, well suited to the task of establishing and maintaining interpersonal relationships."

"And what do you want in return for these services?" the sailor asked.

"Let us travel together," the gene-seeker said. "We shall begin the long and difficult task of locating your enemies, and along the way, explore the various worlds we encounter and inspect any life-forms of interest. My research is not constrained; I have no predetermined path. As long as there is biological data to collect, my analysis can proceed. You will be free to direct our travels."

"Fine," the sailor said. "Just stay out of my way."

"Of course, my friend," the gene-seeker said. "We shall journey side by side."

And so they did, for nigh on a century. I will not repeat those tales here, for they are numerous, and you have surely heard the most engaging of the lot many times before. Suffice to say that the star-sailor and the gene-seeker became great friends, boon companions through all manner of hardship and mystery, inseparable except by death at the end.

And so it was, when the gene-seeker passed on, that the next part of the sailor's story began.

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"The Space Between"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 01:00:00 -0800

PREVIOUSLY: "Funny Story"

THE SPACE BETWEEN
By Curtis C. Chen

"How's your migraine?" Barrett asked.

"Better." Liz shifted in her armchair. It should have concerned her that Doctor Sawhney had a ready supply of placebo pills on board, but she could see where they'd come in handy with elderly hypochondriacs. "How was your thing?"

"Pretty awesome," Barrett lilted. "I'm editing the video now. You are going to be so impressed."

Liz closed her book and watched Barrett fiddle with his laptop for a while. She looked around the ship's library. It was about half full of other passengers relaxing with books, drinks, games, or just with each other.

"How do you do it?" Liz asked.

Barrett looked up from his computer. "Well, first I import the video from my camera—"

"Not that." Liz smacked his shoulder with her book. "How are you so happy all the time? I've never seen you upset or even irritated. Other people get depressed; why don't you?"

"I get depressed. Were you there when we watched Titanic?"

"I'm serious."

He nodded and closed his laptop. "Okay, this is going to sound dumb, but... every morning, when I wake up, I tell myself I'm going to be happy, that it's going to be a good day."

"That's it?" Liz squinted at him. "That actually works?"

"That's just the first step," Barrett said. "Look, I'm not saying this would work for you, since your job's a lot more stressful than mine—"

"I'm not asking for advice," Liz said. "I just want to understand. I want..." She looked away. "I want to know more about you."

Barrett gave her a lopsided grin. "Well, at least you didn't say 'we need to talk.'"

Liz shook her head. "Okay, you wake up, it's going to be a good day. What next?"

"I just keep telling myself it's a good day," he said. "No matter what happens, no matter how bad or how difficult things get, I remind myself how lucky I am. I'm healthy, I have clean water and plentiful food, I have a rewarding career and wonderful friends." He smiled at her. "I'm a very lucky man. And that makes me happy."

Liz thought about all the times she'd been infuriated by Barrett's apparent obliviousness. He wasn't actually clueless, she realized. His optimism was a monumental effort in the face of all the evil and hardship in the world.

Liz saw pain and suffering every day in the ICU. She couldn't just ignore the darkness by focusing on how she was mitigating it. It wasn't enough to light her one candle.

But maybe Barrett could help her. If she asked, he'd rattle off a list of things she should be happy about. And he'd do it in such a friendly, reasonable way, she would have to believe him.

Maybe that would be enough.

She leaned over and kissed him.

"I'm glad we came on this cruise," she said.

"Me too."

"You know what we should do later?" Liz grinned. "Karaoke."

Barrett made a face. "I thought you wanted me to be happy."

The book made a satisfying thump against his forehead.

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"Funny Story"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 01:00:00 -0800

PREVIOUSLY: "Dinner Conversation"

FUNNY STORY
By Curtis C. Chen

Dejah Thoris' sickbay was subdued and cramped when compared to the ship's passenger spaces. Liz played with the interactive drug compendium on the wall while waiting.

Doctor Sawhney hurried in, pulled the privacy screen closed, and frowned at the wall computer. "This terminal should be locked."

Liz shrugged. "You should change the password from the factory default. So what happened yesterday in the excursion area? Another drunk guy? Some kid messing with the controls?"

Sawhney held up a hand. "I cannot legally divulge names. And I cannot confirm that the passenger in question was attempting to commit suicide."

Liz gaped for a moment. "With a note and everything?"

Sawhney nodded. "His cabin stewards found it. And no, I can't tell you what it said."

"Fair enough. But you were there an awfully long time..." Liz snapped her fingers. "You were talking him down, weren't you? You're the closest thing to a therapist on this ship, and you must have malpractice insurance."

"We have two medical professionals on staff," Sawhney said, "and every crew member is trained for—"

"Don't change the subject. I know you're bound by doctor-patient privilege and the threat of a lawsuit, but what if I run into this guy later?" Liz shrugged theatrically. "And what if we start talking, and I accidentally utter some trigger phrase that causes him to attempt suicide again?"

Sawhney frowned. "That's highly unlikely."

"But it is possible. And preventable."

The doctor sighed. "I do not envy the hospital staff who have to work with you."

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Come on, spill."

"I am not a psychiatrist," Sawhney said. "But this gentleman exhibited clear signs of clinical depression. He was supposed to have come on this cruise with his wife—it was their thirtieth wedding anniversary—but she divorced him last month, rather unexpectedly. He decided to sail alone. I don't know when he decided to kill himself.

"Fortunately, all our airlocks are interlocked, and the only override is on the interior controls, but the gentleman managed to jam the doors closed. It took our engineers some time to set up a bypass. Meanwhile, I had to make sure he didn't break anything else, like the exterior window."

"So what did you say?" Liz asked. "How did you convince this guy his life was still worth living?"

"We sang."

Liz blinked. "Sang?"

"I noticed he was speaking in very strange phrases. One of the crew recognized them as song lyrics."

"You have to tell me what song."

"No. Believe me, it was nothing special. Anyway, we played a karaoke track through the intercom, and I started singing, hoping that the gentleman would respond.

"I don't know why this particular song was special to him. Maybe it meant something to him and his ex-wife; I don't know. I must have talked to him for half an hour, but it was the singing that brought him back." Sawhney shrugged. "Sometimes, words alone aren't enough. It takes more to make a connection."

Liz nodded. "Was it an Elvis song?"

"Please go away now."

CONTINUED IN "The Space Between"...

Photo Credit: jwhittenburg via Compfight cc

"Dinner Conversation"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 8 Feb 2013 01:00:00 -0800

PREVIOUSLY: "Phobos Cruise Crazy"

DINNER CONVERSATION
By Curtis C. Chen

"More shrimp cocktail, sir?"

Barrett nodded. "Don't mind if I do!"

"Thank you, sir." The server piled more tiny pink crustaceans onto Barrett's plate, followed by a dish of dark red sauce. "Please enjoy."

Liz elbowed Barrett in the ribs. "Slow down there. You're going to make yourself sick."

"Well, obviously," Barrett said. "It's not a real sea voyage unless somebody gets sick."

"You're hilarious. And we're not at sea."

"Metaphorically."

But she wasn't listening to him anymore. Her own words rang inside her head: "at sea." They weren't on the ocean, but Liz was feeling somewhat lost.

She looked around the cavernous, multi-level dining room. An army of servers and wait staff maneuvered around the labyrinth of tables, dishing out food, refilling wine glasses, and generally making sure that none of the seated guests had to do anything but eat, drink, and be merry.

Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I just don't know how to be happy. Liz looked back at Barrett's smiling face. Maybe you should be with someone who does.

A burst of applause sounded behind her, and Liz turned to see two uniformed crewmen approaching the Captain's Table: a tall, Nordic-looking man with large hands, followed by the dark and compact Doctor Sawhney.

"Sorry we're late, folks," the Norseman said, bowing slightly before he sat down. "I'm Captain Erickson. And I believe some of you have already met Doctor Sawhney, our ship's physician."

The two officers walked around the elliptical table, shaking hands with each of the diners, then took their reserved places. Captain Erickson sat directly across from Liz, on the short axis of the ellipse, and Doctor Sawhney took the empty seat on her right.

Conversation meandered for a while, from food to wine to the ship's specifications to each passenger's occupation and reason for coming on this particular Mars cruise. An older gentleman was loudly telling the story of how he and his wife had met when Liz looked over at Doctor Sawhney and saw that he wasn't particularly interested, either.

She leaned toward him and said, "Tell me about the incident. The one that occupied you for so long."

Sawhney blinked. "We had a passenger in the airlock."

"Isn't that what the excursion area is for?"

"He wasn't wearing a spacesuit."

Liz leaned closer. "What happened?"

Sawhney shook his head. "I'm sorry. The situation has become more... complicated since I spoke to you at the staircase. I'm afraid I can't offer many more details."

"Well, what can you tell me?"

"Wouldn't you rather talk about something besides medicine? You are on vacation, after all."

Liz tilted her head. "You think I became a nurse because I don't like discussing medicine?"

Sawhney shrugged. "I make no assumptions."

"Come on. I'm sure whatever you have to say will be more interesting than Mr. and Mrs. Rubenstein's meet cute."

The doctor looked up and across the table. Liz followed his gaze and saw the captain watching them with a passionless smile.

"Not here," Sawhney said.

CONTINUED IN "Funny Story"...

Photo Credit: stevendepolo via Compfight cc

Coming Soon!

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Wed, 6 Feb 2013 22:29:00 -0800

"The Space Between" will be published on Friday, February 22nd, 2013.

Coming Soon!

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Wed, 6 Feb 2013 22:29:00 -0800

"Funny Story" will be published on Friday, February 15th, 2013.

Coming Soon!

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Wed, 6 Feb 2013 22:27:00 -0800

"Dinner Conversation" will be published on Friday, February 8th, 2013.

"This Scene Lacks Tension"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 1 Feb 2013 15:55:00 -0800

THIS SCENE LACKS TENSION
By Curtis C. Chen

"Your music sucks," Julie said as she picked up the garbage bag.

"Maybe your taste in music sucks." Marco opened the trunk of their unmarked police car. "Ever considered that?"

Julie hefted the bag of dead traffic-bot parts into the trunk, then used her phone to scan the code-tag so the convicts who had cleaned up the freeway would get their work credits. "You know shit about music. You just don't like anything that's popular."

Marco slammed the trunk shut. "There is a rich cultural heritage of sonic experimentation in the Balkan states."

Julie opened the passenger door and got in. "And you should re-tag your obviously pirated audio files with proper metadata. You work for the five-oh, you could at least pretend to respect copyright law."

"Look who's talking." Marco started the car. "Okay, where are we going now?"

Julie entered a passcode into her phone to decrypt the traffic-bot's last download coordinates. She waited for the map to load, then pointed westward.

***

The woman who answered the door of the large two-story house at the end of the long dirt road looked to be at least eighty years old. She grinned broadly at Julie and Marco through the screen door. Julie hoped they weren't dealing with a crazy person. There had been no other houses within five miles.

"Good morning, ma'am," Julie said, holding up her ID badge. "Portland Police. We're investigating some vandalism which occurred near here, and we need to check your UIA box for some information."

"Oh, of course, dear," the old woman said. "I'd be happy to help. But, if you wouldn't mind?"

She gestured toward the NO SOLICITORS sign that hung next to the door. Julie held her badge up to the sign and let the hidden sensors detect the RFID embedded in the badge, handshake with the onboard crypto chip, and verify her identity data.

"Officer Julie Nickerson," the sign said in a synthetic male voice. "Portland Police Bureau, Computer Security Section, badge number 6331. Authorized for law enforcement activities in Oregon state and Clark County, Washington. Supervisor, Lieutenant Lawrence Mitchell. Contact portland-oregon-dot-gov-slash-police for more information."

"And your friend, too, please," the woman said, still grinning. Julie wondered if her face had frozen like that after too many church socials and tea parties. "You can't be too careful out here, you know."

Marco held up his badge for the sign to scan. "I don't need to come in."

"Just pretend he's not even here," Julie said.

"Most people do," Marco added.

"Nonsense," the old woman said, after the sign had verified Marco's identity. "It's very nice to meet you both. I'm Margaret Whitaker; you can call me Margie. I was just making some tea. Please, come in and sit down for a minute. You can spare a minute, can't you?"

"That sounds lovely, thank you," Marco said, moving past Julie into the house.

"You don't even like tea," Julie grumbled as she followed him.

"Free food, man!" Marco replied.

Photo Credit: Thomas Hawk via Compfight cc

"Her Story"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 01:53:00 -0800

HER STORY
By Curtis C. Chen

In 2023, Amanda learned something about her daughter.

She found the doll's head jammed under the living room sofa. She didn't see the rest of the doll. Her first stop was Barry's room.

"Have you seen your sister's Barbie?" she asked her son, brandishing the head and hoping to elicit some sign of guilt.

Barry shook his head and went back to programming his Hexbugs.

Amanda proceeded to her daughter's room, fearing an imminent tantrum but wanting to get it over with before Donald came home from work.

"Colleen," Amanda said as she stepped into the doorway, and stopped.

Her nine-year-old daughter was hunched over her teatime table, prying open the torso of the AI-Barbie with forceps and a craft knife. A small pile of wires, circuit boards, and microdot sensors lay on the pink plastic tabletop.

"Colleen," Amanda said, kneeling and holding out the doll's head, "are you looking for this?"

The girl looked, shook her head, and smiled at her mother. "No thanks, Mom. I don't need the head. There's nothing inside there!"

Amanda nodded, put the head on the table, and went back downstairs.

***

In 2032, Donald failed to keep his family together.

"You can't just leave," he said as his daughter flung clothes into a suitcase.

"We're done with the estate stuff," Colleen said. "I need to be in Cambridge next week to sign for the scholarship."

"You're really going to go." Donald folded his arms. "You're going to fly across the country and leave your brother and me here."

"Jesus, Dad, you're both grown men." Colleen opened a closet.

"We're a family!" Donald said, louder than he had intended. He took a step forward, but stopped when Colleen flinched.

He waited for her to look at him, but she only turned away.

***

In 2099, Colleen helped her brother end his life as a human.

"How long will it take?" Barry asked.

"Oh, about fifteen minutes," Colleen said.

"That fast," Barry murmured, flexing one arthritic hand.

"Your genome's a good candidate." Colleen booted the autodoc. "Runs in the family."

"Too bad this wasn't available for Mom."

"It wouldn't have helped her. The tumor was in her brain."

The autodoc's manipulators whirred to life, cycling through their startup diagnostics.

"Is this going to hurt?" Barry asked.

Colleen coughed out a laugh. "You probably should have asked that before signing the consent forms."

"Speaking of forms, they told me I'd have to re-integrate," Barry said. "Is that true?"

"We do all the paperwork here at the hospital," Colleen said. "Don't worry, you won't have to stand in line at the federal building."

"But I'll be a new and distinct legal entity. A post-human being." Barry looked at his sister. "Was the transition difficult for you?"

Colleen stared down at her genetically engineered, double-thumbed hands and softly glowing green skin. Then she looked at the old man who was her brother.

"We're not just the sum of what came before," she said. "We're more. We're different. But we don't forget the past."

Photo Credit: Deborah Leigh (Migraine Chick) via Compfight cc

"Wizard and Robot"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 02:02:00 -0800

WIZARD AND ROBOT
By Curtis C. Chen

Vernor watched anxiously as Alpha-Nine maneuvered her rifle and targeting scope into place. He turned to the building across the street and prepared to project his catchment spell. Property damage was one thing; civilian casualties were another. Seconds passed.

Vernor said, "What are you waiting for? Take the shot!"

"Calculating projectile vectors," Alpha-Nine said, a metal statue vocalizing through her left shoulder.

"Are you kidding me?" Vernor said. "You've had blueprints and radar scans for days. What the hell are you still calculating?"

"Materials analysis was incomplete," Alpha-Nine said. "I am observing pedestrian traffic across floor surfaces to estimate after-target deflection probabilities."

"We don't have time for this," Vernor hissed. "I'll wrap the bullet in a self-destruct envelope, make it disintegrate after it moves through living tissue. Take the damn shot."

"Too many variables—"

Vernor stood up and raised both palms. He focused his mind, spoke a sequence of arcane syllables, and the twelfth floor of the building across the street erupted in flame. He released the catchment.

Broken glass and crumbled masonry fell and stopped twenty feet above the pavement, caught by an invisible barrier. The individual pieces would lower themselves to the ground at a hundredth of their normal speed.

"Come on," Vernor said, smacking Alpha-Nine's backpack and moving away from the edge of the roof. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Impatient," Alpha-Nine vocalized, rolling backward and retracting the components of the rifle back into her torso.

"Hurry up!"

***

Two bodyguards grabbed Vernor as soon as he stepped through the portal and pulled him to one side. Two other heavies seized Alpha-Nine when she came through and locked her in place with an electromagnet.

"Is that really necessary, guys?" Vernor said to the thugs.

"I'm afraid it is," said a raspy voice from across the room. "I wouldn't want my favorite vendors leaving before they explained why they deviated from our agreed terms of service."

Because I wanted to send a message, Vernor thought. Because I only wanted to kill Lampton, and encourage the rest of his crew to leave town. Because I don't want to deal with more than one criminal syndicate at a time.

Out loud, he said, "Hey, our contract said nothing about the method of assassination. You wanted to scare off the competition, right? Mission accomplished." Vernor stared down their client. "Now when the fuck do we get paid?"

The old man wearing dark, oversized eyeglasses and a suit that had probably been tailored three female Presidents ago smiled and nodded. "Your cash and... pharmaceuticals are waiting back at your hotel. Please, try not to overindulge yourselves. We may require your services again soon."

Vernor shook off the bodyguards. "Yeah, I hope so." The sooner we're off this case, the better.

In the back of his mind, he felt Alpha-Nine's comm path: I agree. This assignment has proven to be quite distasteful.

Keep it together, Nine, Vernor thought back at her. Just one more week.

That is several million compute cycles too long, she replied.

Image: Gandalf & WALL•E. They're cops by Molly Lewis, January, 2013

"CSI: Computer Science Investigation"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 01:00:00 -0800

CSI: COMPUTER SCIENCE INVESTIGATION
By Curtis C. Chen

The file hit Julie's desk with a clatter. It was an encrypted white ceramic slate, not one of the normal local-jurisdiction jackets printed on translucent floppy plastic. Julie knew it was FBI without even seeing the logo.

Julie did not want to deal with a federal case.

"Come on, Lieutenant," she said to Mitchell, the beanpole who supervised the day shift. "I haven't even finished my morning coffee. And look at my backlog." Julie pointed to the pile of plastic on her desk, each display board flashing a rotating animation of case number, suspect photo, and report abstract.

Mitchell nodded. "What are you working on now?"

Shit. Julie locked her phone to hide the display and shrugged. "Just some more legwork on that NFC fraud thing. Lots of victims to interview, you know the drill."

"That's retail." Mitchell tapped the FBI slate. "This is federal. Go."

Julie picked up the slate, then paused with her thumb over the touchpad. "Wait. I'm going somewhere?"

"It's a house call."

Julie stifled a groan.

***

"Okay, now watch this next part."

Julie unpaused the video. Behind her, Marco scratched his beard.

"I thought this was an urgent dispatch," he said. "Why are you still here?"

"Shut up and watch."

On the screen, the traffic-bot recording abruptly changed from the side of the white minivan to flat blue sky. A blurry face moved into frame for a split second, and then the image vibrated briefly before cutting out completely.

An error dialog popped up with a soft bing: PREMATURE END OF FILE.

"So he killed a traffic-bot," Marco said. "Big deal. We used to go through a dozen of those every Saturday night back in Santa Cruz."

"That's not the problem," Julie said. "Did you see how fast the guy did it?"

Marco narrowed his eyes. "Okay, yeah, that was pretty quick. You're saying he's taken apart cop bots before?"

"What if he was speeding on purpose?" Julie asked. "What if he's part of a robot chop shop, stripping them for parts? I could be walking right into an ambush."

"You just don't want to go outside," Marco said.

"Can you blame me?"

"Those bots are made with the cheapest hardware in the world." Marco waved a hand dismissively. "It would take, like, a hundred of them for anyone to have enough components to build anything useful. There's no storage; there's not even a battery pack. They get wireless power beamed down from aerial drones. Trust me, nobody is hiding out along I-5 harvesting our bots."

Julie folded her arms. "Maybe they're just waiting to hit human police when we follow up. What about that?"

Marco took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Is this your roundabout way of asking me to come with you on the call?"

"No," Julie lied. "I just want you to make a note of the time, so you can tell the homicide detectives exactly when you last saw me."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Marco stood up and grabbed his jacket. "You're driving. My tunes. Let's go."

Image: coding is not a crime! by mike_tseng, July, 2007

"Debriefing"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 4 Jan 2013 00:57:00 -0800

DEBRIEFING
By Curtis C. Chen

"Nobody died," I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"And that's your criterion, is it?" the examiner barked from the other side of the desk. "You destroyed an entire city block and blew the cover of everyone in your support team, but hey, there were no actual fatalities, so let's chalk that one up in the 'win' column?"

I shifted in my amazingly uncomfortable wooden chair. "All I'm saying is, it was just a training simulation. A computer-generated exercise. What's the big fuss?"

"What's the—!" The examiner's face cycled through three distinct shades of red before he shook his head. "These simulations are how we evaluate your potential to be a field agent."

"Yeah, but I knew it was a simulation, didn't I? I mean, to be really effective, shouldn't you put me in a dangerous situation which I believe is real, to see how I would actually behave?"

The examiner frowned at me. "You're suggesting that we deceive our people in order to evaluate them?"

I shrugged. "I'm just saying, knowing that it's a simulation, knowing that the stakes aren't real, diminishes my motivation."

"Oh, I see," the examiner said. "So we should use a different standard to evaluate your performance. You're just that special, is that what you're saying?"

"Well, I am—"

The examiner's fist smashed against the desktop. "I'm only going to say this once. Nobody is so extraordinary that the enemy will not kill him. Nobody is so singular that he can survive a bullet fired into his skull at point blank range.

"Our ranks and titles only matter within these walls. Out there in the field, it doesn't matter who you are. It only matters what you can do. And before we send you off, we need to know what you're capable of and what your limits are. Is that clear?"

I nodded.

"Nobody gets special treatment," he said. "If you can't summon the wherewithal to do your best in training, I have no confidence that you'll perform any better in an actual life-or-death situation where you need to make split-second decisions."

"So you're not going to let me try again?"

For a moment, I thought the examiner's eyes might pop out of his head. "You are dismissed. I'll send a full evaluation report to your supervisor by the end of the day."

"Right." I stood up, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the jump drive I'd pocketed during the sim.

It hadn't been easy, finding the correct computer-controlled holo-character and then lifting the tiny prize off him, but demolishing the building had provoked an appropriate flight response in all the chars except my target. I would never have done it in the real world, but I knew how to beat a computer game.

"Will you be wanting this back, then?" I asked.

I could almost see smoke escaping from the examiner's ears, and only months of training kept me from smirking as he snatched the drive from between my fingers.

Image: Apple store covent garden by Andy Lederer, August, 2010

"Now and Later"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 01:00:00 -0800

The following story is fictional. No actual person or event is depicted.

NOW AND LATER
By Curtis C. Chen

Now, Christian Francis Reed plays with a toy rifle, expelling the cork projectile over and over, pretending he can strike targets across the room. Pop. Targets like the tinseled tree, or the sleeping dog, or his sister. He wonders when his father will get him a real gun. He imagines shooting BBs, hitting things before they can get close enough to hit him. He aims the air rifle and imagines the face of the largest boy in class, the one who punches and kicks harder than anyone else. Pop.

Later, Christian Francis Reed walks through the shopping mall, covered in ceramic body armor, an automatic weapon in each hand. He likes the way the guns bounce as he fires them, rat-a-tat-tat, scattering bullets left and right. He doesn't care if he hits anyone; he's just shooting to clear his path. He imagines the noises not as gunshots, but as drumbeats. That's what they sound like, through the helmet: rump-a-pum-pum.

Now, Christian Francis Reed admires himself in the mirror, holding the first firearm he's purchased with his own money, a revolver which he selected after days of research. The six-shooter reminds him of Westerns, but there are also practical reasons to prefer "wheel guns" over "bottom feeders"—the latter can jam, and that's no good. Christian likes to know that he will be able to shoot his gun whenever he wants.

Later, Christian Francis Reed sees the police sniper on the upper level of the mall, and Christian drops the sniper with half a clip. The sniper falls and lands in front of Christian. She's a woman. He hesitates, confused—shouldn't she be at home with her baby?—until she draws her sidearm, and then he shoots her in the neck. But she manages to put a bullet in his leg first, and he has to hobble forward. He's annoyed that she slowed him down. Christian doesn't like it when people stop him from getting what he wants.

Now, Christian Francis Reed wrestles with the girl in the backseat, pinning her down. He's not sure if the noises she's making are even words. He releases her wrist to reach under the seat, and she slaps his face before he can grab the pistol. Christian slams the butt of the weapon into the girl's skull, and then she is silent and still, and he gets what he wants.

Later, Christian Francis Reed lies on his back in the center of the mall, wheezing as broken ribs scrape against his lungs. The police made him drop the detonator, and though he has to respect their marksmanship with the new non-lethal shock darts, he is very unhappy that he won't get what he wants. His fingers twitch toward the detonator, just inches away, but a boot kicks it out of reach. The owner of the boot kneels above Christian, and he sees that it's another woman.

"You're under arrest," she says, cuffing his wrists. "Don't die before we put you on trial, asshole."

Image: Science Museum of Minnesota bans guns, July, 2008

"Not As We Know It"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 15:04:00 -0800

NOT AS WE KNOW IT
By Curtis C. Chen

"Here we go." Renfti pushed the button. "End of the world."

Sarlmon watched the flashing red color spread across the map on the wall display for a second, then sat down at the control station next to his student. "You seem confident of the outcome."

Renfti folded her hands and smiled. "I've studied this species for a long time. They're quite gregarious—almost pathologically so. Cut off their social contact, and they start losing their minds."

Sarlmon nodded. "An interesting hypothesis."

"I've tested it with several small groups," Renfti said. "Same results every time. The key is to isolate them, remove all objective evidence from external sources, then initiate a dominance struggle. It never ends well."

"But to reproduce that on a large scale?" Sarlmon asked. "Surely you can't expect these beings to self-isolate everywhere. Cultural and geographical differences will provoke different responses across the planet."

"Some things are hard-wired into the brain." An alert popped up on Renfti's console, and she tapped at her controls. "Survival instincts remain, because the genes are selfish. Civilization alters the dynamics and causes instinctual responses to have undesirable results..." She frowned. "That's unusual."

"Let me guess," Sarlmon said, "something unexpected in one of the large population centers, probably a coastal city."

Renfti gaped at him. "How did you know?"

"My dear, you are not the first candidate who's ever tried to defend this thesis." Sarlmon waved at the wall display. "Show me the data, please."

The map zoomed in, and one shaded area resolved into clusters of pulsing red dots. As Sarlmon and Renfti watched, one particular cluster moved upward, accreting other red dots.

"This doesn't make sense," Renfti said, poking at her controls. "An anomaly. One bad datum. It won't affect the outcome."

"How many individuals in that cluster?" Sarlmon asked.

"The computer estimate is..." Renfti shook her head. "That can't be right."

"How many?"

"Nearly a thousand!" Renfti hammered at her controls. "There must be some mistake. They couldn't have self-organized that quickly; the communication issues alone would be insurmountable—"

"They're moving." Sarlmon pointed at the screen. "Where are they going? Can you overlay the radar scan?"

"Yes, Professor. There." The display flickered, and the translucent blue ghosts of buildings and structures appeared, cobalt-tinged jars around the teeming crimson fireflies. "Oh no. No, no, no..."

"Let me guess," Sarlmon said. "A launch facility."

A large red sphere blossomed in the base of one of the blue structures, and alarms began sounding all around the two scholars. Renfti screeched. Sarlmon slapped his override and began programming a transfer orbit.

"I don't understand!" Renfti wailed. "It should have worked! All the simulations were positive!"

"Nuclear-capable societies are always complicated," Sarlmon said as he piloted the ship out of weapons range. "I'm afraid your experiment is over, my dear. They've seen us. It's the military's problem now.

"Oh, stop blubbering. Your next course will be Earth history. Learning how we survived our nuclear age should help you understand how to make things go wrong on these undesirable alien worlds."

Image: wifi stations in berlin by Michael Kreil, April, 2011

"Barely Legal"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 01:00:00 -0800

BARELY LEGAL
By Curtis C. Chen

"So," the human asked, using the translator in his computer tablet, "what's a nice pupa like you doing in a place like this?"

Anafful suspected this was an attempt at what humans called "humor," and what her mother called "useless vocalization," especially if it came from one of Anafful's friends.

It was lunchtime, and the friends in question had all abandoned Anafful to gawk at the aliens milling about the cafeteria downstairs. She had seen this human walking around the wards previously, talking to various people until he was shooed away by the nurses.

Anafful suspected he was a galactic census adjunct or some such boring thing. She had watched as he approached, mystified as to why all her friends found these endoskeletal beings so fascinating. To Anafful, the human looked pink and squishy, like an oversized and undercooked land grub.

His appearance made her a bit nauseous, to be honest, but she did her best to be polite. After all, he was a guest in her star system.

"I will soon enter the chrysalid phase of my adolescence," Anafful said, speaking slowly so the translator program could follow along. "My ancestors are among the custodians of this institution, and thus my family enjoys the benefit of its medical care."

"Got it. Trust fund baby," the human said, operating the tablet with his soft, fleshy fingers. They made a disturbing, wet, thwack sound with every impact against the touch-screen.

"I do not know what that phrase means," Anafful said.

"Don't worry about it. So, your friends who were in here earlier, are they classmates then?" the human asked.

"Some of them, yes. My school is—"

"And at least one of them was male, is that correct?"

Anafful suppressed any display of annoyance at his interruption. "Two were males. Gaddlim wore the bright red cap, and Driicha has the emblem of ascension etched into his left wing carapace. They—"

"Have you engaged in sexual relations with either of them?"

Anafful could not help fluttering her mandibles at that. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Or are your eggs not accessible until later in the metamorphic cycle?"

"Who are you?"

"What about with the other females?" the human asked, apparently oblivious to Anafful's objections. "Have you ever performed mutual—"

Just then, a nurse passing by the open door of Anafful's room burst in, seizing the human by his lumpy shoulders and spinning him around.

"Hey!" he yelped.

"You again!" the nurse said, and shoved him out the doorway. "Out! Right now, or I call security!"

"I'm allowed to be here!" the human protested from the corridor.

"You're not allowed to harass children!" The nurse slammed the door shut, then turned to Anafful. "Are you well, miss?"

"Yes," Anafful said, clutching her bedcovers close to her shell. "But confused. He was asking me all sorts of... strange questions. Who is he?"

"Just one of those soft-brained human scholars." The nurse shook her head. "I swear, it seems like all they ever want to talk about is sex."

Image: I'm looking through you by Gabriela F. Ruellan, February, 2007

"Introducing Kangaroo"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 7 Dec 2012 01:00:00 -0800

INTRODUCING KANGAROO
By Curtis C. Chen

"Come on, DAD would be a great code name for you."

He gave me the look that said he wasn't in the mood for jokes. Actually, he was almost never in the mood for jokes—unless he was making them—but this was the look that really meant business. This was the look that threatened physical harm if I continued down this path.

So, of course, I kept pushing.

"You know," I said, "because you're such a father figure to me. Right? Except nobody else would know that. So it's super easy for us to remember, but completely opaque to anybody else."

He stared at me for another long moment, then said, "Are you planning to be this idiotic during the meeting?"

"That is my plan, yes."

"You do understand what's at stake here."

I could hear his voice switching into lecture mode. "Yeah, I do, but why don't you remind me again, in excruciating detail."

He touched the controls on the back of the driver's seat, and the clear partition between us and the vehicle's front compartment darkened. At the same time, the outside road noise became muffled as the active suppression systems engaged. Even in a secure agency vehicle, one could never be too careful about eavesdroppers.

"This meeting is going to decide the disposition of your entire future," he said. "After today, you're either going to be a lab rat or a field agent. And only one of those occupations offers a halfway normal life."

"I have no chance at a normal life," I said. "I have a superpower, remember?"

"I said halfway normal," he said. "Science Division will not blink at locking you away for weeks of testing at a time. They won't even think of you as a human being. All they want is to figure out how to replicate your ability, either technologically or biologically. And if they have to trade your life for that knowledge, they will feel absolutely no remorse about it."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," I said. "But how does doing field missions at your beck and call improve my life expectancy?"

"I'm not saying you'll live any longer. It's quite possible you'll make a rookie mistake your first time out and get killed within minutes of infiltration."

I studied his face to see if he was attempting to make a joke. He wasn't.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said.

"Even the best agents can be brought down by stupid mistakes or plain old bad luck. It's nothing personal, KANGAROO," he said.

"And another thing," I said. "Can we talk about changing my stupid code name?"

"What's wrong with KANGAROO?"

I squinted at him. "You do realize that only female kangaroos have pouches, right?"

He stared back at me. "What's your point?"

I was certain he was joking now, but his face betrayed nothing.

Image: Rude kangaroo! by Tambako The Jaguar, July, 2010

"The Old Switcheroo"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 01:00:00 -0800

THE OLD SWITCHEROO
By Curtis C. Chen

On the fourth day of my captivity aboard U-216, it finally occurred to me to ask Sato something that I should have thought of much earlier.

"What do the Americans think happened to their teleport?"

He paused his work and wiped his hands with a rag. "They believe you are dead."

Maybe he expected me to be satisfied with that, but I needed to know exactly how they were working this con. "Why would they think that, if they received nothing on their end of the teleport?"

Sato shook his head. "They did not receive nothing. They received ashes."

I wasn't sure I had heard him right. "Did you say 'ashes'?"

He reached underneath his work bench and pulled out a small locker. When I saw what was inside it, I felt sick.

Sato opened the locker and took out a bundle wrapped in what looked like cheesecloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a glass container filled with a thick gray powder, speckled with shards of white.

"Ashes," Sato said quietly. "Human remains."

I sat very still, determined not to vomit. I didn't need to ask Sato where the Nazis were getting human remains; I knew about their concentration camps, and I knew most of their prisoners didn't make it out alive.

I had heard stories about teleports going wrong. It was supposed to be exceedingly rare; usually, a teleport was an all-or-nothing proposition—either it worked or it didn't. But every once in a blue moon, a teleport damaged or killed the person being transported.

It didn't make any sense, given what we knew of teleportation, but then again, we didn't actually know how teleportation worked in the first place. We just knew that these symbols and these incantations combined would cause this effect. Sato's work was the first methodical experimentation I'd seen in this area of sorcery.

It did seem a bit appalling that people had been using this magic for centuries without understanding how it actually worked, but then again, we'd been setting things on fire since prehistoric times without knowing how combustion worked. Sometimes it didn't matter, as long as you got the result you wanted.

So it would have been shocking, but perhaps not too surprising, for my compatriots back at OSS to have received a pile of ashes instead of my living self. We had known that there were Nazi sorcerers in Rome. There would be nothing conclusive, of course, so my death wouldn't dissuade OSS from continuing to teleport when they needed to. Losing one person once in a very great while was nothing compared to the convenience and security of being able to place a spy anywhere you wanted in the blink of an eye.

"So they believe I am dead," I said. "They will not try to find me."

"Yes," Sato said, putting away the jar. "This means you are safe. You are free."

No, I thought, this means nobody's coming to rescue me. I'm on my own.

I was going to escape. The only questions were how, and when.

Image: To Ashes by Julian Kliner, April, 2012

"Food for Thought"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 01:00:00 -0800

FOOD FOR THOUGHT
By Curtis C. Chen

I have never actually liked Japanese cuisine that much. I've never even been to Japan. I was born and raised a Hawaiian girl, so my favorite dishes involve pineapple and pork and sweet bread.

I hoped my straight face held as I watched Sato fill a bowl with steamed rice, dark green seaweed, and yellow chunks of—carrot? I hoped I would be able to choke it all down.

Sato presented the food to me with a slight bow, as if it were some kind of great gift. I bowed back at him, took the bowl, and started eating. Thank God my parents had forced me to learn how to use chopsticks.

"Will you not eat as well, Sato-san?" I asked. Honestly, it's kind of creepy for you to just sit there staring at me.

"I have already eaten," Sato said. "I apologize for the lack of privacy, but the captain does not want you to accidentally wander into a dangerous area of the vessel."

I nodded while chewing the hell out of a piece of cold, rubbery seaweed. "Sato-san, may I ask what you are doing here? I understand if you cannot answer, for reasons of military secrecy."

He smiled. I was speaking the most formal, deferential Japanese I knew, and keeping my body hunched over, a small and submissive female. I promised myself that I would clock this guy before I escaped.

"I will answer," Sato said. "It is good to hear and speak Japanese again.

"I am a sorcerer of sorts," he continued, gesturing to the workspace behind him. "Emperor Hirohito loaned me to the Germans in order to investigate how we might interfere with the Americans' magic. It is the will of the Emperor that we should seek less confrontational means to injure our enemies."

"That seems wise," I said.

"The Emperor is a wise man," Sato said, but his eyes belied the conviction of his words. Interesting. "There has been enough killing. Whatever we can do to end this war quickly, I will do my best to help."

"You appear to have been somewhat successful already," I said. "You rescued me from the Americans. How did you do that?"

He hesitated. I scooped up more rice and puckered my lips around the chopsticks, sucking slowly. Sato was a man, and the way his gaze went to my mouth told me he was a man who was interested in women. Good. I could use that, too, when the time came.

"You have the talent, Hachiya-san," he said, looking back up at my eyes. "Is that correct?"

I inclined my head, as if bashful. "I am not trained in the magical arts, Sato-san, but I was told by my teachers that I have some inborn ability."

"So you know something of sorcery."

"Only what a schoolgirl learns."

"That is enough." Sato picked up a worn leather notebook. "I think it is time for you to learn more. As I have."

And then he told me one hell of a story.

Image: Crab Kimbap Rolls by Emily Barney, April, 2009

"Bottoms Up"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 01:00:00 -0800

BOTTOMS UP
By Curtis C. Chen

The Lieutenant lifted a still-burning cigarette out of her ashtray and touched it to the corner of my letter, setting it on fire.

I jumped out of my chair. "What the hell! Ma'am," I added quickly.

Markey crumpled up the paper and dropped it and the cigarette back into her ashtray, out of my reach, letting my words of protest burn away. "Did you really think, for one second, that I was going to let anybody else see that fucking letter?"

"They're not ready for this," I said. My legs felt weak, and the urge to throw up was quickly returning. "I'm not ready for this."

Markey stared at me for a second, then turned around, unlocked one of her file cabinets, and knelt to pull open the bottom drawer. I heard glass clinking, and then she stood up holding two lowball glasses and an unlabeled bottle of dark red liquid. She thumped the glasses down on top of her desk, pulled the stopper out of the bottle, and poured.

"Please tell me that's not blood," I said.

She filled both glasses about half full, then pushed one across the desk toward me. "Drink."

I picked up the glass. The liquid was a dark ruby color, too translucent and not quite thick enough to be actual blood. But I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that it had been thinned by something even more disturbing.

There was magic, and there was superstition, and then there was tradition. Lots of people held on to completely nonsensical traditions for no good reason, and I didn't put it beyond Markey to be beholden to some weird cultural heritage that might have included light vampirism.

"Please tell me this isn't human blood," I said.

"When Hades abducted Persephone to the Underworld," Markey said, "she was forbidden, by the rules of the Fates, to eat or drink anything while she was there." She held her glass up next to her desk lamp, swirling the liquid around. Crimson light played across her face. "If anyone still living consumed food or drink while visiting Hades, that person would have to remain, trapped by her own indiscretion."

"Please tell me this isn't your blood."

"Persephone's mother, Demeter, discovered that Hades had abducted her daughter, and forced Zeus to demand Persephone's return," Markey said. "It's interesting to note here that Zeus was the one who had originally goaded Hades into abducting Persephone to be his bride in the Underworld."

"I don't suppose I could get a mixer for this?" I said.

"Zeus didn't want any more trouble that day," Markey said. "So he ordered Hades to return Persephone, and you don't fuck with Zeus. But, as you no doubt are aware, Greek gods are all about following the letter of the law. Before he released Persephone, Hades tricked her into eating four seeds from a pomegranate."

Relief swept over me. I held my glass up to my nose and inhaled a sweet, fruity scent that was not at all like blood.

Image: POM by Howard Walfish, May, 2009

"Able Was I Ere I Saw Elba"

512words+orfewer@gmail.com (Curtis C. Chen) — Fri, 9 Nov 2012 01:00:00 -0800

ABLE WAS I ERE I SAW ELBA
By Curtis C. Chen

"How's Cook doing with his glamours?" Markey asked, turning her head to look at me. Her dark hair and eyes made a striking contrast to her pale skin, and even in uniform—or maybe especially—she turned men's heads at a hundred paces. I wondered if that was the reason she cultivated this persona, of a mysterious and dangerous witch. Though I'd never utter the actual word in her presence. Not unless I was ready to die.

"He's improving," I said, standing at parade rest, with my hands clasped behind my back to prevent fidgeting. "Focus is good, but transitions are still slow. We just need to drill for a few more weeks, and then I think he'll be ready to deploy."

Markey shook her head. "No time for that. Transitions won't be an issue; he's only got to run one identity. Who else do we have who speaks fluent German?"

I rattled off a short list of MAGIC personnel who spoke decent German. "Those are the guys I've heard," I said. "Daisy can probably get you a more detailed list."

"I'm not interested in their records," Markey said. "I want to know about people you've worked with in person. Do you think all six of these men could fool an entire squad of desperate Nazis?"

"Well, Cook for sure," I said. "Not sure about the others. I don't know if they've done a lot of field work before."

"This is OSS," Markey said. "Nobody here has done anything like this before. You're going to drill them, starting this afternoon. I'll get Daisy to make it official." She found a clipboard and started writing out an order for her secretary to type up. "What about our translators? Do any of them speak German as well as reading it?"

I frowned, not sure where she was going with this. "All our German translators are women, as far as I know, ma'am."

"Yes," Markey said, not looking up from her clipboard. "And how many of them speak the language?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," I said. "You're going to send civilians into a recently captured Axis stronghold on a potentially deadly mission?"

"Well, when you put it like that," Markey said. She finished writing, dropped the clipboard in a tray at the corner of her desk, and pushed the call button on her telephone. I couldn't hear the buzzer, but I knew it was sounding on Daisy's desk outside. "Everyone here knows they could be called upon to do extraordinary things in the service of their country. Don't worry about vetting the girls; you tell me who's fluent, and I'll interview them to see who's up for a field trip."

"That's a lot of glamours for one operation," I said. "You'll have to disguise the women's voices as well as their looks."

"Good thing you have tons of experience doing just that," Markey said.

"I'm not going to be able to train anyone to do that in time for—"

"Who said anything about training?" Markey blinked at me. "You're going with them."

Image: Marine Corporal, Quantico Flag Day by "England," January, 2008