Allan Dyen-Shapiro

Between 2020 and 2023, I entered the Queer Science Fiction 300-word flash contest four times. I made it into the anthology all four years, and my stories received Honorable Mention designation two of them. As the anthologies go out of print, I’ll put the stories here. In 2020, the theme was Innovation—piece of cake for a science fiction writer. In 2021, it was Ink; in 2022, Clarity. (2023’s anthology is still available.) Other than conforming to the theme and having some sort of speculative fiction element, the only other requirement was that each story had at least one queer character. Enjoy!

 

Two-Mother Embryogenesis Inc. Fails to Deliver

by Allan Dyen-Shapiro

 

Queasy from the antiseptic smell and from anticipation, Adisa squeezed Lihua's hand as the door to the consultation room opened. When the doctor approached, silent as death, without making eye contact, Adisa shuddered. "An abortion?"

 

"Yes, it's what I'd recommend."

 

Abruptly, Lihua bolted for the door. "Get the details. I can't bear to listen."

 

"I love you."

 

"I know."

 

The company had supposedly perfected sperm-free fertilization. Synthesis of a haploid set of Adisa's chromosomes—no biggie. Engineered gene silencing to mimic imprinting of paternal DNA—easy. Microinjection into the nucleus of Lihua's aspirated egg—a snap. The complications stemmed from mutations that sometimes cropped up during the first mitotic cell division. But why our baby?

 

After a moment with eyes screwed shut, Adisa shook off her reveries. "What did the genomic sequencing—"

 

"Worse than I'd ever imagined." The doctor freed the report from her clipboard and handed it to Adisa. "It's not a lethal mutation—"

 

"What then?" She perused; blue eye color topped the list. "You think we care what race the baby resembles? Race is a social construct—"

 

"No, keep reading."

 

The second entry established the baby would be on the spectrum. "Doctor, I'm a science teacher; Lihua is a social worker. We value neurodivergence."

 

"Not that either."

 

They could handle physical deformities, shortened life span, nutritional issues; they were happy with any gender or sexual orientation. Then she saw it: severe lack of empathy. At once, she understood. "Oh, no. Never in my nightmares did I imagine we'd have one of those."

 

The doctor offered a tissue and pulled a book from her satchel. "The Understand-Your-Baby Law requires me to offer you this in case you reconsider."

 

"We won't."

 

With a satisfied nod, the doctor tossed the copy of Atlas Shrugged into the recycle bin.

 

 

To Share the Sky

by Allan Dyen-Shapiro

 

When asked at couples counseling to stylize me, you sketched a caterpillar in black ink. I mistook it for a worm.

 

I chewed my lower lip, tasted blood.

 

To represent you, I'd drawn Ala, Igbo goddess of creativity, a python in her palm. I'd never reduce you to a bug.

 

"Today, you ladies will switch," the therapist said. "You'll inhabit the image you sketched, not the one your partner created."

 

Revenge.

 

While the digitizer whirred, scanning our art, we donned VR helmets. Inside our consensual space, I became Ala and released the python. It slithered toward a lilac scent—your perfume.

 

Before my snake could bite, your caterpillar crawled into my hand, enlarged, and wrapped around my shoulders. Insectile hairs tickled me. They bore no poison; instead, their secretions warmed me, soothed me.

 

Owing an apology, I bid my python to bow.

 

A bell rang.

 

The therapist helped us remove the headgear. Once free, I glanced into your eyes. You smiled when I asked if we could keep the brush and ink.

 

"Why would you… " The therapist raised an eyebrow. "I guess I don't need to know."

 

We left holding hands.

 

A drive home, a candle-lit dinner, a tender disrobing. I inked Ala above your navel; you redrew the caterpillar beneath my breasts and enclosed it in curved lines.

 

"What are those?" I asked.

 

"You'll see."

 

Were we artists, we'd have waited for the ink to dry. As women in love, we couldn't.

 

The next morning, in dawn's light, I gazed upon my smudged artwork, not at all distraught that Ala had sprouted wings and a halo.

 

You sat up, kissed me, and pointed to my reflection in the mirror. The caterpillar's case had been a chrysalis.

 

Next VR session, my butterfly and your angel will share the sky.

 

 

Oysters and Other Slimy Creatures

by Allan Dyen-Shapiro

 

Kwame Jackson's fourth graders fidgeted. The sun was hot; the benches, uncomfortable. Already in bathing suits, they longed to splash in Tampa Bay's warm water.

Not Sarah. She raised her hand to ask Gregory Xiao still another question. "Wikipedia's oyster-reef-restoration article said old shells worked for cultch. Why do we need your company's stuff?"

She'd likely looked up the word cultch before the field trip to show off, but attention-seeking engendering learning worked for Kwame. Besides, it gave Kwame an excuse to focus on the shirtless Gregory Xiao. His powerful arms glistened with perspiration. How wonderful it would be if they held Kwame against Gregory's near-hairless chest.

"Xiao Biotech's recombinant proteins buffer the water's pH near the cultch. The larvae that settle make shells just like before ocean acidification. Oysters maturing on the beds we build today will filter the water, so the sun can shine on the seagrass, and healthy seagrass will feed manatees." Gregory grinned sheepishly. "Did this make sense?"

Sarah assured him it did.

Mesmerized by Gregory's melodious voice, Kwame couldn't say but assumed so.

"Good. Let's get started." Gregory beckoned, and the children followed.

Upon reaching the water, Sarah pointed to a brown plume near the brand-new hotel.

"What's that?"
 

"It's what the oysters filter. No water clarity without oysters. Sorry, kids—we'll reschedule."
 

Sarah sniffed the air. "It's poop."
 

"Sewage. My father's resort has a release permit."
 

Gregory Xiao, Xiao Biotech, Xiao Resorts. Gregory's father also owned politicians. Kwame choked back an urge to vomit.
 

Later, when Kwame had the children onto the bus, Gregory smiled seductively and proffered a pen. "You're gorgeous," he whispered over the bus's motor. "Can I have your number?"
 

The oysters hadn't achieved clarity, but Kwame had. "No." He stepped onto the bus and shut the door in Gregory's face.