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  VARIATIONS THREE

  modern short fantasies

  with a different point of view

  Sharon Lee

  Pinbeam Books

  http://www.pinbeambooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously.

  VARIATIONS THREE

  Copyright ©1996, 2011 by Sharon Lee. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works.

  First published in November 1996 by SRM, Publisher.

  Coffeecat first apeared in Owlflight No. 5

  ISBN:

  Kindle: 978-1-935224-60-0

  Epub: 978-1-935224-61-7

  PDF: 978-1-935224-62-4

  Published May 2011 by

  Pinbeam Books

  PO Box 707

  Waterville ME 04903

  email [email protected]

  Variations Three

  Smashwords Edition

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Coffeecat

  Sharon Lee

  "AARRW!"

  "That’s easy for you to say! After all, you’re a cat. Highest level of evolution and all that. Just back among us mere mortals for one more incarnation, to prove to the Eternal All that you finally and for all time have gotten your act together--"

  "Ow!"

  "Hey, don’t get sore; I didn’t mean anything by it. Monkeys are bad-tempered, is all--especially when they can’t get their paws around their morning coffee. How’m I supposed to create, I ask you, without coffee?"

  A pause which the cat refused to fill, then.

  "Listen, cat, there’s a theory--genuine scientific stuff, now, done proper--that makes coffee the Prime Motivator, the creative force of the Universe: ‘In the Beginning, there was Coffee, complete unto Itself. But, in the fullness of Time, Coffee became lonely and called into being Cream and Sugar--’ You listening to me?"

  But the cat had followed the rays of the early morning sun and now sat in the center of a lightpool, unconcernedly washing its toes.

  The Magician sighed and returned his attention to his worktable, empty except for two objects. One was an outsize and very empty earthenware coffee mug.

  The other was a common tree toad. It blinked at the Magician, bemused.

  The Magician blinked back, made a few properly mystic passes, muttered a word that may have been ’echranstratz.’ The toad vanished.

  The coffee mug remained empty, a comment on the amount of joy to be found in the Magician’s universe at that particular moment.

  The Magician therefore settled his hat tightly on his head, pushed back his sleeves and Strove. He made many mystic passes, accompanied by many words, some of which may have been ‘echranstratz’--

  "Dammit!"

  The cat paused in its toilet to stare reproachfully at the Magician, who, in his turn, stared at his littered worktable. He was talking to himself.

  "A jack ball. Three robin-egg rubies. A ticket to the 1965 World Series--upper reserve. A brass lamp. Two ingots of gold and one of--silver?--no, platinum. Fourteen velvet hair ribbons. One raccoon’s tail. A coupon for one free anchovy and green pepper pizza. And still it’s empty, empty, EMPTY! Gods, what do I have to do to get a cup of COFFEE in this joint?!"

  So saying, he hurled his pointed hat against the nearest wall, wrapped his arms wildly around his chest, screamed a word that was definitely NOT ‘echranstratz’and vanished with a craack in a cloud of black smoke.

  The cat finished washing his face, sat for a moment, staring at nothing, and then strolled across the room to the worktable. A light leap, a dainty landing. He pointedly ignored the jack ball, played a brief game of bat-about with a ruby until he lost it to the floor; stropped himself on the lamp and, at last, walked over to glance, with great incuriosity, inside the coffee mug. Then he stretched, yawned and left the table in search of a sunny sill in which to nap.

  Presently the steam rising from the mug on the worktable filled the empty room with rich, brown aroma.

  First published in Owlflight #5, 1986

  The AfterImage

  Sharon Lee

  "ALL MY LIFE I’ve avoided bathing suits, and now this!" The blonde pulled irritably at the strip of spandex spanning her ample ass and sighed gustily.

  Privately, Brandi agreed. The only thing that kept her from bolting was the thought of the scholarship money. "Harvard Business School," she said to herself reverently, and felt her courage rise even as she avoided looking into the full-length mirror.

  Besides, Trish had hidden her clothes.

  "Just a precaution, darling," her svelte and stylish manager had gushed. "Can’t have the fans mauling your things."

  Right.

  "Harvard Business School," she repeated, barely aware of the murmur of her voice.

  "Huh?" The blonde turned toward her. "You say something?"

  Brandi started. "Oh! Just that this is the worst part, isn’t it? My manager says the BeforeVid is always a skag. She says that the thing to do is to keep the AfterImage in the front brain. She said to look in the mirror and tell myself, ’This is the last time I’m going to have to appear in public like this, ever.’ "

  The blonde laughed. "Pretty good."

  She faced her mirror, hands on jiggling hips, thrust out her barely-restrained tits and announced, "This is the last by-God time I’m going to have to look at that fat bitch in my life. Amen." She laughed again and blew a kiss to her reflection before turning back to Brandi. "Your turn, sugar. Kiss that puppy good-bye."

  Reluctantly, Brandi aligned herself with the mirror; looked up and caught the reflection’s dark gaze. Nice eyes, she allowed. I’ve always had nice eyes. Not that anyone could see them through the glare of her glasses; not that she could see anything without the glasses. She was among the rare half-percent of the world population with eyes too sensitive to tolerate contact lenses. Nano-tech could have repaired the myopia in three weeks. But nano-tech was fabulously expensive.

  The Miss-New-You Beauty Contest was cheaper. Even if you did have to make the BeforeVid. You got to keep the new-you as consolation for that embarrassment, even if you didn’t take top prize.

  "Harvard Business School," Brandi whispered and glared at the woman in the mirror, with her horsy face and draggled, unmanageable hair. The spandex top of her bathing suit showed two bulges the size of chestnuts. Her waist was thick, her hips thicker, her thighs pale and pocked with cellulite. Sturdy legs tapered slightly to thick peasant ankles, and the feet in the chic gold sandals were stubby and hammer-toed.

  "God, what a wreck!" Brandi cried, with a passion that surprised her. "This is it! The last time I have to be seen like this! The next time I stand in front of that camera, I’m going to be gorgeous!"

  "That’s the ticket," squealed the blonde and quashed her in a fragrant, wriggly hug just as a chime sounded through the dressing room. "That’s the line-up call. Let’s knock ’em dead!"

&nbs
p; * * *

  THE MUSIC WAS honky-tonk, a strut-your-stuff sexbeat out of vogue in even the steamiest dance-houses on Baltimore’s Block.

  From her position as Miss New-You Maryland, Number 21, Brandi watched each contestant walk the 50-foot ramp, the vidcameras following every step.

  Miss Alaska, a tall, unremittingly plain girl with flat pinkish hair, went, head up, eyes straight and shoulders back, at a stately military march totally removed from the grinding music, reached the end of the ramp and stood at parade rest for the count of five, letting the studio audience look their fill before turning and marching off, stage left.

  Hawaii, short, brownish and tidy, glided down the ramp on plump, perfect feet, face averted, until a piercing hiss from her manager jerked her head, puppet-like, straight up, showing the vidcameras and the audience pock-marked cheeks and blue eyes nearly hidden within the epicanthic fold.

  "Look at those dummies," muttered the blonde, who had turned out to be Miss Louisiana. "Don’t they know how to give the marks a show?"

  The music ground on, the cameras recorded, the audience stared. Occasionally, a manager would cuss or hiss.

  "Number 19," the announcer called, "Miss Louisiana!"

  The blonde thrust a jiggling leg forward, paused to catch the beat and swung out with the music, hips grinding, shoulders moving, tits bouncing. She threw her head back and shook her hair, executed a jouncing pirouette and came to rest, still ticking time with her hips, at the end of the platform. She threw two fat handfuls of kisses to the stunned audience and made her exit, stage right, at one with the music.

  "Wick-ed," breathed Miss Maine as Brandi gulped for air. "My meme always said southern girls were shameless."

  "Number 20," the announcer wheezed, dabbing at his temples with a blue kerchief. "Miss Maine!"

  Her turn next. Brandi took a deep breath, then another, as she stared at, but did not see, wiry Miss Maine stride purposefully down the ramp, looking neither to the left nor the right.

  She’s right, Brandi thought. The blonde’s right. Excel at whatever you take in hand, isn’t that what Mom used to say?

  "Number 21!" brayed the announcer. "Miss Maryland!"

  "Harvard Business School," Brandi whispered. She pushed her glasses up on her nose, waited for the music to come around and began her strut down the ramp.

  * * *

  "DARLING, YOU WERE wonderful!" Trish finished tucking in the velour blanket and touched the intercom switch. "Take us home, Peter."

  The limo surged down Ventnor Avenue, shouldering aside lesser vehicles. It swept through the Atlantic City business district, accelerated smoothly through the traffic circle and headed for Margate.

  "It won’t be long now, darling," Trish cooed, handing Brandi a chilled glass bubbling with pale yellow liquid. She sat back and clasped her beringed hands together, eyes glittering like an owl’s in the limo’s dim interior. "Wherever did you learn to dance like that?"

  Brandi sighed and took a cautious sip from the glass, expecting the salt-bitterness of champagne. The wine was surprisingly good--sweetish and light. She had another sip.

  "I grew up in Fells Point. We all used to think it was a big joke, back in high school--bunch of us would take the bus over to the Block, sneak past the bouncers, order rum-and-cokes and watch the strippers..."

  She sipped, leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking it was just like her manager to be impressed with the dancing--the glitter, more than the substance. Trish made her living by making ugly girls pretty, after all. Brandi snuggled under the soft blanket and waited wearily for the next question.

  But for once Trish was silent. Brandi relaxed into the seat, raised the glass and sipped without opening her eyes, thinking with a sudden, light-headed elation that she had done it, had made the BeforeVid; that tomorrow morning they would start the make over; that in six weeks a new Brandi Schenk would walk down the ramp and deliver her speech before an awe struck and admiring audience. She would win. It was certain that she would win--there were the IQ tests that Trish had given her during the pre-qualifiers.

  "Oh, you’re a clever one, you are!" the little woman had said, playfully slapping Brandi’s wrist. "That’s what we like to see. It’s so much easier, you know darling, to make a smart girl pretty than it is to make a silly girl smart."

  "We’re going to win," Brandi murmured, half-asleep.

  "That’s right, darling," Trish said, slipping the glass from between the girl’s slack fingers. "We always win."

  * * *

  "THIS MAY STING a bit," the nurse said pleasantly.

  Brandi didn’t answer. Trish had woken her at dawn, hustled her into a robe and turned her over to a hefty young woman whose name, according to the tag on her shirt, was Susan.

  Susan had ignored Brandi’s request for breakfast, taking her instead to the "back of the house," where she had been poked, prodded and examined by at least a dozen white coats. When she’d protested that she’d had a thorough physical as part of the pre-contractual, and that Trish had the file, she’d been variously soothed and ignored. When she demanded an explanation of Susan, that stoic individual had lifted her shoulders and let them fall, heavily.

  The nurse finished swabbing her ankle, broke the seal on the needle and made the injection. Brandi barely felt the prick; or the second one, delivered a moment later in the other ankle.

  "There now," said the nurse happily. "The techs will be here in just a minute and we’ll get started on your make over." She patted Brandi’s hand and smiled. "Feet to head-top," she burbled; "a brand-new you." Carefully, she tucked Brandi’s unruly hair back under the blue paper cap. "You’re a lucky girl. Veela and Jeffrey are very, very good. They did my own make over, you know--and Suzie’s. Didn’t they, Suzie?"

  Susan shook her massive head from side to side. "You talk too much, Millie."

  "Oh, pooh," said the nurse. "The problem with you techs is that you want to treat all the make overs like they were lab mice--as if they couldn’t understand what was said to them. There’s no harm in helping the poor young lady feel a little comfortable, is there? In letting her know that there are others who understand--who’ve experienced what she’s about to experience?" She finished fiddling with the cap and patted Brandi’s hand again. "Don’t you worry a bit. We’ve all been through it, here. We all understand. There are some scary parts, but it’s worth it in the end. Even Suzie will admit that."

  "Yes," Susan said, glancing down at her broad hands. "It was worth it."

  "See?" The nurse said brightly. "Don’t you let Suzie intimidate you. She’s just an old softy." One last pat and she was gone, slipping out the swinging door, which immediately swung back, admitting two more in the seemingly endless parade of white coats. The smaller of the two walked over to the wall monitors. The taller came to the head of the gurney.

  "Good morning, Brandi. I’m Veela, ImageMakers’ team leader. We’re going to be starting your make over in just a few moments. In your case, we’ve decided on a progressive zonal approach," she smiled, coolly; "which just means that we’ll be working from your feet up. Today, we anticipate completing infrastructure alterations in both feet and ankles. Tomorrow, we’ll do your legs. Then you’ll have a rest day before we work on your hips."

  "A rest day?" Brandi asked. "Why should I be tired? The nano does the alteration, right?" She blinked up at the tall tech, suddenly wary. "You’re not going to cut me, are you?"

  "Certainly not!" snapped Veela, then smiled again, and reached out cool fingers to touch Brandi’s hand. "I beg your pardon. ImageMakers is state-of-the-art, nano-alterations only. We are not a hack shop, like some I could name. No. The reason we recommend a rest day is that the amount of infrastructure reorganization required in length manipulation, especially in the legs, tends to be rather exacting." She laughed, a brittle little "ha," slightly off-key. "You could say that the rest day is more for the techs than for the patient."

  "Oh," said Brandi. "I see."

  "Good," said Veela. "Any oth
er questions? Then here’s Jeffrey with your breakfast. Please drink it all, and then just relax and let us do the worrying." She half-turned; glanced back.

  "I should mention that Jeffrey and I have done this many, many times. As a team we have done one hundred and fifty-five make overs. Before I joined ImageMakers, I was a reconstructive therapist at Boston University Hospital. Jeffrey has been associated with the Bronx Zoo Reclamation Project and the Philadelphia School of Cosmetology." She smiled. "So you can see, you’re in very good hands."

  "Very good hands," repeated Jeffrey, appearing at her other side holding a tall glass full of a pinkish foamy something vaguely reminiscent of strawberry milkshake. He grinned, showing perfectly even teeth. "Time for your ’shake. Help her sit up, Suzie."

  A strong arm slid under Brandi’s shoulders, propping her up. She took the glass with a shy "Thanks," and drank it down.

  It tasted slightly chalky under the strawberry. Brandi handed the glass back and Jeffrey saluted. "All right! This one’s a trouper, Suzie. Lay her down gentle. You all comfy now, Miss Schenk?"

  Through a strawberry-fuzzy fog Brandi tried to smile. "I’m fine."

  "That’s great," he said, from far, far away. "I’m going to take your glasses off, so we don’t break them by accident--Veela’s a clumsy somebody. And then we’re going to get busy giving you the most beautiful toes you’ve--"

  Click.

  * * *

  THEY HADN’T TOLD her that it would hurt. They hadn’t said painkillers slowed the work of the nano, or that the organics kept working long after the techs had called it a day. The techs, said Suzie, made the pattern and set it in place. The organics followed the pattern, and made it real.

  Brandi twisted in the bed, her feet locked into the cureboxes. Her favorite space opera was on the vid, and she tried hard to pay attention. But the pain kept gnawing at her feet, chewing at her ankles; and she finally gave up, buried her head in the pillow and cried.