Perfect Flaw

by Robin Blankenship

  The second woman spoke. “You see this kid at her side? It’s the sixth kid she has brought to the center.”

  I couldn’t quite understand why that would matter or of what concern it would be to the woman. I must have had a confused look on my face.

  “Don’t you get it?”

  I shook my head.

  “The more children, the more money. Why this idiot could care less what’s happening to these kids.”

  At this point, the first woman put her hands in fists and started pounding on the woman’s shoulders.

  Before I could stop the fighting, a Napo carrying a large black umbrella, who had apparently been working his way through the line, stopped, grabbed the angry woman by her arm, and threw her to the ground. “You see the end of the line? Get your ass over there.”

  Her children followed her like sheep.

  I saluted the Napo, the required form of respect for authority, and explained who I was. I thought he might be a better person to ask as to what was occurring here.

  By this time the woman causing the grief had done what the officer demanded.

  The other woman kept repeating, “It’s not fair. Something should be done.”

  “What does she mean?” I asked the Napo.

  He adjusted his grey cap with his free hand and cocked his head in an arrogant poise, complete to his right eyebrow raising. “It’s quite simple. The woman with the six children stands to make herself quite a bundle.”

  “I hope I’m misunderstanding you.”

  “No. You’re getting it just fine. Six children equal $150,000.”

  “This can’t be. The woman is selling her children to the government for $25,000 a child?” I could hear my voice rise.

  “Quick math skills, you have, Miss Adhara.”

  I felt myself lightheaded and suddenly queasy. I grabbed for one of the handrails along the walk.

  “I told you. Six kids by six different men. She could care less about the kids. And, to make matters worse, she’s making money off of them,” the second woman said.

  I glanced at the Napo. “But, isn’t this exploitation? How can the government buy children only to freeze them?” I couldn’t believe what I had said; it was so out-of-character for me to risk asserting myself in this way.

  “Why not?” the Napo said, in a sarcastic voice. “Do you think this broad really cared about her kids to begin with?”

  “That’s not the question,” I said.

  “She’s nothing more than a fucking whore,” the Napo said. “My guess is probably fifty percent of these women in line are no different.”

  The second woman nodded her head. “That’s what I tried to tell the journalist here.”

  “I’m still confused. Even if she didn’t care for her children, why would the government be interested in buying them?”

  “It’s all part of the plan.”

  “Huh?” was all I could say.

  “Someday there will be those who will pay good money to have a child of their own, and when they do, the government and the children will be ready,” the Napo said. “You see, it really is a win-win situation.”

  I could not believe what I was hearing. Not only was the government demanding that children be taken from their parents and frozen until who knew when, but the Napos would, in the long run, actually be making money in the transaction. I could not help but ask myself what life had come to, when children were viewed as nothing more than a commodity and, worse yet, as a means to an unthinkable end.

  I excused myself. I had more than enough information to write my article. But. . .there was no way that I could. In my heart, I knew what was being asked of these suffering women. It was cruel and unforgivable. I knew that the buying and selling of children for whatever purpose was appalling and hideous. Yet to expound on either of these issues would mean that I would be immediately sent to solitary confinement if not the Assisted Suicide Center. I wanted nothing more than to speak out, to make sure my voice was heard. I went back to my office, but the helplessness I felt prevented me from beginning my article. I could only think about the women and their children, waiting in snake-like lines as the rain poured down on them; perhaps, for some of them, washing their guilt down the drain, and for others washing away their sadness

  YOUR COMFORT IS IMPORTANT TO US

  BY TANITH KORRAVAI

  Please accept our appreciation that your sponsors have chosen us to service your medical needs. This is a once in a lifetime experience, and we have provisions for every possible contingency to ensure you minimal discomfort in the days leading up to the blessed event.

  By now you should have received your supply of medications. Please follow along as I explain each item to make sure your packet includes them all and that you understand when to use each.

  First, you should see a brown bottle of liquid. This is a skin softening oil made from the fat of your young, er, compatible young animals, enhanced with many optimizing nutrients. Use this twice daily on the affected area. This will allow the skin to adapt with minimal discomfort.

  The bag labelled ‘794’ contains twelve bright blue tablets with the word ‘GREX’ on them in white letters. These are for the first three days of your confinement. You may take up to 4 per day as needed to reduce feelings of strangeness and disorientation.

  Side effects from the blue pill may include headaches and cramping of the tongue. Rinsing the oral cavity with the bright green liquid in the vial marked ‘PLERK’ will alleviate the discomfort. Extensive tests have been performed to ensure its efficacy. The unfortunate taste in your mouth will be temporary.

  After three days you will need something stronger. These are the light pink pills in the pale yellow baggie. These may appear orange as a consequence of color theory, but you can easily distinguish them from the actual orange pills by the number 38461 printed on them in large friendly letters.

  Take one of these pills each day upon waking for days four through eight, assuming you are still able to sleep. If not, take them each morning. If nausea occurs, which is likely, take with food, if you can still stomach food. Otherwise, take them in conjunction with the optional dark purple caplets to relieve minor digestive distress.

  If you take the actual orange pill by mistake instead of the light pink pill in the pale yellow baggie, your host can provide a dark green pill to counteract the effect, but be advised that this will greatly decrease the effectiveness of the greenish-yellow pill.

  By day six, you will start to experience some discomfort and swelling in the area around the injection you have just received. This is normal and nothing to be concerned about. Since your comfort during this process is important to us, we have provided several palliative options.

  If your sponsor has purchased the Silver Plan, you are entitled to a visit from a massage therapist every other day for the remainder of your confinement. Your therapist has had special training in pain management, pressure relief, and techniques of disassociation. We think you will be surprised at how effective these will be.

  If your sponsor has purchased the Gold Plan, you may have a live-in therapist for the duration. The live-in therapist has other techniques available, some of which are not so much directed at your comfort as at enhancing the growth of the offspring. These techniques have been proven to result in healthier and more intelligent offspring, and you are requested to cooperate fully with the therapist’s efforts, even if they result in some distress.

  For those at the Bronze Level, we offer this booklet of stress management techniques and a lovely squeeze ball in the shape of a cockroach.

  By Day Twelve you may be unconscious; in that case, feel free to ignore the rest of these instructions.

  If you are one of the 37% who will still be conscious and capable of feeling pain, please take note of the six red sublingual tablets. These will dissolve instantly under your tongue and be abs
orbed into your bloodstream. We suggest that you reserve them for the final hours of your confinement on Day Seventeen.

  On or about the fifteenth day you may experience shortness of breath, accelerated heart rate, and an increase in blood pressure. While this is understandably worrying, it is not serious, and you may take it as a sign that your confinement is proceeding normally and has only a few more days to run.

  On Day Sixteen it may seem that the pain cannot possibly get worse, but in fact it can, and will. Know that your pain serves the highest needs of our society. Children who emerge from those who remain conscious up until the end have much higher levels of social integration.

  You will achieve maximum benefit from the red tablets if you wait until the first nymph pokes its claw through your skin and begins to feed.

  At this point, take them all.

  You will spend the remaining few hours of your service in bliss, knowing you have given the greatest gift in your power to allow your sponsors the privilege of reproduction without being devoured by their own offspring. This process has enabled our civilization to evolve and flourish for over 1000 years, as parents are now able to pass on the wisdom of their experience to the next generation.

  You are a vital part of our progress, and we thank you for your participation in our evolution, whether voluntary or conscripted. Rest assured, regardless of your origin, your name will be entered into the rolls of honor and your host brood will offer a sacrifice in your name at their ascension.

  The anesthetic you received prior to your injection may be wearing off now. As you return to your sponsor families, feel free to ask for anything that might make you more comfortable - an extra pillow, a favorite food, even an extra hour of television watching - educational programs only, of course.

  Your sponsors are very grateful and will accommodate any reasonable request you are able to communicate. We have provided an environmentally friendly wipe board with a nontoxic marker, as your voice box has been removed so that your screaming will not traumatize our children when they

  USELESS

  BY ELLEN BROCK

  “You’re small for twelve,” one says, leaning forward, a finger pointed at my hollow stomach.

  They watch me with dark eyes, pencils slapping their clipboards. A table separates them from the rest of the long gymnasium packed full of equipment for sports, the military, weight lifting. There’s even a row of guns of all shapes and sizes, and I wonder if anyone’s ever used them on the judges.

  “Can you lift weights?” they ask. “Can you dance?”

  I shake my head. My mother prepped me for this, told me to speak loud and firm, to stand tall with my head up. But my shoulders are tucked down like a school dunce and I can’t find my voice.

  The one on the end shuffles through my file, stopping on a bright orange paper. His eyes raise from the clipboard and scan my body. He’s searching for the scars, traces of my accident. I turn my bad foot out straight like my mother told me. I grit my teeth against the pain.

  He leans over and whispers across the table, too quiet for me to hear. I am not new to this judging. This is the final stop, the end of the line, where you go when no one else wants you. I’ve already been through the math judges, the reading/writing judges, the music/theater judges. There were dozens of them and they all turned me away, sending me on to the next room to be somebody else’s problem.

  For most of the jobs, I’m too stupid. Some of my brain cells were left behind at the scene of the accident, smeared across the black cement. For other jobs, I’m too ugly, deformed, my body broken and battered. The other stupid kids are given jobs where you don’t have to think too hard, like packing boxes, stocking shelves, even prostitution. But I am not good enough for any of those things because of my foot and my scars. They say I am broken both in mind and in body. I am problematic.

  The men lift their heads once more. They don’t smile, don’t try to make me feel comfortable. There is even a hint of anger on their faces, perhaps annoyed that I’ve made their job less than easy.

  “We have nothing for you,” they say.

  My chest burns and so do my cheeks. I squeeze my hands together, twisting my fingers, not sure if I should stay or leave.

  The one in the middle rolls his eyes, leans forward, and yells towards the door, “Next.”

  I swallow hard and back away. A tall boy with strong shoulders and muscled arms passes me at the door. This is not a last resort for him. He is here because he wants to be, a smile beaming on his face. He will make a good boxer or football player. I will probably see him on TV someday, making our great nation proud.

  * * *

  The air is chilly as I walk home, and I pull my jacket tighter. It is size extra small, just like me. I clutch my file against my chest, inside it says I will only grow to five feet. I am sure this is part of what makes me so useless to the judges. Mostly I don’t blame them.

  I turn at the big building with the red shutters, just like Mother told me. Since my accident I have not been able to understand signs. My vision is perfect, crystal clear, but I cannot read. I can’t write. I can’t work numbers. The doctors say it is some kind of acquired visual processing disorder. Three years ago, when I was nine, everyone said I would be a great scientist. I won contests. My teachers were proud. But now my brain is scrambled and I am useless, assigned no job at all, not even a bad one. I have never heard of this happening. I don’t think it ever has.

  I turn left at the park and I’m almost home. I don’t know how I’m going to tell my parents the truth, so I drag my feet. I will take as long as I possibly can.

  When I was seven my neighbors had a baby girl. She was deaf in both ears and had crossed eyes. They let me hold her, carry her around the neighborhood, pretending she was mine, but when she was two months old, they took her away. Her parents did not cry, and I didn’t either. She was a useless thing that would never do anyone any good. She was bad for our great nation.

  If I were a baby, I’d be gone too, taken away, thrown in the undertaker’s furnace. But I am almost grown up so I think killing me is against the law, even if I’m useless, even if I am just a burden on our great nation.

  Mother is on the porch. Even from the end of the road I can see her arms waving, her big smile. Father stands behind her, arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t believe in me like she does. When I was nine we were best friends. He spent hours setting up experiments, challenging me to grow my brain, but now he stands away from me, watches from a distance. At night sometimes I hear him cry.

  I wish they had not seen me so I could keep dragging my feet, delay the truth for just a little bit longer. I walk as slow as I can while still seeming normal.

  “How was it?” my mother asks, nearly flying from the porch in excitement.

  “Come on,” my father says, waving us inside, propping open the door with his foot. There aren’t any neighbors around, but I understand how he feels. I understand his embarrassment.

  We pass through the entryway and into the living room. I sit in the big chair and my parents drop down on the couch. Mother’s eyes are wide, eager, but Father’s are dark, focused low on the ground.

  “How was it?” Mother asks again.

  I bite my lip. I don’t know how to tell them, don’t know how to choose my words so I just shake my head.

  “What is it, sweet pea? Not what you expected? Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  I shake my head again, eyes burning.

  “What happened, sweetheart?” She leans forward, so far her behind is barely in contact with the couch.

  My father jerks up suddenly, eyebrows scowling. “Out with it, already,” he shouts, and I jump.

  I suck in a breath, my heart banging in my chest. “They assigned me nothing,” I say, voice a quiet squeak.

  My mother’s face falls, lips quiver. “What do you mean, sweet pea?” She tries to sm
ile, but it’s sad, quivering, and it’s all my fault.

  “Damn you, Ishka,” my father says, his face red. He used to call me Princess, but not anymore, not since the accident.

  I hang my head. I really am sorry. I never wanted to be an embarrassment to my father or my nation.

  “If you had just listened,” he shouts, standing up, pointing a finger in my face. “If you were just an obedient child.” Mother grabs his arm and pulls him back down on the couch, shushing him. He shakes her off. “Don’t shush me.” His eyes pin on me. “What am I supposed to do with you now?”

  I shift my eyes to the floor in respect. He is so much better than I am, especially now. I’m not worthy to be his daughter.

  “Well?”

  I swallow, head bowed. “I don’t know.”

  “We cannot try for another child with you at home,” he says, then he looks at mother, scanning her up and down. “There’s still time.”

  Tears run down her cheeks as she shakes her head, grabs hold of his arm. “No,” she says, but it is weak, not the strong voice I grew up loving.

  They both turn to me, watching, waiting, and I don’t know what to say. My parents are not rich. Mother was a dancer, retired since I was eight, and Father screws bolts in a factory. They only earn enough for one child, for me, their only hope. And now I am useless.

  “I could stay home, keep the house clean, cook the meals.” It’s stupid, but I have to say something, have to at least try to give them a reason to keep me around.

  Father jumps up again, thrusts his hands on his hips. “That’s your mother’s role. Should I throw her out instead?”

  I shake my head. My heart breaks thinking of Mother on the streets, begging for food, eating from garbage bins.

  “I’ll go,” I say, but it comes out as only a whisper.

  Mother drops to her knees, shakes her head, grabs my hands in hers. “No,” she says, but Father grabs her, pulls her away, and points to the door.