Maternal Twins
Photo by Ron Lach on Pexels
by David Margolin
Mother loved the idea of having twins. She called them Billy and Jimmy.
When people asked her if the twins were identical or fraternal, her standard answer was carefully constructed and cryptic, “Two people are never identical—even if they have the same set of chromosomes.”
She never took them out of the house at the same time; she said that it was too dangerous. “What if one of them is seriously injured? It would kill me.” In fact, the three of them were almost a closed loop. Mother home schooled the twins. Other children, handpicked by mother-- via interviews with their parents, the child, and their siblings-- were allowed to visit. At any given time, only one of the twins could have a friend over.
Choosing the twins’ clothing gave Mother great joy.
On some days she laid out identical clothing.
On other days she put out inverse outfits—Billy’s shirt matched Jimmy’s pants and Jimmy’s shirt matched Billy’s pants.
Less commonly she chose clothes for them that were completely unalike, proclaiming, “It’s important for them to have separate identities,” and they did.
Billy was quiet, unassuming, fearful, and laconic.
Jimmy was outgoing, funny, and a fast talker.
Mother doted on Billy and was strict with Jimmy.
As much as their personalities differed, they had one trait in common. Neither of them ever paid attention to the other; each of them behaved as if the other one didn’t exist.
Billy’s most frequent visitor was Kenny. They played more sedate and cerebral board games such as The Game of Life.
Jimmy’s most frequent visitor was George. They played more active games such as Pictionary and Foosball. George’s father was a successful criminal prosecution attorney. Like his father, George was intuitive and aggressively inquisitive, to the point of being invasive.
During one of George’s visits, Mother received a call. She had to leave the house quickly to assist a relative who was being seen in the emergency room. For the first time, George and Jimmy were alone. George immediately started snooping around the house. He found a photo album in Mother’s study.
“Hey Jimmy, I see lots of pictures of you with your mom. I see lots of pictures of Billy with your mom. Why aren’t you and Billy together in any of the pictures?”
Jimmy froze; it was a simple question, why couldn’t he answer it? Jimmy studied the photo album carefully. Up until then he had always seen the pictures of himself and his brother as two separate people--he was Jimmy and Billy was Billy—just as different as typical siblings. Now the distinction was blurred. His pictures and Billy’s pictures looked the same to him—invoking the same sense of selfness, the knowledge that he was looking at himself, not at a twin.
His throat tightened, he teared up, and thoughts began racing through his head: Why aren’t we in any pictures together? Am I Jimmy? Am I Billy? Am I both? I wish Mother were here to set me straight. I always know who I am by the way that she treats me. He felt like his brain had fallen through a trapdoor, like he had been living in a pitch-black room all of his life and someone had switched on blindingly bright lights. Jimmy’s mental state was too chaotic to continue playing, so George called his mom to pick him up.
After George was gone, Jimmy was desperate to regain his separate identity. For the first time in his life, he reached out to Billy, frantically shouting, “Billy, Billy, help!” No one came. Billy couldn’t come. He was too busy being Jimmy.
David enjoys writing comedy as in “Table Manners” (R U Joking?), nostalgia as in “Teabags” (Memoir Magazine), and grim fare as in Brain Raid” and “Lost and Found—and Lost” (Freedom Fiction Journal). He lives in Portland Oregon with his invaluable editor, J.J. Margolin, and posts on https://davidmargolin.substack.com
The Final Version
by Huina Zheng
When Helen’s mother asked to schedule a meeting about her daughter’s essays for U.S. summer program Y, Lan’s heart sank. Requests like this usually meant a hard battle ahead.
When the meeting began, however, the mother did nothing but look down at the printed draft of her daughter’s English essay. She read it aloud line by line, repeating each sentence first in English, then in her own Chinese, the English coming out word by word, stumbling, mispronounced. “This sentence my daughter wrote is really wonderful. So soulful.” Then she compared it with Lan’s revised version, shook her head, and said, “Your version could apply to any student. It has no individuality.”
Lan didn’t explain herself. She listened to the praise, sentences she was trained to revise but could not, and reminded herself: this was what the client wanted.
A new workflow was established. Helen’s mother printed the essays, circled and rewrote them in red pen, photographed the pages, and sent the images to a WeChat group without Helen in it. She didn’t want Helen to know that all the revisions were hers.
From January 2nd to the 4th, Lan received more than a dozen photos every day. Often, the revisions amounted to nothing more than changing but to however.
“You can edit directly in the document. It would be more efficient,” Lan suggested in the group chat.
“I type slowly,” the mother replied.
On the evening of the 4th, the mother proposed another new addition.
“If we add this sentence, it will exceed the character limit,” Lan reminded her.
“How do you check the character count?”
Lan explained step by step.
“Do spaces count too?”
“Yes.”
“Why should spaces be allowed to limit us?”
“Because of the system text box,” Lan typed. “Anything beyond the limit can’t be entered.”
January 5th. Deadline day.
At seven in the morning, a message popped up in the WeChat group: “Here are the revised versions of the three essays.”
There were still no attachments, just the text pasted into the chat. The first thing Lan saw was trying best. She took a breath and pointed it out. “The idiomatic expression is try one’s best.”
“Then change it to try hard,” the mother replied.
Lan continued, “I’m not sure admissions officers would understand confirm the nature,” and asked what she intended to express so the English could be adjusted accordingly.
“No, don’t change it. I’ll adjust it myself,” Helen’s mother said.
Three hours remained until the deadline. Lan glanced at the Chinglish-filled final version. She replied, “Okay.”
Fine, Lan thought. We’ll do it her way. After all, she was the one paying.
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
The Sculptor
by William F. Smith
"Ah, Fevrier," Inspector Pierre LaRoche greeted the young detective who had just entered his office at the Police Judiciare on Quai des Orfèvres. "The identity of the victim had been determined?"
"Yes. Antoinette DoBois, model and mistress of the late sculptor Gérard Meurant."
"He designed the facade of the Union Pacifique building in 1920, with the figure of the little nymph about to climb onto the ledge above the ground floor. Now we know why the sculpture appeared so lifelike. Meurant murdered the poor woman, encased her body in plaster, and hid her in plain view of every person in this metropolis. Ingenious! After 105 years, these facts have now come to light only because the building is being demolished to make way for a new luxury hotel."
"Then Meurant committed the perfect crime and got away with it?"
"Yes, he died in 1972 and can't be punished in this world. And he profited by his crime, too. He wasn't very successful until that building became a tourist attraction. Then he recieved hundreds of commissions for life-like statues to adorn buildings." LaRoche suddenly clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. "Oh, mon Dieu!"
"What's wrong, Inspector?"
"Have Archives compile the records for all unsolved disappearances between 1920 and 1972. I'm very much afraid we will have to examine the contents of every sculpture created by Gérard Meurant, the master plaster caster of Paris."
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.
Fiscal Constraints
by James C. Clar
Storen, Director of the Institute for Advanced Biological Studies, feared that an already difficult faculty meeting was about to become even more contentious. Around the conference chamber, eyes watched him with predatory alertness.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “we now come to item number five on today’s agenda: an announcement of the board’s decision regarding the practices of vivisection and dissection.”
A ripple of unease shimmered through the room. This was what they had all been awaiting. For weeks the board had deliberated behind closed doors.
Konstan, the chair of the Anatomy Department, began the assault. “Storen, this is such a sham. We all know the decision was made before the board even began its so-called ‘debate’.”
Heads bobbed in agreement.
The director drew in a deep breath, adjusting his tone.
“It goes without saying,” he began, “that given the technology available to us today, physical dissection of lower life-forms – not to mention experimentation on living creatures – has been rendered obsolete.”
There was a brief, brittle silence.
Then Palanquin rose. A zoologist notorious for melodramatic displays, he lifted his hands theatrically before lowering them to the table.
“With all due respect, Director,” he said, “that is simply because you have been out of the lab and the classroom for so long. You have perhaps forgotten how vital hands-on experience is in our fields.”
Storen felt irritation prick along his spine. He swallowed it. He would not be baited, not today.
“Colleagues. I assure you the board considered all arguments. Their decision was neither as predetermined nor as one-sided as you assume.”
Konstan scoffed loudly, but Storen pressed on.
“In the end,” he continued, pausing to make sure every eye was fixed on him, “fiscal constraints overrode all other concerns.”
Storen exhaled, deciding to rip the bandage off with a single tear.
“Given the current state of our economy,” he said, “continued trips to the third planet to obtain specimens have become too expensive.”
There was a stunned beat of silence.
Then the room erupted.
“What?” Konstan was half-standing. “You can’t be serious. The third planet, off limits? We need a continuing supply for longitudinal …” The old anatomist was beside himself. “Does the Planetary Council ...”
Storen held up a hand. Reluctantly, the voices quieted.
“Yes,” he said. “Their projections show that even one more retrieval mission would exceed our annual operations budget.”
Konstan slammed a palm on the table. “We can’t teach proper anatomy without fresh specimens!”
“We have decades of archived data,” Storen replied.
Konstan snapped. “You can’t replace the tactile understanding of musculature or neural pathways with a hologram!”
“There is no choice.”
No one spoke.
Eventually, Palanquin asked, “What of the specimens we already possess?
Storen sank back into his chair.
“That,” he said, “is to be determined. At our meeting next week, the board has requested that we consider the disposition of our remaining specimens. Especially the bipedal ones.”
Konstan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Disposition? What do you mean?”
Storen spread his hands. “That’s all I have been told.”
Several of the scientists looked shaken. The thought of releasing the specimens back to their distant blue-white sphere was unthinkable. But the alternative?
“Before we adjourn,” Storen continued, firmly changing the subject, “We need to review the proposed reorganization of the Genetics faculty.
The researchers’ eyes glazed slightly as their neural ports activated.
Storen exhaled. The worst was over. The issue of the specimens was not to remain academic for long. Somewhere below in the Institute’s holding vaults, the board’s irrevocable decision was being carried out. Next week, he’d present the faculty with a fait accompli.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, The Yard Crime Blog, 365 Tomorrows, Antipodean SF, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, The Blotter Magazine, Flash Digest and Freedom Fiction Journal.
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