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    Metaphorosis October 2017
    Metaphorosis October 2017
    Metaphorosis October 2017
    Ebook126 pages1 hour

    Metaphorosis October 2017

    By Kathryn Hammond, David Hammond, Rob Francis and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis magazine.
    All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins.

    Table of Contents
    • Making the List – David Hammond
    • Beneath the Sea of Glass – Rob Francis
    • Lock Rise – Phil Berry
    • Bluebird – Benjamin Cort
    Cover art by Kathryn Hammond.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMetaphorosis Publishing
    Release dateJun 16, 2018
    ISBN9781640760899
    Metaphorosis October 2017

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      Book preview

      Metaphorosis October 2017 - Kathryn Hammond

      Metaphorosis

      October 2017

      edited by

      B. Morris Allen

      ISSN: 2573-136X (online)

      ISBN: 978-1-64076-089-9 (e-book)

      Metaphorosis

      Neskowin

      Table of Contents

      Metaphorosis

      October

      Making the List

      David Hammond

      Beneath the Sea of Glass

      Robert Francis

      Lock Rise

      Phil Berry

      Bluebird

      Benjamin Cort

      Metaphorosis Publishing

      Copyright

      October 2017

      Making the List — David Hammond

      Beneath the Sea of Glass — Rob Francis

      Lock Rise — Phil Berry

      Bluebird — Benjamin Cort

      Making the List

      David Hammond

      It started with a routine-sounding letter from my health insurance company. I opened it quickly because I was in the mood for a snack, and there was a little picture of cherries on the lower right corner of the envelope indicating that they had used cherry-flavored paper, my favorite. I learned that I would need to get a full DNA sequencing done by the end of the year. Reasonable enough, I thought, as I tore off little pieces of the letter and let the sweet and sour cellulose dissolve on my tongue.

      Several weeks later I got the strangest voicemail message. Hello, Mr. Wright, began the garbled transcription I got in email, this isn’t Barley from inshallah care. Web navel your DNA test, and very interesting hallelujah. Please call me back at… I skipped listening to the actual message and dialed the number.

      Mr. Wright, I am so glad you returned my call! enthused a female voice. She did not strike me as the usual insurance company bureaucrat. Her name was Hannah Farley, and she worked for the insurance company as an actuarial geneticist. She hastened to assure me that nothing in my genetic sequence indicated latent health problems that should concern me. In fact, she said, I have reviewed your claim history, and I want to congratulate you on being in excellent health!

      Thank you, Ms. Farley, I responded cautiously and waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I felt the need to prompt her. But…?

      Right. Well, I’ll just have to come right out and say it.

      Please do.

      Okay, Mr. Wright. You are … She paused and even clucked her tongue lightly a few times. You are a Neanderthal, Mr. Wright.

      She enunciated the word quite clearly and deliberately, and there was no mistaking what she had said, but still I asked her to repeat it.

      You are a Neanderthal.

      My mind raced for a moment. Oh, I read about this. Everyone has some Neanderthal DNA, right? That’s what…

      "No, Mr. Wright, you misunderstand. You … and nobody is more surprised than I am, believe me … nobody’s ever … I did double-check and triple-check and had colleagues … but there’s no getting around it. You are not a Homo sapiens with some Neanderthal genes. You are a Neanderthal, Homo neanderthalensis."

      I was at a complete loss for words.

      Do you understand now, Mr. Wright?

      After I hung up a few minutes later, I went to the bathroom and looked at my reflection. Protruding brow. Large nose. I took off my clothes and stepped back. I have always been husky and strong. I played football in high school, not because I liked the game, but because if you gave me the ball, I could run all the way to the end zone, littler kids dangling from my body like remoras on a shark. (In college it was a different story. The guys were bigger, tougher, more vicious. I didn’t have the stomach for it. I took up biking, a solitary, peaceful sport.)

      I put my clothes back on. Okay, so I was a Neanderthal. So what? I was still Carl Wright, mild-mannered accountant, resident of Santa Clara, California. Wasn’t I?

      Ms. Farley had talked me into coming in for some tests. I don’t like being prodded and poked any more than the next guy, but I would be paid. I arrived at the lab promptly at 9am the following morning.

      A mole-like, bespectacled man limply shook my hand when I arrived. He stared at my hairy knuckles and then raised his eyes to inspect my face, much as I had done the previous day. He finally forced a smile and said, Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Wright. Please follow me.

      I was ushered into a room where a woman sat behind a desk. Her wide downturned mouth, fleshy jowls and rumpled brown suit combined to give the impression of a toad waiting with menacing patience.

      Good morning, Mr. Wright. Please have a seat.

      Hi, I said and inserted myself in the only available chair. A fluttering in the corner of the room attracted my attention, and I looked to see a tall thin woman in a lab coat. She had straight blond hair that fell nearly to her waist. She smiled at me.

      I am Dr. Willis, said the woman at the desk. You talked to Ms. Farley on the phone, she gestured to the woman in the corner, and that’s Fernandez. The man who had ushered me in grunted lightly behind my right shoulder. Before we get started, I have a few questions for you.

      Dr. Willis attempted to delve into my family history, but I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to her. Mom and dad died in a car accident when I was 12, and in any case they had adopted me. I have no idea who my biological parents were or where they came from. Dr. Willis shook her head disapprovingly.

      For all we know, said Fernandez in a desultory whine, he has no parents.

      What do you mean? asked Ms. Farley, jerking her head to the side. I found myself fascinated for a moment by her movements, her tall lanky stance, the way her hair was so light in color that it almost blended with her lab coat. A fault of the fluorescent light, no doubt.

      …quite possible that he was created in a lab from some well-preserved remains, Fernandez was saying.

      Nonsense, said Dr. Willis. 35 years ago that would have been impossible. It’s hardly possible now.

      Well, you explain it then. He gestured to me, as if I were the it in need of explanation.

      After some more apparently fruitless discussion, I was led to a lab for a variety of tests: strength, cardiovascular health, flexibility, cranial capacity, intelligence, visual acuity, etc. There was much humming, chuckling, even a few surprised gasps, but they refused to tell me anything about the results. In the end they thanked me, paid me, and I went home.

      I thought that was the end of it, and I went back to my life doing bookkeeping and tax planning for small business clients in and around Santa Clara.

      Then came the call from the New York Post. Somehow a reporter had gotten wind of my genetic status and had called to find out if it was true, and to do a story on me, whether it was true or not.

      I found your picture online, Mr. Wright, said John Trawley, and, wow.

      I was so taken aback that I almost hung up on him, but I let him talk, and he seemed to take my reticence as a shrewd negotiation tactic. In the end, by merely grunting non-committally every once in a while I had secured a surprisingly lucrative deal.

      I was not completely naive. I knew the publicity might have unwanted consequences. I agreed to be photographed, but insisted that I be fully clothed in attire of my own choosing. I also demurred when they offered to fly me to New York. Trawley flew to Santa Clara instead with the photographer in tow.

      He had surprisingly few questions for me. Perhaps our initial conversation convinced him that I was a dull interview, and I can’t really blame him. We did talk about my football days, and I allowed them to make a scan of an old photograph of me in uniform. The rest of the conversation focused on my sex life, or lack

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