Canadia's, like, part of America, right?
Remind me not to read YouTube comments, okay? I don't know why I do it, honest I don't, but it's still just painful. ("omg, bden sounds so americann!" NO SHIT! People were saying this after the concert, too, about the Cobras and Panic and TAI..., and I nearly snapped at them. Why does stuff like this bother me so much?)
But really. I think there was a point to this post other than me whinging about how hard it is to be from Canadia. Oh, right. I have to write a creative for my English class, and the criteria is basically that it has to be speculative fiction of the kind that makes a comment on some aspect of today's society.
If you don't mind reading it over (it's only 1000 words) and telling me what you think,
She has the briefest glimmer of lifethoughthopefreedom when she is born, but then there is simply nothingness again. It is not a cage she wakes up in when she returns from the black (not that her small baby brain has the capacity to know what a cage is yet; they will not implant the intelligence chip until she is a week old) but the bars cast odd shadows across her pale skin. She is staring up at round faces and unblinking eyes, and they are staring down at her with wonder, wearing awed expressions of the kind only new parents possess. Then her father frowns a little, and turns to his wife just as she is turning to him. “Her eyes are brown,” he says, and his wife looks aghast.
“And her skin is freckled,” she responds, pointing at the peach skin peeking out from the pink baby blanket. He peers closer in the shadows of the room.
“Freckles,” he murmurs, “and brown eyes.”
“I simply won’t stand for it,” his wife replies sharply, and she throws one last disgusted look at the crib before stalking out of the room, heels echoing sharply against the tiles. He looks down at the crib and lets out a small sigh before following his wife.
***
The freckles and brown eyes are not the worst of it, as it turns out. They arrange for a full set of tests to be run, just to make sure, and the doctors realize that their daughter is a hermaphrodite. Not that Dominique refers to the child as a “her” anymore, nor does she acknowledge that it’s their child. The day they bring it home, Dominique locks herself in the bathroom with a large bottle of gin and Patrick sets up the room.
***
“Nothing went wrong with the process, no,” Patrick answers the interviewer. “We went in for our session at DOG - that is, the Department of Genetics - just like every other couple.”
“Can you explain the process to people who have never experienced it before?” The interviewer is a blonde, pretty woman, well-suited to her job in television.
“Oh, um,” Patrick begins, stumbling a little. He often forgets that there are people in the world who do not have the Systems in place; countries where the majority of the population voted against it, or where the government simply couldn’t afford the new technology. “We sat down in a small room, and then we had blindfolds tied over our eyes before the little, um, things-” he makes a feeble gesture with his hand, and Dominique jumps in.
“The electrodes. They place them on your temples, hook into your brain somehow.” She flashes a sweet smile at the camera. “I’m not entirely sure how the technology works.”
The interviewer gives a short laugh. “Oh, I don’t think any of us know how it all works. But you do know, of course, what the process is supposed to determine.”
“The perfect baby,” Patrick replies, blinking. “Well, our perfect baby, at least. The System determines what each person truly wants in a child - both in physical attributes and in terms of personality, talents, that sort of thing - and then it supplies the information so the doctors can create the actual embryo.”
“But you didn’t get the baby you wanted?” The interviewer’s tone is sympathetic now, but it’s a calculated kind of emotion, milking the story for all it’s worth.
“No, our daughter-” Patrick begins, but then his eyes cut to Dominique, and she leans forward a little.
“The child is certainly not what we wanted.” Dominique’s words are clipped, her fingers curled just a little too tightly on the arms of the chair. “Not at all.”
***
They watch the interview later, sitting far apart on the couch. Dominique watches herself, critical of the faint lines beginning to show along her skin, conscious of her chipped nails. Patrick looks frumpy, slouched over in a sweater vest and wearing his reading glasses because he’d grabbed the wrong case as they were rushing out the door. Patrick watches the frown forming on her face as she watches them.
“...some decisions are too important to be left to the fickleness of the human condition,” the TV says, and Patrick turns to look at the designer of the System, a stately, elderly man with a nice suit. “The computers make all the important ones for you - perfect jobs, perfect marriages, and perfect children.”
“But this time, Doctor, they’ve clearly made a mistake.”
The man offers her a lenient smile. “Well, perhaps the Petersons simply didn’t realize what, exactly, they wanted.”
Dominique’s fingers curl into the material of the throw cushion next to her, and Patrick thinks he can hear her grinding her teeth.
“But surely no one wants a hermaphrodite,” the interviewer points out, real sympathy seeping into her tone. “A defect such as that…” She trails off, but Patrick could finish her thought for her. A defect of any sort, really, has been unheard of for so long that it seems an impossibly horrible fate to wish on a couple.
“Perhaps the Petersons are just a little different,” the man suggests with a small chuckle, tone light.
“Perhaps,” the interviewer replies with a little laugh of her own - not so amused as to be callous, not so fake as to be obvious - and then begins to wrap up the interview. Patrick turns back to Dominique just as the baby begins to cry upstairs. He waits for a moment, studying his wife, and then says “I’ll go get her, if you’d like.”
There’s a pause as he waits for her to reply. “Yes, go deal with it,” Dominique responds finally, still staring at the television. Patrick stays for a second, just in case, and then pads out of the room with a sigh.
***
Less than a year later, the Petersons make headlines again. They are the first couple in the country to file for a divorce since the System was introduced.
Hope everyone enjoyed their weekends!
But really. I think there was a point to this post other than me whinging about how hard it is to be from Canadia. Oh, right. I have to write a creative for my English class, and the criteria is basically that it has to be speculative fiction of the kind that makes a comment on some aspect of today's society.
If you don't mind reading it over (it's only 1000 words) and telling me what you think,
She has the briefest glimmer of lifethoughthopefreedom when she is born, but then there is simply nothingness again. It is not a cage she wakes up in when she returns from the black (not that her small baby brain has the capacity to know what a cage is yet; they will not implant the intelligence chip until she is a week old) but the bars cast odd shadows across her pale skin. She is staring up at round faces and unblinking eyes, and they are staring down at her with wonder, wearing awed expressions of the kind only new parents possess. Then her father frowns a little, and turns to his wife just as she is turning to him. “Her eyes are brown,” he says, and his wife looks aghast.
“And her skin is freckled,” she responds, pointing at the peach skin peeking out from the pink baby blanket. He peers closer in the shadows of the room.
“Freckles,” he murmurs, “and brown eyes.”
“I simply won’t stand for it,” his wife replies sharply, and she throws one last disgusted look at the crib before stalking out of the room, heels echoing sharply against the tiles. He looks down at the crib and lets out a small sigh before following his wife.
***
The freckles and brown eyes are not the worst of it, as it turns out. They arrange for a full set of tests to be run, just to make sure, and the doctors realize that their daughter is a hermaphrodite. Not that Dominique refers to the child as a “her” anymore, nor does she acknowledge that it’s their child. The day they bring it home, Dominique locks herself in the bathroom with a large bottle of gin and Patrick sets up the room.
***
“Nothing went wrong with the process, no,” Patrick answers the interviewer. “We went in for our session at DOG - that is, the Department of Genetics - just like every other couple.”
“Can you explain the process to people who have never experienced it before?” The interviewer is a blonde, pretty woman, well-suited to her job in television.
“Oh, um,” Patrick begins, stumbling a little. He often forgets that there are people in the world who do not have the Systems in place; countries where the majority of the population voted against it, or where the government simply couldn’t afford the new technology. “We sat down in a small room, and then we had blindfolds tied over our eyes before the little, um, things-” he makes a feeble gesture with his hand, and Dominique jumps in.
“The electrodes. They place them on your temples, hook into your brain somehow.” She flashes a sweet smile at the camera. “I’m not entirely sure how the technology works.”
The interviewer gives a short laugh. “Oh, I don’t think any of us know how it all works. But you do know, of course, what the process is supposed to determine.”
“The perfect baby,” Patrick replies, blinking. “Well, our perfect baby, at least. The System determines what each person truly wants in a child - both in physical attributes and in terms of personality, talents, that sort of thing - and then it supplies the information so the doctors can create the actual embryo.”
“But you didn’t get the baby you wanted?” The interviewer’s tone is sympathetic now, but it’s a calculated kind of emotion, milking the story for all it’s worth.
“No, our daughter-” Patrick begins, but then his eyes cut to Dominique, and she leans forward a little.
“The child is certainly not what we wanted.” Dominique’s words are clipped, her fingers curled just a little too tightly on the arms of the chair. “Not at all.”
***
They watch the interview later, sitting far apart on the couch. Dominique watches herself, critical of the faint lines beginning to show along her skin, conscious of her chipped nails. Patrick looks frumpy, slouched over in a sweater vest and wearing his reading glasses because he’d grabbed the wrong case as they were rushing out the door. Patrick watches the frown forming on her face as she watches them.
“...some decisions are too important to be left to the fickleness of the human condition,” the TV says, and Patrick turns to look at the designer of the System, a stately, elderly man with a nice suit. “The computers make all the important ones for you - perfect jobs, perfect marriages, and perfect children.”
“But this time, Doctor, they’ve clearly made a mistake.”
The man offers her a lenient smile. “Well, perhaps the Petersons simply didn’t realize what, exactly, they wanted.”
Dominique’s fingers curl into the material of the throw cushion next to her, and Patrick thinks he can hear her grinding her teeth.
“But surely no one wants a hermaphrodite,” the interviewer points out, real sympathy seeping into her tone. “A defect such as that…” She trails off, but Patrick could finish her thought for her. A defect of any sort, really, has been unheard of for so long that it seems an impossibly horrible fate to wish on a couple.
“Perhaps the Petersons are just a little different,” the man suggests with a small chuckle, tone light.
“Perhaps,” the interviewer replies with a little laugh of her own - not so amused as to be callous, not so fake as to be obvious - and then begins to wrap up the interview. Patrick turns back to Dominique just as the baby begins to cry upstairs. He waits for a moment, studying his wife, and then says “I’ll go get her, if you’d like.”
There’s a pause as he waits for her to reply. “Yes, go deal with it,” Dominique responds finally, still staring at the television. Patrick stays for a second, just in case, and then pads out of the room with a sigh.
***
Less than a year later, the Petersons make headlines again. They are the first couple in the country to file for a divorce since the System was introduced.
Hope everyone enjoyed their weekends!