FlashFicFeb, Day 17

In the past four days I’ve asked myself what it means to be human, and what the limits are to human self-perception. I’ve answered with stories in a transhuman, genetic, developmental, and psychological framework.

*

Let’s Meet Online

White lights sparkle on the black lake. Above, a half-moon glows in the night sky. Hawk scans the horizon, then stretches his wings and preens. A few minutes later, his beak shiny, he folds his wings at his sides.

A movement above, and a figure briefly eclipses the half-moon, then glides down onto the rooftop and perches on the railing.

“You nearly snuck up on me that time, Polly. I thought you were a cat!”

Polly bobs her head in laughter. She hops off the railing, and Hawk takes her in his wings.

She coos, and Hawk smooths the feathers on her face with his beak.

“I know we’ve talked about this before,” he says, “but I really think it’s time we met online.”

Polly steps back and ruffles her feathers. “Why would you want to meet online? Isn’t our relationship perfect the way it is? I don’t want to jinx it.”

“It’s been four years.”

“Some couples never meet online.”

“I know. I just want to experience all of you. And never is a long time. I love you, and you love me. Should we really have any secrets from each other?”

“Well . . I guess not.” Polly rocks side-to-side on her claws.

“There, there, don’t you fret. Meeting online can only add excitement to our relationship. And meeting online doesn’t mean staying online.” He hops up to Polly and fans his tail feathers. “Polly wanna cracker?” he chirps, tilting his head to the side.

“You sweet-talker, you!”

_____

The next day, Henry and Pam stay at their own homes while following each other around the web, checking out each others’ social network profiles, forum posts, and chat room histories. They critique each others’ websites, read each others’ blogs, and team up to play their favorite online games. The next day, they meet in an archived, abandoned Zoomgo chat room.

“what do u think? wasnt that great?” Henry types.

“u were right. thxs 4 for talkin me into it. sorry i waited so long to meet u online” Pam types.

“dont worry abt it”

“i wish it was that e z”

“??”

“i hope our online meetup wont affect our offline lives, tho i think it already has”

“i know. i was afraid 2 say something but its tru. ive fallen in luv eith u PAM”

“with”

“ive fallen in luv with u 2 HENRY”

“u + me = pam + henry now”

“i know”

“what abt prolly + hawk?”

“polly”

“dont know. we cant just leave them. they have lives 2. wouldnt b fair”

“how abt not leave. cleave?”

“dont know. i heard transhumans doin that but thot tech wasnt far enuff. we can try”

“how abt backup pam + henry datastrms. reboot polly + hawk with prgrm mods, start time = 2 days ago”

“ok! :D”

“ok! :D”

—–

A movement above, and a figure briefly eclipses the half-moon, then glides down onto the rooftop and perches on the railing.

“You nearly snuck up on me that time, Polly. I thought you were a cat!”

Polly bobs her head in laughter. She hops off the railing, and Hawk takes her in his wings.

She coos, and Hawk smooths the feathers on her face with his beak.

“I know we’ve talked about this before, but I really think we should not meet online,” he says.

“I agree,” she says. “Our relationship perfect the way it is. I don’t want to jinx it.”

He fans his tail feathers. “Polly wanna cracker?” he chirps, tilting his head to the side.

“You sweet-talker, you!”

*

45,Y

“How’s the Turner boy?”

“Still in fair condition, but he seems more alert now.”

“Were you able to get any more information out of him?”

“Not a whole lot. He still doesn’t remember where he lives, or why he was alone in the jungle. But he keeps telling the nurses, ‘I go back.’ We assume he means he wants to go back to his home. Poor kid.”

“What about his name?”

“He still says he’s Adam Turner. Odd name for an aboriginal.”

“I agree. But I still think he was abandoned by a tribe. The aboriginals in these parts give foreign-sounding names to any baby born deformed or otherwise odd-looking. It’s their way of blaming the outsiders for their troubles. And when the baby doesn’t grow out of their odd appearance- which is almost always the case- they abandon the child in the forest.”

“Poor kid.”

”Any reports of missing children yet?”

“No.”

“We’ll probably have to turn him over to Casa Limiar in Sao Paulo. They take special needs kids. Of course, we have to get the paperwork squared away. I’m going draw another blood sample, so I’ll need you to help restrain him. He can’t be more than fifteen, but he’s amazingly strong.”

Another sample?”

“Yeah, something wasn’t right with the first two. Probably accidental contaminations. Round up a couple orderlies and I’ll meet you in the room.”

—–

“What’s the verdict?”

“I don’t know.”

“The blood work isn’t back yet?”

“No. It’s back alright. But it doesn’t make sense. It’s not possible. Take a look for yourself. Three blood tests, and they all say the same thing.”

“It says here patient Turner is an aneuploidy. A monosomy. So the boy is actually a girl. We’ve had cases like that before. Odd, though. She doesn’t look like she has Turner’s syndrome. Quite the opposite.”

“No. The boy is a boy. Read further down. It’s not that an X is missing from the XX, it’s that an X is missing from the XY!”

What? That’s impossible.”

“I know. But it’s all there in black and white. That boy is a 45,Y karyotype.”

“No! He has to be a mosaic.”

“Nope. We took skin and throat cultures the first day he was brought in, and they all match.”

“But a 45,Y isn’t viable at any stage. There’s not enough genetic information in a Y to make a human.”

“Yet we have a patient that’s unmistakably human, and he’s an unpaired Y. And his phenotype is otherwise normal. And did you look at the X-rays and CAT scans? Turns out he’s about twelve. A very well-developed twelve-year old. Physically, that is. I doubt his IQ is higher than 70. And he can’t read anything except his own name. He can count though. I gave him a notepad, and he counted to one hundred, tearing off a sheet of paper with each number. Wherever he came from, that’s probably all they taught him- or could teach him.”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that his name is ‘Turner’?”

“I suppose so. I mean we know he’s not female. He even has male parts. And even if he was female, all the symptoms contradict the typical Turner’s case.”

“You’re right. Turned-out elbows, tall, thin, high hairline, high-set ears. Large fingernails, large jaw. He even has four kidneys. But a perfect contradiction could mean something. A colleague of mine worked with a couple abandoned Turner girls a few years ago. I’ll call her tonight and ask her opinion.

—–

“Have you seen the Turner boy today?”

“I checked up on him first thing this morning. They had so sedate him overnight. He’s still groggy. And I faxed his records to Casa Limiar. They faxed back saying they didn’t have the facilities to care for a 45,Y. And this is an orphanage that housed five 45,X girls, last time I checked.”

“A shame they would be prejudiced against a new kind of chromosomal abnormality. Maybe we can appeal to the government. We can’t keep him here indefinitely.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to. The colleague I told you about yesterday- Dr. Barr- she told me there’s a well-funded cult near the village of Nabeko- er, I have written down. Here it is- Nabekodabadaquiba. The cult is called ‘Turner’s Angels of Mercy.’ The guru has a couple of daughters with Turner’s syndrome. Dr. Barr said the cult funds an onsite genetic lab to develop mates for what they believe are perfect females- those with a 45,X karyotype. The villagers raided the lab about a month ago, and several of their test subjects went missing. Dr. Barr says Adam Turner is their first viable 45,Y.”

*

Toddler’s Truce

“Lillianna says she wants plushie heels.”

“Plushie heels?”

“She says she won’t negotiate until she gets a pair of pink plushie heels with rainbow sparkles, size 10M in toddlers. And a tiara- toddler-sized.”

“What are plushie heels?”

“They’re high heels for toddlers, except they’re made from plushie material. The heels collapse between the sole and the floor when the toddler walks in them.”

—–

“Your size 10M, miss,” the negotiator says, bowing. “And your toddler’s tiara.”

The toddler genius grabs the goods with sticky, candy-stained fingers.

“All we ask is that the Supremacy Negotiation Organization for Toddlers’ Sovereignty call off their world-wide serial tantrums, marathon shrieking sessions, and constant diaper bombing,” the negotiator says, bowing. “We’re willing to meet any demands, as long as they’re within the realm of possibility.”

Lillianna scrunches up her face. A few seconds later, the negotiator runs from the room, gasping and clutching his nose.

—–

“Miss Pramenko-” the negotiator says through his gas mask.

“Lil Preco!” the toddler genius shrieks.

“So sorry . . please forgive me . . Lil Preco-”

“You di-din’ say pwetty pwease wif sugar on top!” she sticks out her lip, balls her tiny fists, and stamps her plush-heeled foot.

“Pretty please with sugar on top- we are now willing to turn the very structure of society upside-down to appease you and your gang. Please name your demands, Lil Preco. For the love of God. Please, this reign of terror has to stop. I mean, only if you would like it to stop, of course.”

Lillianna sprinkles Kool-Aid from her sippy cup over her hundreds of plushie animals.

“What would you and your gang like, more sugar? With bright colors?”

Lillianna hurls her cup at the negotiator.

“Permanent markers and miles of white walls?”

She kicks a plushie toy with her plush-heeled foot.

“How about we cancel bedtimes? And baths?”

She dumps a box of cereal on the floor.

A Disney cartoon theme park in every town?

“No! No! No! No! No! No!” Lil Preco’s face is red. “I wanna choose myse’f!” she shrieks, forehead veins bulging.

“Yes, how stupid of me. Of course you get to choose it yourself.”

Lillianna jabs a pen into a chair cushion. “New show!”

“You wanna watch TV?”

“Toddler show!”

“You want a cartoon show?”

Lil Preco shrieks a high note and the window shatters. The negotiator collapses on the floor, clutching his arms to his ears.

“New toddler show! So we git ta tell people what ta do!”

—–

“Your new show set is all ready to go, Lil Preco. All ready for you and your gang to tell the world what to do. We just need to give it a name so we can put it in the lineup. What would you like to name your new show?

Lil Preco points to her hundreds of plushie animals.

“You wanna name it Bunny?”

She crosses her arms and shakes her tiara-ed head.

“How about Doggy?”

She grabs books from the shelf and flings them on the floor, ripping the pages.

“Kitty Cat?”

“No! No! No! No! No! No!” Lil Preco’s face is purple. “I wanna choose myse’f!” she shrieks, forehead veins bulging.

“Yes, how stupid of me. Of course you get to name it yourself.”

Lil Preco grabs a plushie and throws it at the negotiator.

—–

Hello everyone! Welcome to the first edition of Vixen News. Our leader, Lillianna ‘Lil Preco’ Pramenko, is napping after an all night Supremacy Negotiation Organization for Toddlers’ Sovereignty combo sugar binge and victory party. Our top story tonight- Science has cooties! Yes, that’s right, science is icky, and is a big meanie. Details after the break.

*

This story is PG.

 Kandee

“Great show tonight, Kandee, you really outdid yourself,” Barb says as she removes her wig and peers into her mirror.

“Thanks, doll.” Kandee smiles. “You looked great yourself. We sure hit those high notes, didn’t we?”

Barb chuckles. “I think that was you, hon. I just joined in when the notes fell into the human range. Your range puts Mariah to shame.”

“Mariah puts Mariah to shame, dear,” Kandee says, shaking her head.

Barb removes her false eyelashes, then turns and studies Kandee. “And you looked more feminine tonight than any of the other queens, as usual. I don’t know what kind of girl pills you take, but they’re amazing.”

“You really think so? That’s been my life’s dream. To be transformed- completely transformed- into a girl.”

“You are a girl!” Barb says, laughing. She laughs and slathers cream on her face, smearing her makeup.

Kandee giggles. “Don’t I wish!” She runs her fingers through her long red wig.

Barb pauses and looks Kandee up and down. “I don’t mean to pry, girlfriend, but . . why don’t I ever see you without your makeup ? You always come to the club fully made up and leave fully made up.” She wipes her makeup off with paper towels.

“Oh it’s just easier for me, I guess.” I want to be a girl so much that I simply pretend I’m a girl- in and out of the club.”

“Yeah, I hear ya. But some of the other girls were talking. They said they think you’ve got something to hide.”

“What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, girlfriend, they’re just a bunch of jealous queens. Gossip-mongers. But they do have a point. You look too real to be real, if you know what I mean.”

Kandee frowns. “I make it a habit to not feed the jealous queen machine.”

“Oh I know. But maybe if you just once, you know, proved it to them, they wouldn’t be so catty. And I wouldn’t have to always be defending you.”

Kandee sighs. “I’m not going to strip naked for a bunch of sex-crazed queens just to prove I’m what I say I am.”

“Of course not.”

“And thank you for defending me.”

“Any time, luv.”

Kandee looks up at Barb. “If I showed you, would you tell the other girls?”

Barb sits across from Kandee. “Sure, hon. If that’s what you want.”

Kandee purses her lips. “This show and tell is a one-time event. I show you and you tell them and that’s the end of this nonsense.”

Barb nods and folds her hands in her lap, clicking her long purple fingernails together.

Kandee slowly rises. “I’m a bit shy face-to-face, so I’ll turn off the lamp,” she says, flipping the switch. “You can still see me with the makeup mirror lights.” She turns her back and peels off her dress. “I don’t feel comfortable taking off my panties, but I’ll take off my bra, if that’s what it takes.”

“Your call, hon.”

Kandee slips off her bra and turns around.

Barb gasps. “You look just like a girl.”

“It’s the girl pills,” Kandee says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “They gave me a nice rack.”

“But you don’t have a panty bulge. Not even a little one.”

“The girl pills shrank it. Are we done with this nonsense? Will you tell the girls I’m really a man?”

“But you look so . . womanly. What am I gonna say? That I saw you almost naked and you looked like a woman? That all I could say without, you know . . seeing your dong.”

Kandee bites her lip. “Fine. I’ll show you my dong. But this is the only time I’m gonna do this, and you have to promise me you’ll tell the other girls I’m not a faker.”

“Cross my heart.”

Kandee quickly slides her panties down her hips, then back up again.

“Okay I did my thing, now you do yours. Tell the other girls I’m a man.”

“But you’re not a man.”

“I am a man. I have a medical condition. It’s called micropenis.”

“Sorry darling, I just can’t vouch for your manhood.”

Kandee bursts into tears. “All my life I’ve been made fun of, and called less than a man.” She puts her bra and dress back on. “And I thought I finally found someplace where I would be accepted, and maybe even fit in and make friends.” She shoves her makeup, wigs, and extra high heels into her duffel bag and zips it shut. She turns and looks at Barb. “But I was wrong!” Sobbing, she runs out of the dressing room, past the eavesdropping queens, and out of the club.

Back at her apartment, Kandee strips off her dress, bra, and panties, and studies her reflection in the mirror. She carefully peels of her latex female bodysuit. “I can’t help it if I’m a man trapped in a woman’s body,” she says to her reflection. “A freakish woman’s body.” With rubbing alcohol and a nail file, she removes the tape from her crotch. “I’m a man on the inside, and that’s what counts.”

“Maybe it’s time to finally go through with the clitoridectomy, and get rid of this freakish embarrassment,” she mutters to herself. “Eight inches is just too damn big.”

*

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2 Comments

  1. They’re all good, but I loved the first one! It tickled my inner geek. 🙂

    Reply

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